The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “Prince,” Olav interrupted him calmly. “You have many wives.”

  “What, do you begrudge me wives? Ah, you young one, you don’t yet know that it’s easier to satisfy someone else’s wives than your own.”

  “Do you want me to go to Duke Mieszko and ask for his daughter’s hand for you?”

  “I would”—Vladimir took a swig—“but he won’t listen to pleas, he’s already denied me. So, I would prefer if you went to him with my Varangians and burned him. A proper fire, so that…”

  “I won’t go,” Olav said calmly. “It’s time for me to return to where I come from.”

  “Not yet,” the prince pleaded, surprisingly softly. “Stay, we have done so much for you, Allogia and I…”

  Olav rose from the table, though he knew he shouldn’t, since the prince was still seated. Their eyes met.

  “Have I paid my debt of gratitude with my services yet, Prince Vladimir?” he asked firmly.

  “Yes,” the prince replied, breaking eye contact. “Don’t look at me like that, it stings.”

  5

  POLAND

  Świętosława loved the moments when her father, with his hawk on his shoulder, paused in the doorway of the common room and said, without a shadow of a smile: “My daughter and son, I’m kidnapping you.” When she’d been small, she would squeal at the sight of him as loudly as she could, trying to make her father’s hawk respond with its angry, high-pitched scream. “I’m kidnapping you” meant they would go somewhere alone, together. She, her father, and her brother.

  Mieszko had returned from Quedlinburg a few weeks earlier, but he hadn’t settled back at home. He’d ordered the western boroughs to be supplied with more guards, he’d sent troops of scouts into the north, west, and south. Even the grumbling Jaksa, who followed Bolesław like a dog, had been sent on a secret mission. Her brother was furious, because another of his companions, Bjornar, had been similarly issued with a secret task and, saying nothing to Bolesław, Bjornar had mounted his horse and left.

  “And we’re kept in Ostrów Lednicki, with Oda and the court, like children! As if he wanted to tie me in swaddling clothes, for God’s sake!” Bolesław raged, banging his hand against a wall before disappearing to exhaust himself riding his horse around the woods by the lake.

  “He’s shut us in here like chicks in a wicker cage. He’ll fatten us up with golden seeds before we are served,” Świętosława would laugh, and then Bolesław, incensed to breaking point, would burst out: “Can’t you help me calm down, you little witch?” “No,” she’d reply seriously. “But I know how to taunt you. Am I doing well?” Yes, she was doing quite well.

  Then, on a hot evening two weeks before Midsummer’s Night, Mieszko stood on the threshold of the communal chamber and said: “My daughter and son, I’m kidnapping you.”

  Just the three of them. Father, daughter, and son, like in the old days.

  They rode out of Ostrów by the East Bridge.

  Gniezno, then, she thought, counting the horse’s steps. The even click of its hooves calmed her. Click, clack, four, eight, twelve … the last thing she wanted to do was ruin this day with a preemptive question. She breathed deeply. Click, clack, one hundred. Her father’s squad was with them, but not the rest of the court, and they had little luggage. A hundred and fifty, click clack. If they were going to Gniezno, they would arrive in the middle of the night along the dry summer roads. Why at night? Had something happened? Though she tried to stay calm, her heart was still beating faster than the rhythm of her mount’s steps. Click clack, a hundred and eighty; they dragged themselves over the bridge, one after another … only once they reached the road would they speed up to a trot, though if it had been up to her she’d make it a canter …

  “Over two hundred steps!” she shouted suddenly, when her mare’s hooves touched dry land. “Dear Father, why is the East Bridge so long?”

  “Are you asking God or me?” Mieszko sent her a sidelong glance.

  “You, God,” she sighed. “Come on then, let’s go.”

  “Where to?” Mieszko asked calmly.

  She caught herself. “Wherever you want to take us, Father.”

  “Right then, let’s go.” Mieszko laughed and led the way.

