The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  When he turned twelve, he sailed out on a ship full of warriors for the first time. He was honed in the waters of the Volga, sailing with the prince’s convoys. Young and skillful, he caught the helmsman’s attention, and the man taught him the mysteries of steering a ship and how to set the drift for the night. This crew’s mission was to protect the ships which sailed the Volga, and to ensure the safe passage of Arabian merchants into Novgorod. Ships full of expensive furs and leather, wax, honey, valuable weapons, trained hunting falcons, and the bark of white birches. And the barges, heavy with human cargo. The slaves on their way east. Olav boarded each barge and he searched. But among the thousands of women, there wasn’t one who had a face as pale as his mother’s. And so, the Slavic river Volga felt as useless to him as water with no fish might be to a fisherman.

  He still hadn’t heard from Sivrit. Duchess Allogia sensed Olav’s growing impatience, or perhaps she just noticed the deepening grimace of his lips. She begged her husband to send Olav to sail the Dnieper, to give him a new searching ground. “Aren’t you afraid, my lady, that the boy will sail over the Dnieper to Byzantium? To serve the emperor of the east, Basil, for gold?” Prince Vladimir would ask, and the duchess would whisper: “Husband, husband, not him! Our Olav is unconditionally loyal to us. He won’t betray us, because Sivrit is using our silver to find his mother. Husband, he won’t betray us, because we gave him his freedom.”

  Vladimir gave in, and Olav understood from his first day on board the new ship that the duchess was unconsciously testing that loyalty. No, he wasn’t thinking about escaping to the wealthy Byzantium. Serving the emperor of the east for gold was not a lifestyle that appealed to him. But the waters of the Dnieper had stolen his soul. These weren’t the wide and lazy waters of the Volga; they were a force to be reckoned with. There were treacherous rapids which announced their presence with barely a threatening murmur, rapids which swiftly turned to furious surges of water. He loved all of them: Rykuna, Horse’s Head, Scythian Throat, Sharp Muzzle, Cursed, Insatiable, and, above all, the Thundering One. He was the first to jump from the boat to direct it across the stony thresholds.

  He was enchanted by the Dnieper’s banks, overgrown with alders and birches. The wetlands and swamps which stretched along them. Hunting catfish as large as sea monsters. The Dnieper tamed Olav’s wild soul; it ruled him. The swish of the water helped drown out his yearning for the mother out of whose arms he’d been snatched so many years before. He still dreamed of her sometimes, but he no longer heard her piercing screams. Now, she moved her dry lips soundlessly. The thick fog that lay on the Dnieper helped obscure Olav’s bloody memories.

  Then spring came, with a violence here like nowhere else; spring which burst from a single sun ray, vanquishing snows from the vast fields by the river, only to cover them with the white of blossoming blackthorns in a matter of days. A spring that seduced him like a lover. He dreamed of nothing else; he wanted to sail all year, to experience once more this grand show of awakening nature. To feel his blood course through his veins, ever faster, bringing him back to life.

  When a messenger reached them from Duchess Allogia, between one spring and the next, in a port near Smoleńsk, Olav felt as if someone were once again tightening the slave collar around his neck.

  “Come back to Kiev. The prince has a new mission for you. You will attack the Radimichs.”

  So Olav went, leaving the Dnieper behind. He had to pay back his debt, after all. Allogia and Vladimir showered him with gifts, as if to fill the gap left by the lack of news of his mother. He accepted them, to avoid offending the royal couple. For two more years, he fought in the east, forcing the Radimichs, then the Vyatichi, to concede defeat. He didn’t care who he was forcing to bow down. The only sweetness in his life was sailing across his beloved Dnieper on his way east.

  Until recently, when, during an insignificant skirmish with the already defeated Vyatichi, Olav was unable to dodge a flying arrow. When it grazed his forehead, just over his eyebrow, he heard a piercing scream. It was Astrid, his mother, screaming in his head. Blood ran into his eyes from the arrow wound, and he fell from the saddle onto the hoof-churned ground. He lost consciousness, though he could still hear his mother’s voice.

