The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  Sven squeezed her hand again, pulling it toward him. She took a deep breath and tried with all her might to summon a smile. From the point of view of the kingdoms, Uddorm was correct. So why did that victory still taste so bitter?

  Sven kissed her hand, and his lips were cold. Or maybe her hand, where he so delicately placed his lips, was burning hot.

  “Uddorm, Uddorm,” Sven said cheerfully. “We all know that you’re called the ‘father of Jutland.’ You’ve placed your daughters and sons, nephews, nieces, and the rest of the Uddorm family in every house in Jutland.”

  “I won’t deny it, my king.” Uddorm smiled. “That’s how, when the grain is destroyed by the rains in the north, my servants can still brew beer from the south. You have a sister, King. Think about where you’d like to settle her. Or rather, where you’d like for her to reproduce.”

  “Tyra?” she and Sven asked in unison.

  Świętosława had only seen this woman her husband called a traitor a handful of times. She had beautiful, dark red hair and much grace in her movements. She seemed shy and withdrawn, though she could simply be governed by fear. All Świętosława knew about her was that Sven held her as a prisoner for her previous sins against him, though the one time they exchanged a few words, Tyra had said that other than her freedom, she lacked for nothing.

  “Tyra,” Uddorm repeated. “The royal sister. Wouldn’t her hand in marriage be an assurance of peace?”

  “Oh, of course.” Sven snorted. “If I wanted that. But as it happens, my friend, I don’t want peace with Olav, I want war. I want Norway to be Danish, as it has been in the past. That’s my plan, and I don’t need Tyra to fulfill it. Let her sit in her chamber and wait for me to find her a husband.”

  “If the king dreams of war,” the previously reprimanded Thorgils said, “then I’d like to suggest an appropriate husband for Tyra.”

  This wasn’t the first time she noticed that Thorgils had the dangerous charm of a snake, carefully hidden under much better manners than those of most of her husband’s companions.

  “Jarl Haakon’s sons, Eric and Sven. The offspring of Tryggvason’s greatest enemy. They escaped Norway when Olav arrived, and our scouts tell us they’ve been searching for luck in the wide world. Why shouldn’t they find it here? Let’s reward one of them with a marriage to your sweet sister, and this way, Olav’s enemies gain the strength and legitimacy of your great country, my king. Then, once we push Tryggvason off the throne, we can place the old jarl’s heir on the throne, bringing back peace.”

  “Taking the Yngling from both sides?” Świętosława could hear in her husband’s voice how much he liked Thorgils’s plan. “Which one of these two young men is better, Gunhild?”

  She didn’t react.

  “Queen? Remember them? After all, you met both at court in Sigtuna.”

  “King Eric Segersäll received many guests,” she replied stiffly. “I don’t recall these two.”

  “Then we must rely on what our scouts say.” Sven laughed. “And they seem to favor Jarl Eric.”

  “Why do this?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking. “Don’t you pity your sister? Do you want to condemn her to disregard at the side of someone who used to have power, but never had any rights to it? His father was a confirmed pagan, the son is probably the same. Your sister has been baptized.”

  “But my dear wife”—an indulgent note colored Sven’s voice—“I’m not thinking of marrying Tyra. Apart from a half sister, I also have a daughter out of wedlock. Gyda will be perfect for the young jarl.”

  “But she’s just a child,” she protested.

  “Don’t exaggerate.” Sven waved a hand. “She’s slight, but those younger than her have been married off when the need arose. Besides, who do you feel sorry for, Gunhild?” he asked, trying to provoke her. “Gyda, or rather…” He let the statement hang in the air.

  Me and Olav, my lord husband, she thought vengefully.

  “Did your father ask for your opinion when you were wed?” Sven continued.

  “Duke Mieszko referred to me as his most precious daughter,” she replied coldly. “And let’s not speak tonight of how much my hand was worth, in this beautiful hall in Roskilde, because your people remember that price to this day.” She pulled the leash. “Forgive me, but I prefer the company of tamed predators than beasts plotting over mead.”

  “We’ll meet in the bedchamber, my lady,” Sven called after her.