  * * *

  It was after midnight, and the sickle-shaped moon barely lit their way as Mieszko turned off the path that led up the main hill of Gniezno. He went left, into thick bushes.

  She wanted to ask where exactly they were going, but her brother’s warning glance kept her silent. They were going slowly again, down a path which was clearly meant to be traveled on foot. Young birch branches grabbed at her face. After a while, the horses stepped out of the woods into a glade.

  “Get down,” Mieszko said to them, and to his men: “Light it up.”

  Small fires, one after another, were lit around the glade. Świętosława narrowed her eyes, letting them adjust to the sudden brightness. She blinked, then froze. An enormous oak grew in the middle of the glade, between four grass-covered mounds, each one as large and high as the royal manor. She looked to her father. He stood with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the tree. Bolesław walked over to her and took her hand. They walked toward the oak. Before they reached the mounds, though, they heard their father’s voice.

  “Stop.”

  They paused obediently, like children, like royal subjects. Her brother’s hand was sweaty in hers. Mieszko stepped between them and grabbed their hands, turning them to face away from the mounds.

  “We enter backward,” he said, and pulled them gently along.

  After a few dozen steps, they were under the oak. Her father didn’t stop, but led them along by the mounds, saying:

  “Siemomysł, Lestek, Siemowit, Piast.”

  “Your father, grandfather, great-grandfather…” Bolesław counted.

  “… and the first of the dynasty,” his father finished for him. “Their ashes rest under the mounds, like royal heads under warm hats.”

  “Do you have to hold our hands?” her brother asked nervously.

  “No, not anymore.” He let go.

  Bolesław made his way to Siemomysł’s mound, knelt by it, and looked for something in the grass. He turned around after a moment, surprised.

  “Someone made a sacrifice here recently.”

  “People still come here,” their father said. “Less frequently, but they still remember.”

  Świętosława walked around the mounds slowly. She lifted her head, marveling at how high they were. She imagined all those who had made them, what the glade would have looked like full of people. Her mother’s funeral appeared in front of her eyes. A crowd with lit candles. Dobrawa’s body carried to the palace chapel. Then, the never-ending procession, a human river bidding goodbye to the duchess’s remains. And the stone slab enclosing what was left of her in the cold depths of a grave.

  Mieszko took out a jug and four small dishes from a hole in the tree. He placed one in front of each of the mounds, and poured out the contents of the jug. The scent of mead drifted on the night air.

  “There used to be celebrations held on the mounds to call on the spirits of the dead,” he said.

  He stood still for a moment, then replaced the jug and, as if there was nothing strange about it, took their hands again. Her father’s palms were covered in sweat now, too.

  “We leave facing forward,” he said. “Don’t turn back. I brought you here so that you could meet your ancestors, but not to reminisce. Some things should remain in the past.”

  When they found themselves by the fires again, the squad members brought them their horses. Świętosława stroked her mare’s neck.

  “You’re quiet.” Mieszko stood behind her. “You didn’t say a word under the oak.”

  “Where are their wives’ mounds?” she asked. “My grandmothers, great-grandmothers … where are they?”

  “There,” he nodded toward the place they’d just come from. “They went to the pyre with their husbands.”

/>   “I see.” Her voice was hard as flint.

  * * *

  Bolesław couldn’t free himself from the vision of the mounds. Siemomysł, Lestek, Siemowit, Piast. Yes, for a moment, when the fires were lit and his father had grabbed both their hands and pulled them with him, he’d thought again about Abraham’s sacrifice, but he’d quickly pushed the thought away. He knew Mieszko had shown them this place for a reason, and now he waited to find out why, but their father was silent.

  They left Gniezno for Poznań. On the way, Mieszko pointed out the young trees which were growing to replace those cut down by their forefathers. Thousands of oaks used to build the unconquered might of the Piast boroughs. They passed Ostrów Lednicki and, not stopping, they rode on.

  “What’s that?” Bolesław asked, pointing at an oval mound covered with long grass on the right side of the road.

  Świętosława, not waiting for her father’s response, rode off the path and onto the wide, flat-topped hill.