  He was awoken by an aged whisper: “No, no, no! I won’t heal him! I won’t place herbs on his wound! I want him to die … for the bloody king to die … he is the ruler who walks in a river of blood.” He opened his eyes with difficulty. He saw an old woman leaning over him, held by the back of the neck in the iron grip of his comrade Geivar.

  “Let her go,” Olav ordered.

  “You’re alive!” Geivar said happily.

  Yes, he was alive. And his past had caught up with him at last. He could no longer stay lost in the beauty of the Dnieper or the violence of spring.

  And now, he had returned to Kiev with his crew. He was carrying presents for the royal couple. And carrying the conviction that this was the last time he would fulfill someone else’s desires before his own.

  “Ole! My Ole!” He heard the young voice as soon as he entered the prince’s courtyard. “You’ve returned! You’ve finally returned!” The prince’s five-year-old son, Jarisleif, was running toward him, tripping over the long coattails of his fur cloak.

  “He’s not your Ole, he’s mine!” a larger boy shouted and stuck out his leg, tripping Jarisleif.

  The youngster slid in the mud. Olav jumped off his horse and picked him up, swinging him high.

  “Jarisleif! How you’ve grown! I wouldn’t have recognized you.” He kissed the youngster’s forehead.

  The larger boy pushed through toward them and shouted up at them,

  “Would you have recognized me, Ole? Have I also grown?”

  “Is this our Rus prince who has grown so young?” Olav scrutinized him carefully and, seeing the boy’s cheeks redden with pleasure, he added: “Oh, no, it’s his brave son, Światopołk, as like his father as two peas in a pod.”

  “I look like him too!” the younger one burst out. The older one snorted and pushed him.

  “That’s enough, enough,” Olav tried to hush the royal sons. “Is your father home?”

  “No,” Światopołk grumbled. “He went down to the river to make sacrifices.”

  “And he didn’t take us.” Jarisleif sniffed mournfully.

  “Jarisleif, come here!” a voice sounded from above.

  “Światopołk, time to go home!” They heard another from the opposite direction.

  Olav straightened and lifted his head. Two women stood on the wooden cloisters of the Kiev manor. They faced each other: one in the right wing, one in the left; two of Vladimir’s wives. Olav bowed to them both.

  “Run to your mothers,” Olav whispered to the boys. “We’ll see each other again.”

  Jarisleif grudgingly moved off in the direction of the steps. Światopołk pulled Olav’s sleeve and whispered into his ear:

  “Father said that Jarisleif’s older brother will receive the Polotsk* kingdom. But that’s impossible, because Izjasław is stupid.”

  “You gossip too much.” Olav laughed and tousled his hair. “Run along.”

  They heard the creak of shutters being opened. Duchess Allogia appeared in a window at the center of the manor. She wore a tall fur hat, and golden chains framed her face.

  “Olav! You are a joyful sight!” she said when she saw him, lifting both her hands.

  “And she gave birth to another daughter,” Światopołk had time to whisper before scampering off.

  Allogia received him in her private rooms, sending away her maids and the wet nurse with her baby girl, who was wrapped in gold-threaded cloth. He sensed an unfamiliar anxiety hidden beneath the duchess’s blushing cheeks.

  “Daughters serve you well, my lady. You are more beautiful with each one. What have you named the newborn?”

  “Predsława,” she replied carelessly. “What’s happening with the Vyatichi?”

  “They will pay the prince a tribute for every pl
ow they own.”

  She nodded. Allogia’s slender fingers moved constantly, as if they were conducting their own private dance. Olav found himself staring at them for a moment.

  “Olav, don’t leave me,” she said, so unexpectedly that he shivered.

  How could she know what he had come to discuss? He’d heard the whispers, of her abilities, of the things she knew that she had no right knowing. He had never paid them any heed. Until now.

  Olav said nothing. The duchess stepped toward him, graceful as a forest cat.

  “Not now, when…” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Vladimir has too many sons…”

  And none from your womb, Olav thought soberly. One must be blunt with a witch.

  “… too many to be tied to just one.” She spoke with barely hidden fury. “He’s getting older, he’s finding it harder to mount his horse, do you understand?” She peered into his eyes, cocking her head to one side.

  But he can still father children. The thought crossed Olav’s mind, even if it didn’t cross his lips.

  Allogia was looking at him with beautiful, dark eyes.