  “Good luck,” she replied without turning around. “Wrzask and Zgrzyt will be guarding the door, my lord.”

  50

  DENMARK

  Świętosława didn’t sleep at all that night, and that’s how she knew for certain that Sven had never come to her door. As she walked through the great hall the next morning, she carefully avoided the remnants of the previous night’s feast. Some slept where they’d fallen. She woke Wilczan, and the boy got up silently. They walked out of the manor and toward the small wooden church. She saw Ion leaving one of the huts on her way.

  “My lady without her beasts.” He yawned happily when he saw her. “For a walk? This early?”

  “Ion.” A sleepy woman came out of the hut. “You forgot this.” She placed a basket outside the door and disappeared inside, slamming it.

  The monk lifted the basket.

  “Not for a walk, to church, you heathen,” she reprimanded. “I understand you’re coming with me?”

  “Oh, if the queen commands it,” he muttered reluctantly and rubbed his eyes. “The beast is here, after all.”

  She turned around. A sleepy Ulf was running toward her from the manor. She smiled at him.

  “I don’t miss mass,” Ion explained himself, “because I lost faith—don’t think badly of me, my lady—but because I don’t like to hear that Wulfric saying it. It doesn’t suit me at all.”

  “You didn’t like the roots at Romuald’s hermitage,” she snorted. “And the boathouse in Sigtuna. You’re a picky monk.”

  “I never said otherwise.” He straightened and shook the basket. “I don’t go to Gudna for gossip, but suppers and breakfasts. I cannot stand Melkorka’s cooking. It gets stuck in my throat.”

  Świętosława smiled. “And what’s in the basket?”

  He took off the cloth covering it and rummaged inside.

  “Eggs, dried fish, pancake-like things … Oh, these are good. With honey and dried berries.”

  “Give me one, I’m forever going hungry here as well. Ulf, Wilczan, do you want one?” She turned to those behind her.

  Ulf shook his head. She followed his gaze and stopped walking.

  “Why are there guards outside the church?”

  The small wooden building was surrounded by four axemen, Sven’s guards. Ulf walked toward them, while Ion pulled her arm as if he was afraid.

  “Let’s go back,” he whispered.

  “Don’t jest. This is my home, I’m not turning back.”

  Instead, she quickened her pace, and the guards at the church’s doors straightened as she approached.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Guarding, my lady.”

  “The church?”

  “No, my lady. Princess Tyra. It’s the king’s command.”

  “Oh, yes. Which one of you has been baptized?”

  They glanced uneasily at each other.

  “We all have.”

  “Good, then two of you stay outside here to ensure Princess Tyra doesn’t break down the door or escape through the chimney, and two of you come to mass with me. You can guard her while you pray. What are you staring at?”

  “At you, my lady,” the youngest blurted, and immediately blushed. “Well … before now I’ve only seen the queen from afar…”

  “Now you can accompany her to mass, then.” She took his arm. “The axe stays here.”

  It was dim inside, the darkness dispelled only by a few flames of tallow candles. When Świętosława, Ion, Wilczan, Ulf, and two axemen walked in, Tyra turned around, and rose swiftly
from her knees. Wulfric, who had been giving the sermon, fell silent. Świętosława knelt beside Tyra and, placing a hand on her shoulder, said:

  “Don’t be afraid. Let’s pray together. Priest, I brought you the faithful, continue.”

  The church was small. During her wedding and Harald’s baptism, only their closest guests had squeezed inside. Ion was wrong, Wulfric led mass excellently. When it was time for the Eucharist, Świętosława rose and turned to the axemen.

  “Are you ready to accept the body of Christ?”

  They looked at her uncertainly. As she’d thought, this was probably the first time they were in church since the day they’d been baptized. It was even worse with Wilczan and Ulf, neither had ever been baptized. And Ion? She knew as well as he did that Gudna gave him more than a basket of fruit. He lowered his eyes humbly.

  “My lady?” Wulfric walked over to her with a chalice and white bread.

  “I am not worthy of taking part in the Lord’s feast,” she announced, and knelt with her head lowered.