  “It looks like ashes!” she shouted from the top. “Like the ashes of a borough! Father?”

  “Come back!” Mieszko called angrily. “Come back this instant!”

  His sister returned reluctantly, looking over her shoulder as she did. Bolesław noticed his father’s displeasure, but asked anyway,

  “What did that place used to be?”

  “Nothing worth remembering,” the duke said, his tone making it clear there would be no further discussion of the matter. “Daughter, come here.”

  Bolesław slowed his horse until he was alongside Wolrad. His father’s companion leaned out of his saddle and whispered as he nodded toward the grass-covered mound, “The borough of Moira. Never mention it to the duke again.”

  When they rode into Poznań, which was tightly surrounded by the defensive ribbons of the Warta and Cybina Rivers, the noise of the city felt louder than usual after the silence of the forest paths. Merchant carts crowded the bridge; children shouted in front of the gates as they tried to sell fish caught in the Warta; fishwives with baskets of barley cakes called out: “With honey! With nuts! With salt from Kołobrzeg!” Young girls sang the praises of raspberries and wild strawberries that had been collected into bowls of plaited green leaves. The royal squad was visible from afar, towering over the people. Dogs slipped between the pedestrians, butchers’ boys chasing them away from their fathers’ stalls; someone was playing a pipe, drawing passersby into their pottery stall. The rhythmic clang of hammers sounded from the forge. Weavers spread their works out on benches, from paintings to colorful circles of rolled-up ribbons. A gray-bearded old man in a fraying dress leaned on the wall nearby, but the snot-nosed children running around gave him no chance of a doze.

  “Tell us a story! Grandfather, the one about the snake and the eagle and the girl!”

  “No, I want the one about the fern!”

  Piglets squealed in a makeshift enclosure, while chickens, geese, and ducks beat their wings against the walls of their wicker cages. Finally, they passed through the final gate, entering the palatium’s calm yard.

  “Oh, Maria!” one of the round housewives cried when she saw them. “My lord is here, with master and mistress!”

  A shout answered her from inside the walled kitchen,

  “What about the duchess Oda with the little devils?”

  The housewife said nothing, bowing low and blushing in embarrassment at such familiarity.

  When the stable boys had taken their horses, Świętosława whispered to Bolesław, “I want to go to Mother.”

  So brother and sister went together to the chapel that adjoined the palatium. The light looked like hundreds of dancing fireflies when reflected through the glass panes. Bolesław prayed for Dobrawa silently, then stood. His sister remained with her head bowed.

  “Go away now. I want to stay alone with Mother.”

  Bolesław nodded and left for the common room in search of food. Świętosława could spend hours praying by their mother’s grave.

  But not long after he left, his father and sister appeared in the doorway. Even more surprising, Jaksa and Bjornar stood behind them.

  Mieszko sat down on a high chair, Świętosława on one side, Bolesław on the other. Jaksa and Bjornar remained standing.

  “Speak, our Redarian wolf. What news of your kin?” Mieszko said.

  Bolesław gritted his teeth at his father’s thoughtlessness, but Świętosława burst out laughing.

  “And you say that I’m the one who speaks without thought!” she said.

  “What?” Mieszko glared at them both, not understanding.

  “Jaksa has more than enough reasons to despise the Redarians. Have you forgotten what they did to him?”

  “I said, ‘our Redarian wolf,’” Mieszko protested.

  “You said, ‘what news of your kin,’” Świętosława fired back. “What kin? The Redarians chased him away, unable to forgive his baptism, even though…”

  “That’s why I said ours!” Mieszko repeated stubbornly.

  “Yours,” Jaksa spoke up. “I am yours.”

  “Speak, then,” their father said, ending the disagreement.

  “The Veleti are gathering their tribes again,” Jaksa began. “They’re all arming themselves. A year ago, they managed to prepare for war in such secrecy that their attack surprised the empire. They don’t seem overly cautious now, though. The Veleti have summoned the tribe leaders to a temple in Radogoszczy. After days of heated debate, it was agreed that the Redarian tribe would take leadership of the joined forces.”

