The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “Because he, as I’ve mentioned, is holding her captive. And furthermore, Lady Tyra is a Christian, and is searching for a Christian husband. Your fame in this regard has crossed borders, King.”

  He’s as alert as a hungry wolf, Sigvald thought, and as cautious as a satisfied snake.

  Once more, silence fell. Sigvald couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that the king and bishop were holding a wordless conversation before him somehow. The white dog never took its eyes from him.

  “How is Astrid?” Olav asked eventually.

  What do you care? Sigvald wanted to shout, but replied as court’s manners dictated.

  “Well, King. My beloved wife has a role to play in this task.”

  “What role?” the king asked, too quickly for Sigvald’s liking.

  “She’ll have to get Tyra out of Roskilde.”

  “Why can’t you do it?” Olav asked, accusation in his voice.

  “Because I held Sven in Jom when you and Eric conquered Denmark,” Sigvald replied, allowing his frustration with these questions to show. “The king’s men would recognize me even in the dead of night.”

  “Ensure that Astrid is safe, Jarl of Jom. Women like your wife need to be taken care of. They are a bright light in the filthy world of warriors that we live in.”

  Yes, Sigvald agreed wholeheartedly. And pictured himself gouging out this new king’s eyes.

  “And how is Świętosława coping with Sven?” the fair-haired king asked.

  “My wife’s sister copes well with everything she does,” Sigvald replied. “She has given the king a son who they’ve called Harald. The old king’s name, the one who died in my arms in Jomsborg. They say she is expecting again, so Roskilde will probably be celebrating another heir to the Skjoldung of Jelling dynasty any day now.”

  “Enough,” Olav interrupted him, lifting an arm. “The weather is beautiful, let’s take a walk to the harbor. I’ll show you the fleet my shipwrights are building, and you can tell me about Tyra.”

  * * *

  The king mounted his slender horse, a pure white, magnificent-looking creature.

  “A gift from my bishop, Sivrit.” Tryggvason smiled, noting Sigvald’s stare.

  “An English horse.” Sigvald nodded with admiration, and thought angrily: White horse, white dog, white king, White Christ. He and his bishop know how to seduce the commoners. And the procession of armed men with silver crosses on their chests. It makes an impression.

  And so it was that the people they passed on their way to the harbor bowed low to Olav, and made the sign of the cross when they saw their ruler. Sigvald forgot himself for a moment, and imagined it was him they bowed to.

  Why am I any less than Olav? he thought. Even the great Mieszko valued me more than this exile. He gave him only Geira, the widow of a slaver from Bornholm, while I got Astrid, Dalwin’s granddaughter. The daughter he shared every thought with, the one he trusted and respected. Olav began as a slave. I wonder if he has a slave mark burned into his skin? What would these commoners say if they saw the mark of disgrace?

  They reached the fjord. The shipwrights were attaching the planks of the cover to a beautifully curved frame.

  “Remind me, King, what was that ship with the golden weather vane called?” he asked.

  “Kanugård. It’s deserved its winter sleep.”

  “Kiev! Ah, yes, I remember, you received it as a gift from Duchess Allogia.”

  He knew his comment touched a nerve when Olav said no more about the gift.

  “This one will be called Crane,” the king replied.

  “It’s a beautiful vessel. Enormous. Thirty benches, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes. Sixty rowers.”

  “It’s hot today. I’d like to swim. Is there a bay somewhere nearby?”

  “Let’s go.” Olav latched onto the idea, and his dog led the way, as if it knew where they were headed.

  They rode down the tall rocks to the bay hidden between the stones. They led the horses to the shadows of a grove. Olav’s men took hold of their reins. Sigvald was first to take off his caftan, then his shirt.

  “I heard that you test your men by having them jump from oar to oar,” Olav said, undressing.

  “Yes. I have no ship here, so I cannot demonstrate my favorite game, but if you want, we can wrestle,” Sigvald suggested.

  “If you’d like,” Olav replied, without a shadow of a smile, and passed his caftan to one of his people.

  Sigvald looked at him carefully. There was no mark on his chest. Perhaps it was on his back?