  “None of his sons,” she began after a moment, “has impressed their father with anything yet. And death…” She uttered the word worshipfully, as if speaking words of love. “Death could come at any time.”

  She was so close that he felt her warm breath. She was slight, and had to lift her head to look at him.

  “Vladimir used to be the gallant Vladimir, when, flanked by his Varangians, he conquered Novgorod. Ah, he could have fought across all of Rus, as far as the Dnieper’s outlet, as far as the lands of the Pechenegs, if…” Allogia lowered her voice and suddenly spread out the fingers of both her hands, wiggling them.

  “If what?” he whispered throatily.

  “If he didn’t spend all his energy on new love conquests. Olav, he’s not a gallant Viking anymore. He’s moldered, he’s as quarrelsome as a Slav. Ah! He conquers new lands not for power and fame, but for women. Do you know what he prides himself on? That he’s bedded eight hundred women. And that’s supposed to be an exploit for a ruler? I’d prefer it if he bragged about winning eight kingdoms.”

  “I don’t think I’m the one you should be talking to about this, my lady,” Olav said.

  “Don’t you understand?” she continued. “You could be his heir.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes! He must be thinking about who to name as his successor, and he can’t rely on his own sons. He’ll adopt you if you ask him.”

  “I don’t…” Olav took a step back, but Allogia grabbed his wrist.

  “Yes, you! His sons will accept you as a leader sooner than they will accept any of their brothers. You’d be the guarantee needed to ensure the kingdom won’t dissolve after Vladimir’s death.”

  Her hand on his wrist was like the iron bracelet of a slave’s chain. And he felt himself giving in, his will bending to hers.

  “Don’t be afraid, Olav, it might be mad, but it’s not impossible. All you have to do is ask him to adopt you. He has been saying for a long time that you remind him of the Vladimir who conquered Novgorod with fire. It’s a sign! That, and the fact that the royal blood of the Ynglings runs through your veins.”

  Olav snatched his hand back.

  “You knew, my lady?”

  “I knew,” she replied. “I’ve known since your first day in Novgorod. I couldn’t sleep for the bright light I saw in the middle of the night. It was your fate, your happiness, your hamingia.” Whatever hamingia was, Olav didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “When Sivrit brought you here, I knew who had shone over Rus.”

  Olav felt now as if he were choking, while Allogia spoke more fervently with every word.

  “You’re the one the northern songs speak of. The boy with shining white hair, clear, pale eyes, a glance as sharp as a young snake’s … the son of a god wandering the earth…”

  “Stop!” he shouted. And for the first time, he said aloud what his mother’s voice had awoken in his skull: “I am Olav Tryggvason, son of King Tryggve. The last living heir of the Norwegian kings. Kiss me.”

  Allogia reached out with slender fingers, fastening them around his neck and sealing her lips to his. He pulled free, wiping his mouth.

  “Not like that, you madwoman!” He heard the deep anger in his own voice. “Kiss my forehead, like you did when you welcomed me under your roof. With that kiss, you took my memories. Now I want them back.”

  Allogia inhaled, the air whistling in her chest. Olav lowered his head. She placed her lips on it, as cold as steel. Then she pulled him up by his hair, studying his face. He broke free and, without a backward glance, walked to the door. When he reached the threshold, he heard her whisper:

  “You’ve been marked by death.”

  * * *

  Olav found Prince Vladimir on a hill overlooking the Dnieper. The prince’s silk tent glinted golden and purple in the sunlight. Servants were preparing a feast in front of it in silence. The statues of Vladimir’s gods stood nearby, beside ancient oaks. Dadźbóg, Perun, Mokosz, Strzybóg, Simargł, Chors. Olav knew their names, though they were only empty words to him. Vladimir was walking slowly in their shadows, a hand tucked into his belt.

  “It occurred to me,” the prince said, after they greeted one another, “that Odin and Thor’s likenesses should also be here. Or perhaps the golden Freya, hmm? Tell me, what do you think, young Viking?”

  Vladimir laughed then. “I used to have only Perun’s statue, but when I took the lands of the Drevlians, Severians, Kryvichs, I began to worship their gods too. But perhaps, to adequately honor the country that my kin come from, we need Thor, too? Well, boy, cat got your tongue? You bring me a victory over the Veleti and yet you say nothing?”