  “Who leads them now?” Mieszko interrupted Jaksa.

  “Wojbor.”

  “Wojbor? I don’t know him. Must be a younger one.”

  “He’s thirty. He gained fame in last year’s attack on Brenna. He’s the one who dragged Dodilon’s body from his grave and took his clothes. And he set fire to the cathedral altar once they finished using it for their feast.”

  “Do you know him?” the duke asked.

  “Yes. Wojbor was my brother, once.”

  Silence followed his words. Bolesław knew better than anyone that, for Jaksa, talking about his family was like walking on a hot sheet of metal. The boy hadn’t even been five when his father, the Redarian chief at the time, was forced to give him up as a hostage to the emperor. The Saxons treated Jaksa brutally, like a wild Slavic pup. They forced baptism on him, then returned him to his father. But the Redarians cast him out as well, like a bitch does her pups when she smells a foreign scent on them. Since that day, Jaksa had been fueled by anger. He hated both the Redarians and the Saxons for what they had done to him. He referred to himself as “Swaróg’s bastard” and “Christ’s stepson.” Pain was the foundation for his self-image, as the former had denied him, and the latter had taken him by force. After so many years of feeling he belonged nowhere, he now followed Mieszko and Bolesław with a loyalty like none other.

  “Swaróg’s priests consulted the oracles,” Jaksa continued in a colorless voice. “And declared the signs favorable. The men clamored as Wojbor swore he would lead them to victory over the Saxons and all their allies.”

  “Did he name those allies?”

  “Only one, my lord. You.”

  “He didn’t mention my brother-in-law? The prince of the Czechs?”

  “No, my lord, not a word. He said, though, that their first target should be Meissen.”

  Bolesław saw his father’s anger building. The Czechs had likely betrayed them.

  “Bjornar!” Mieszko called out, thanking Jaksa with a nod. “What have you found out about the Danes and Obotrites?”

  “Sven, Harald Bluetooth’s son, used the rebellions in Połabie not only to win back Hedeby from the Saxons, but more importantly, to move against his father. Sven, the hungry son, proved his swiftness and deadliness to the Danes with his campaign. Harald also moved against the Saxons, but he did it with more caution, and Sven used this as proof the old king is lethargic and unfit to rule.”

  Bolesław didn’t even flinc
h as he listened to the story of the son’s rebellion.

  “And to ensure that no one could forget who won back Hedeby, Sven has ordered his name be carved into a giant stone he placed in the port.”

  “Sven, Harald’s son,” Mieszko said, placing a hand on Świętosława’s shoulder.

  Bolesław heard something in his father’s voice, something that could be admiration or mockery. Świętosława sent their father such a glare that he withdrew his hand.

  “Battles between father and son aside, an alliance between the Danes and Obotrites is certain. The Obotrite leader Mściwój’s daughter was married to Harald in Denmark; she was Sven’s mother,” Bjornar finished.

  “What news of Jomsborg? Have the Vikings been dragged into the game?”

  Jomsborg was a constant topic of interest for their father. The Danish king Harald had built the Viking stronghold in Jom, and though Mieszko had succeeded in gaining influence in Wolin’s port, next door to Jom, Jomsborg itself remained firmly under Harald’s control.

  The Jomsvikings proclaimed that they were independent from any external influences, and their willingness to work as hired mercenaries supported this, but their loyalty to Harald was widely known.

  “I didn’t sail into Jomsborg itself,” Bjornar admitted. “The iron gates of the sea stronghold are open only to their own. But there is an inn on an island nearby, in which all paths cross, and it churns with gossip. That’s where I learned the Jomsvikings won’t be joining the fight for the empire, on Otto or Henry’s side. They have been summoned to fight a different war.”

  “For what?” Mieszko cut in, and Bolesław thought how hypocritical it was for his father to scold Świętosława for her impatience.