  They ran into the cold water, and Sigvald dived, wet his hair, and jumped upward, shaking himself like a dog.

  “Too cold?” Olav asked.

  “It’s perfect. Shall we begin?” He turned a full circle in the water, checking to see if Olav’s men were watching. They stood on the shore with their arms crossed. He felt uneasy for a moment. Was he wise to suggest coming here and swimming? He was alone. He’d left his Jomsvikings in Nidaros. Olav had twelve armed men with him; if they wanted, they could … he pushed the thoughts away. He was Bolesław’s messenger, they couldn’t do anything to him.

  Olav gave a sign and dived. Sigvald did the same, opening his eyes underwater. He saw Olav’s silhouette swimming deeper into the bay and followed. He typically needed four, at most five strokes to catch a man underwater. This time, he neared Olav only after twelve. When he finally caught his leg, Tryggvason twisted around, grabbing Sigvald around the waist, pulling him deeper. The jarl knew this maneuver and knew how to free himself with a powerful kick. He was out of air then, and stretched his arms upward, rising until his head was above the water. When he surfaced, Olav’s men shouted:

  “Sigvald!”

  He took a breath and looked around. Olav didn’t appear. In that instant, he felt something tug his leg. Tryggvason was pulling him into the depths. Sigvald freed himself again with a kick, and moved to attack, but Olav was faster, swimming behind him and grabbing him around the throat. Sigvald couldn’t free himself from the iron grip, he couldn’t even lessen it. He thrashed and choked. Finally, he lifted an arm, signaling for a break. Olav released him immediately. Sigvald swam up and breathed again. He started to cough, but he still heard the shout from the shore.

  “Who?”

  “Sigvald again.”

  He couldn’t stop coughing, and he turned in a circle once more. Olav hadn’t surfaced. What the hell was going on? Hadn’t he run out of air yet?

  Sigvald dived quickly. For a moment, he felt dizzy, unable to spot the king in the depths. Then he saw him. Olav was swimming from below, from the bottom of the bay, with his arms outstretched like an arrow shot from a bow. Sigvald dodged Tryggvason’s attack at the last minute. He sped upward, fleeing, and though it wasn’t his intention, he surfaced.

  “Who?”

  “Sigvald, for the third time.”

  “The king has won!”

  Sigvald slapped the water furiously. He had intended to humiliate Olav; there was no better player than him in Jom.

  “Tryggvason, come out, you’ve won,” he shouted angrily and looked around. Olav didn’t surface. For a moment, the wonderful thought floated through Sigvald’s mind: he had drowned. Then he saw that the people on the bank were stretching out their arms, pointing into the distance.

  “There! There’s our king!”

  Sigvald turned to look where they were pointing and spotted Olav, far out in the bay. Sigvald didn’t wait for him, he swam to the shore and got out.

  “Don’t worry, Jarl of Jom,” a fair-haired bard said to him. “No one has ever beaten our king, and those who know how he swims never play with him. You were very brave to suggest wrestling Olav in the water.”

  Sigvald hissed as he wrung water out of his hair. “If you’d like,” that’s what Tryggvason had said when he suggested the game. I let myself be tricked like a child.

  “Our king swims like a fish.” Another nodded his head and stretched, yawning.

  Sigval
d saw that this man had painted fangs.

  “What do they call you, berserker?” he asked, gritting his teeth.

  “Varin, Jarl.”

  It’s not him, Sigvald inwardly sighed with relief. That one was called Gerhard the Lizard, and his image had haunted Sigvald since the battle in Hjorunga Bay. The bald berserker who walked along the ship’s gunwale with a bare chest in the middle of the battle, tearing his iron boys apart with his hands. This wasn’t him.

  “Have you been with Olav long?” Sigvald asked, calming his breath.

  “From the beginning. We sailed the Dnieper together. I remember the king when I was a boy, he scared us, experienced sailors, when he leapt into the billows.” Varin’s eyes gleamed. “Here comes our king.”

  He walked past Sigvald as if they hadn’t been in the middle of a conversation and ran to Olav. The chieftain ignored the insult and walked over to join them.

  “Congratulations, King. I’ve never wrestled such an opponent before.” He offered his hand.