  How could she confess, if she sinned anew each day? I don’t love the husband I made my vows to, I must feign love.

  “Ite, missa est,” Wulfric ended the mass.

  “Stay, my lady,” Świętosława whispered to Tyra, and turned to the group that had come with her.

  “What’s your name, axeman?”

  “Kalle.”

  “And you?”

  “Hauk.” The boy was staring at her.

  “I’ll take responsibility for your religious education, Hauk and Kalle. From now on, I will bring you to mass once a week, and Father Wulfric will introduce you to the sacrament of penance.”

  “Yes, my lady,” they whispered.

  “Ulf, Wilczan, Ion will start teaching you the basics of faith. Beginning today, Ion.” She wagged a finger at him just as he started to open his mouth to protest against the task. “And now, leave the church. I want to say a litany with Princess Tyra. You’ll wait for us outside. You too, Father Wulfric.”

  When the doors closed behind them, Świętosława placed a hand on Tyra’s.

  “I want you to know that I am not your enemy,” she said. “Sven likely will not let us be friends publicly, but if I can offer you even a small friendship, here or in other moments away from prying eyes, then know you can count on me, Tyra.”

  Tyra’s eyes shone.

  “Don’t cry,” Świętosława said. “Or do, if it helps you.”

  Tears streamed down the princess’s face like a river swollen once the winter frosts are gone.

  “I’m afraid of him…” she sobbed. “He’s unpredictable … Do you know what he did in Jelling years ago?”

  Świętosława put an arm around her, not because she wanted to, but because she knew that’s what you should do when a sister cried.

  “He burned a church,” Tyra choked out. “Sigrid, he ordered a blacksmith to recast the chalice into Thor’s hammer, the one he wore around his neck … He ordered a triple belt be made from the Bible binding … Sweet Jesus…”

  “Shh … not so loud, Tyra, shh … He doesn’t wear Thor’s hammer on his neck anymore. He gave it to me, and I threw it into the Baltic. It’s all right now. Calm down. Sven won’t hurt you, you’re too precious to him. He’ll hold you in a room until he finds a husband good enough for you … of course, don’t take that literally. Good for Sven doesn’t mean good for you, sister, but you probably know that?”

  Tyra was still crying.

  “… and he had gloves made, covered in metal plates … Holy Mother of God! That night when he burned the church, all of them were with him. Uddorm, Ragn, Haakon, Stenkil, and Thorgils of Jelling … My lady, how could Thorgils allow a church to be burned? God … And I was there … he had invited me there to try and convince me to help him remove Father from his throne … He’s ruthless, my lady … How do you live with him?”

  “Tyra, calm down.” Świętosława pulled back and wiped the princess’s tears with her sleeve.

  “My lady, my lady…” Tyra kept sobbing. “Don’t trust them, they’re all pagans … liars … they pretend in front of you that they’ve given up on the old gods, but they drink horse blood over the fire…”

  “That’s enough. Thank you for sharing with me what you know, but calm is needed now, because now you must face those outside. Even a litany must end at some point. How can I help you?” She shook her. “How can I help you?”

  “Help me escape.”

  “No. That would be a betrayal of the king.”

  “So you condemn me to death?” Tyra’s eyes brimmed with tears again.

  “Stop crying, and don’t try to manipulate my emotions,” Świętosława scolded impatiently. “You’re the king’s sister. Behave like one.”

  “But…” Tyra shook her head as if she didn’t understand.

  “There is no ‘but.’ Do you want to be treated like a princess? Then stop crying. A tavern whore has more strength than you, when she smiles and goes to bed with a rogue, only to stab him in the back in the morning. Take hold of yourself. Either you play the game, or they will play you, there’s no other way.”

  Do you like to lose? Arnora, the chained queen, had asked her before the feast. No one likes losing, Świętosława had replied.

  “And now wait a moment, until it doesn’t look like you’ve been crying, and then we’ll leave.” Świętosława stroked Tyra’s dark red hair gently. “Right now, you look like my little Harald does when you take the breast away from him for too long. Courage, girl!”