  “Do you know who I am?” Olav asked bluntly.

  Vladimir sighed and answered with a question. “Who told you?”

  Olav stayed silent, looking into the bearded face of Kiev’s prince. Into the puffy eyes amid folds of loose skin. A nose which had lost its falcon’s sharpness a long time ago.

  “Allogia, was it? You went to see her! She swore she wouldn’t say anything. That’s what I get for sharing secrets with a woman.”

  “How did you know?” Olav interrupted him.

  Vladimir’s features twisted in misery.

  “My mother told me. It’s silly, isn’t it? One might think I am ruled by women. But no, a mother is different, and anyway, she died that winter. She’d been a fortune teller. She was never wrong, though who knows really? She also told me I would be the murderer of gods before she died. I think that’s an exaggeration, don’t you?”

  Olav said nothing, watching the prince with unease.

  “Right, you’d like me to tell you what happened.” Vladimir pulled at the dark tangles of his beard. “She told me my fortunes every year before Yuletide—here, we called it Koliada. They carried her in on a tall chair, and I wasn’t allowed to take a drink before she arrived. If I had, she wouldn’t say a single word, to punish me. That winter, ten years before you arrived, she said that a royal son had been born in Norway, in secret. That he was in exile, hunted by an old queen. And that I would be lucky enough to raise him. When Sivrit brought you to Novgorod, she was dead, but Allogia saw your soul or whatever she calls it—hamingia—and she begged me to bring you to court. I’ll be honest with you; if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have remembered those old fortunes. I don’t have the head for such things. But Allogia had made up her mind, and you know the rest…” Vladimir guided him by the elbow to the food-laden tables.

  “Why did you keep my heritage a secret from me?” Olav asked, sitting next to the prince.

  “A secret? No!” He poured wine for them both, filling their cups to the brim. “We just didn’t talk about it, for your own good, my boy.” The prince took a large swallow of wine while Olav bit his tongue, trying to ignore that word, “boy.” “You have no chance of regaining your throne at present, so I didn’t want to confuse you.”


  “Is that what your mother said, Vladimir?” Olav pronounced the prince’s name with the clearest Nordic accent and watched the other man’s face change.

  “More or less,” the prince replied. “Why don’t you drink? Are you trying to insult me?”

  “No. I want to keep a clear head. What did your mother say about my kingdom?”

  Vladimir drank in silence. He put down his cup for the servant to refill. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and sighed heavily.

  “She said that one day, you would win back the power you were born to wield.”

  Olav’s heart beat faster, and his head reeled as if he’d already drunk the wine in front of him. He looked into the silver cup, still full to the brim. The purple surface of the wine seemed to shimmer. He picked it up suddenly and downed it in one gulp. He felt a warmth in his stomach, calming him. The prince laughed and nudged his shoulder.

  “You drink as if you were mine! So, boy, let’s get to the matter at hand. If old Mother was right about your kingdom, she must have been right about mine.”

  “What are you talking about, Prince?” The peace that had only just settled on him began to disintegrate. A note in Vladimir’s voice was reminiscent of his conversation with Allogia.

  “About my mother, the fortune teller, the witch. Wine!” He paused to take a drink. “She said that before you win back your throne, you’d bring fame and glory to mine. That’s a sign that you cannot leave me yet.”

  Olav felt his temper rising.

  “I forced the Radimichs and Veleti to bend a knee, isn’t that enough?”

  “It is not enough, my boy. If you only knew how keen my appetite is.” As if to make his point, he reached for the roast. He turned a piece in his fingers, searching for the best place to bite into. “I have a mighty neighbor in the West, Duke Mieszko. He has a well-trained army and a young daughter. I’d take some of his settlements on the border, but…” He turned, sending the servant a chilling glare. “Wine! I sent messengers asking about her, but Mieszko told me she’s a Christian and will not marry a pagan who already has wives. An old pagan, that’s what he told them to say. He humiliated me!” Vladimir buried his teeth in the meat furiously. “Rogneda didn’t want me either, she preferred my brother, that traitor, so I took her by force, and then killed her father, I did that!”