  Olav smiled and returned the gesture. He took the chain with the cross from Varin and put it back on his chest.

  “Tell me, Jarl, how will we get my fiancée out of Roskilde?” he asked, wringing water from his hair.

  “I sent your old friend, Geivar, who is the chieftain of the house of scouts in Jom, for me. He sailed to Roskilde under the guise of a merchant, and is meant to find a safe way to bring Tyra out from under her brother’s guards’ gaze. It won’t be easy, but the Jomsvikings like a challenge.”

  “I should sail to claim my wife myself, but I know that that would ruin the grand scheme Bolesław has planned. Sven also knows many of my men; we fought in England together.”

  “Strange are the twists of fate.” Sigvald smiled. “First I kidnapped Sven, and now I’m to kidnap his sister.”

  “He kidnapped the woman I wanted to marry,” Olav said, anger appearing beneath the veneer of calm he wore. Sigvald finally saw the fair-haired man could be provoked.

  “That’s why Duke Bolesław knew you’d like the plan.”

  “And she?” Olav asked. “What does the woman Bolesław sees as my wife look like?”

  “I haven’t met her, my lord. They say she’s tall, slender, and not as red-haired as Sven.” He laughed wholeheartedly and pointed at his nose. “They also say she resembles me like a sister.”

  “Then we are endlessly turning in a circle of sisters,” Olav said, reaching to take his shirt from the bard.

  Yes. There it was. Sigvald saw a clear blue-black mark on Olav’s shoulder blade. Like the imprint of a chicken’s foot. Tryggvason pulled his shirt over his head and stepped into his trousers. Sigvald glanced at the king’s men. Had they seen the slave’s mark? It was impossible that they would have missed it. They’d been with him for so many years. But there wasn’t a shadow of anger in any of their faces.

  Olav was buckling his belt, joking with his men. Playing with the dog.

  You were a slave, you bear the mark, and today you’re a beloved king, served by them. Strange are the twists of fate, and who knows how many times it will still surprise us, Sigvald thought.

  “King, there remains the matter of Tyra’s dowry,” he said, returning to their conversation as they mounted their horses. “And something for her. Because, as we are both aware, the matter is rather delicate, and we can’t give Sven any reason to contest or annul the marriage. Duke Bolesław has had an idea.”

  “Tell me,” Olav said.

  “It’s said you have English minters, do you not?”

  52

  DENMARK

  Sven didn’t hold it against his queen that she didn’t attend the wedding of little Gyda and Eric, Jarl Haakon’s son; he wished she were there, of course, but his pregnant wife’s health was more important to him. She was in her second pregnancy, so she was his Sventoslava again. Harald was strong and healthy, taking his first steps, and, according to Melkorka, the second child would come any day. He had no doubts that it would also be a son. Heidi Goat, Harald’s wet nurse, said:

  “I can feel it in my breasts, I know that another greedy prince is coming. It’s to be a boy, you’ll see. The lady looks as beautiful as a sunrise and her stomach sticks out so. That means it’ll be a boy.”

  He’d catch himself listening to the women, he, bloody Sven. He’d catch himself staring at Sventoslava, as he found himself calling her in his mind, all night like some foolish, lovestruck youngster. If only his sweet wife didn’t insist on being involved in state affairs, if only she didn’t always have a contradictory opinion, they’d get along wonderfully.

  He pretended not to know that she was meeting with his sister, Tyra.

  “We participate in mass together.” She’d stamped her foot when he pointed it out. “And you, taking Thor’s hammer off your neck, promised that…”

  “All right.” He waved a hand. “Leave it be. Going to church twice a year is enough for me.”

  “It’s not enough,” she announced. “Eric was a confirmed pagan, and yet he built me a chapel in Sigtuna. You, as a Christian king, should be funding churches. You can afford it.”

  “How many?” He grimaced.

  “The more the better. At least one for every borough.”

  “I’m asking how much money you want.”

  “Am I a builder that I should know how much that costs? I’m your queen, and I’m telling you, one in Scania, one in Funen, a third in the north of Jutland, so there’s more than just your enemy, the bishop Oddinkarr, in Ribe there, and our one in Roskilde needs to be enlarged. It’s embarrassing. Barely larger than a boathouse.”