  51

  NORWAY

  Sigvald gave the order to start rowing as they neared Agdenes. The Jomsvikings were entering treacherous waters, where sudden winds could shatter boats that had seemed safely moored in the bay against the surrounding rocks.

  Sailors unfamiliar with these waters, like himself, never sailed into the dangerous Trondheimfiord unless they absolutely had to. Usually they moored in Agdenes and switched to horses to reach Lade quickly.

  This treacherous water journey was doubly fraught for Sigvald. To reach Lade, he had to sail past Hjorunga Bay. The place where he’d lost his honor twelve years ago. Where he’d been defeated. Had sailed away from the battle. Had felt death’s breath on his face.

  Until this day, he’d buried the memory of the hailing clouds that had appeared as if by dark magic in the summer skies, in mead and Astrid’s warm body. It had been a scorching hot day, and the opposing fleets had spread out to face each other. Ship to ship. Bow to bow. He played hnefatafl and knew the dark rule, that the team of the king’s defenders won more often than that of the, often larger, team of the invaders. He hadn’t cared then. Jarl Haakon wasn’t a king, and the Danish king Harald had paid the Jomsvikings with pure silver for this war. The tables would be turned. The rules of the game reversed. The Jomsvikings were a squad of the king’s mercenary invaders. Jark Haakon had been a defender without a crown. But he had won, though it hadn’t been a clean victory.

  The jarl had harnessed dark powers to aid him. This wasn’t something Sigvald could say aloud, but he had seen the fog and hail that had surrounded the Jomsvikings as soon as the battle had begun, and he knew in his gut that it was the work of some unnatural force.

  They were experienced warriors, the iron boys of Jom, and they’d taken Harald’s silver for this job, so they battled on despite the fog. But berserkers leapt at them from its milky depths, warrior beasts who tore their enemies apart with their bare hands. With his men falling around him, Sigvald had seen the black spirits of war gliding above, and he had shouted “Retreat!” because he had committed his iron boys to fight living men, not evil incarnate. Retreat!… That call weighed heavily on him to this day, as he had been the only one to see the power in that storm of hail. He knew those who hadn’t been in Hjorunga Bay that day whispered coward, but none of the Jomsvikings ever called him that, the ones whose lives were saved by his call to retreat. Only Sigvald knew how much courage that command had taken; he had given the order, taken the infamy
on himself, and never shared it with anyone.

  Now, Tryggvason welcomed him in Nidaros, which lay on the other side of the river from Lade. The settlement Olav had begun building with the church, to wash away the memory of the pagan jarls of Lade, and Odin’s burned temple.

  “King Olav.” The Jomsviking chieftain bowed to Tryggvason. “Jarl Sigvald of Jomsborg has the honor of bowing before you.”

  When he raised his head, Sigvald had to narrow his eyes. There was a gold-plated cross hanging behind the king, and the torchlight reflected off it in such a way that, for a moment, it was blinding.

  “Sigvald,” Olav said. “If it hadn’t been for Geira’s death, we’d still be brothers-in-law.”

  “My wife, Astrid, has never stopped mourning her sister,” Sigvald lied.

  “Is that so?” the king asked. “I thought we’d mourned the darkness of her passing in Gdańsk. But I do not know the souls of women. Perhaps they do things hidden from our eyes.”

  “That is their charm.” Sigvald laughed, and moved to discuss the reason he had come all this way. “Duke Bolesław sends me.”

  “So we have a reunion of the almost-brothers-in-law,” Olav joked.

  Sigvald looked at Olav, not understanding the jest, but then recalled Bolesław had been the one to say that Olav and the widowed Świętosława should form an alliance. Making the two of them brothers-in-law once more. Had Tryggvason known of those plans?

  “Bolesław offers you a chance to take revenge on Sven.”

  “Get to the point, Jarl.”

  “Marriage to Princess Tyra, Sven’s sister.”

  Silence fell. A great white dog paced beside Olav’s throne. The severe-looking bishop at his side looked deep in thought.

  “Sven knows nothing of this?” Olav asked.

  “No. The princess is imprisoned by him, and she seeks contact with you through trusted men, my lord.”

  “Why does a sister plot against her brother?” the bishop asked coolly.