  “You’ll ruin me. Why do we need so many churches? Who will go to them?”

  “The faithful. We need more priests from England. I talked to Wulfric, he’d take the mission on himself.”

  “What mission?” He was rather taken aback by her passion.

  “First, in bringing the priests over, and then converting the country to Christianity. Why do you stare so, husband? Would you prefer for the Saxons to come here to face the Danish pagans? Emperor Otto hungers to chase the pagans from Europe, look at what he’s doing in Połabie. Duke Bolesław, my brother, sent Bishop Adalbert to Prussia to take God’s word to their people, while you sit in Roskilde, feast with your jarls, and drink away your best years.”

  He had reprimanded her for this speech, they’d argued, and she didn’t speak to him for days, informing him through Wilczan that if he wanted to talk to her, he should come to mass.

  He went, though it was early in the morning. At first he thought he must still be drunk; he’d stayed up late the previous night, and since he couldn’t spend the night with her—when she was angry she left her lynxes outside her door—he sat and drank. Then, when he was closer to the church, he thought he was still dreaming. Only once he was almost there did he rub his eyes and realize that what he saw was very much real.

  Twelve of his axemen knelt outside the church. There was quite a crowd around them, there was no way to get inside, there were so many people packed together he had to push through. His wife was right in front of the altar; beside her was Gjotgar, the young jarl from Scania, and his sister, Tyra. He barely managed to make his way over to them.

  When mass had finally ended, Tyra left the church without a word, surrounded by the axemen, who had risen from their knees. His wife turned to him with a smile.

  “Jarl Gjotgar says that he’d be happy to contribute to the construction of a church in Scania, if King Sven cannot afford it.”

  “You’re too late, Jarl,” he grumbled. “I’ve already given the order. And the silver.”

  Gjotgar was younger than him. Tall, clean-shaven, with a lithe figure.

  “Excellent,” his wife announced. “Let it be in Lund. Lund in Scania. Let’s go, then.”

  He thought that if financing a few churches would end the fights in their family life, it was a good price to pay. He hadn’t known then that his wife intended to drag that much money from him continuously.
r />   “A Christian king,” she explained, “rewards his subjects when they’re baptized. He gives them gifts.”

  “And yet, it’s been the Christian kings of England giving me gifts until now,” he said.

  “Acknowledge the difference between a ransom and a gift, husband. They paid you because they saw a wild Viking in you, a barbarian.”

  “I’m not wild,” he snorted.

  “Then prove that to the world,” she said firmly, and began to tell him what he should spend his silver on.

  He gave in, since she was pregnant. No, that wasn’t true, he gave in because he heard what the merchants coming from Norway were saying. “Olav Tryggvason, the Christian king.” He wouldn’t let the rest of the world think any less of him than they did of the other chieftain.

  Year by year, he grew more convinced that Tryggvason was mocking him. Claiming power in Norway, calling himself king, it was all a challenge issued to Sven. As if that Silver Ole from years ago was saying, “And what will you do about it, my red-haired friend?” Sven felt that he should do something, but only a conquest would suffice, and his chieftains wouldn’t agree to that.

  “We remember the Jomsvikings’ defeat at Hjorunga,” they said. “And we remember that it was your father who sent them, and many of our boys sailed with them. Barely anyone returned.” He wouldn’t sail if the chieftains didn’t give him their men; for now, Thorgils of Jellings’s cunning strategy would have to be enough—surrounding Olav. He married Gyda to young Eric, sent them both to Scania, and planned his next move.

  “King,” Jorun interrupted his thoughts. “The merchants from York have arrived.”

  “Fat Edwin?” Sven guessed. Edwin knew his weakness for English weapons and he came to Roskilde twice a year.

  “No. A new one. His name is Morcar, and his men call him Frog.”

  “What?”

  “A nickname, one that our lady would say is an ‘as you can see’ one. His face is … froglike, I suppose.”

  They went to the port. They recognized the merchant as they approached, his bulging eyes, wide lips, flat nose. Morcar Frog.