“For the north, my lord,” Bjornar replied. “Harald wants to prove to the Danes, especially to his own son, that he is still the ruler of the north. Norway, which is under his authority, is slipping between his fingers. Jarl Haakon, the leader of the northern Norwegian lords, who Harald named his viceroy in Norway, has declared independence. He isn’t paying taxes or sending his troops when Harald calls for them, he reigns as if he were a ruler in his own right. Harald has summoned the Jomsvikings to attack Norway and defeat Jarl Haakon.”
“If the Jomsvikings succeed and the Norwegian armies come under Harald’s command again, his forces will be doubled. He’ll be able to send them to face the Saxons.” Mieszko pounded his fist on the carved armrest. That would make Harald far too strong a ruler to be so close to his borders. “Have you confirmed this, Bjornar? Or perhaps the war for the north is merely drunken Viking brags?”
“I’ve confirmed it, my lord.”
Mieszko stood up. “I’m unhappy to hear the news you’ve brought. But you, my young scouts, satisfy me greatly.”
Bjornar and Jaksa walked out with their heads held high. Praise from the duke was rare. Bolesław bit his lip as he tried to recall when he had last received any himself.
* * *
Once he’d sent Jaksa and Bjornar away, Mieszko paced the chamber of the palatium. When it seemed he’d gained control of his anger, he turned back to Bolesław and Świętosława.
“We’re surrounded.”
They looked at him calmly. The seventeen-year-old son and fifteen-year-old daughter. He’d never lied to them, but he had never been so open with the truth, either. He went on,
“The ring of enemies on our western borders is tightening. The Danes have joined the Obotrites in the north. And the Obotrites, though they have been trying to break free of the Veleti fellowship for years, will now march beside them. The Czechs will join the Veleti in the south.”
“The scouts didn’t say that,” Bolesław observed.
“Your uncle Boleslav, my brother-in-law, the Czech prince, has sent me a separate invitation to cooperate,” Mieszko replied bitterly. “In his invasion of Meissen.”
“The Christian Czechs with the pagan Veleti?” Świętosława raised her eyebrows in disgust.
“Not for the first time, daughter. The Czechs make you think of your mother, whose faith ran deep, but if you want to understand what fighting wars is all about, you must be able put that image aside.”
“No, I don’t,” Świętosława said. “It’s enough that I must remember we’re not bound by any alliance since her death.”
Mieszko wanted to strangle his daughter sometimes, but it was usually when she reminded him too much of himself. She was his child, through and through.
“In spring, after the emperor’s death, the Czech, Obotrite, and Miessen leaders all supported Henry of Bavaria’s claim to the imperial throne.”
“So did you,” Świętosława added.
“Do you want to hear more, or do you already know everything?” Mieszko snapped.
“I’m listening, Father,” she said, and put on such an innocent face that Bolesław would have believed she was being sincere if he didn’t know her so well.
“Some of the Reich lords also supported Henry, but in recent days they’ve been abandoning him, leaving him for the emperor’s widow, one by one. Henry will be forced to work with the pagans, because by reaching for Czech and Obotrite help he will, in reality, be allying himself with the entire Veleti fellowship.”
“From what I understand, Father,” Bolesław spoke up, “you want to push these alliances off the course they are currently on.”
“I’ll withdraw my support for Henry in favor of Theophanu, the emperor’s widow. I won’t aid the Czechs against Meissen, but I’ll help Meissen against the Czechs. And I’ll stand by Denmark’s enemies to weaken it and destroy its unity with the Obotrites.”
“Oh!” Świętosława couldn’t stifle the exclamation.
“What now?”
“I was worried that you’d decided Sven would make a good son-in-law.”
“Don’t you like Vikings?” Mieszko asked, his voice deceptively casual.
“I don’t like sons who stand against their fathers,” she replied, the humblest of daughters.
“Will the empress accept you?” Bolesław asked. “You backed Henry twice. She’s sharp enough not to trust you.”
“She’ll accept every Christian ally, although you’re right, son. Women in power are particularly vengeful. Theophanu is unforgiving, and she can be cruel.”
“Do my ears deceive me?” his daughter asked. “When you spoke of Mściwój, Boleslav, or Sven, you didn’t utter a single insult, but for Theophanu you have so many! ‘Vengeful, unforgiving, cruel.’ Perhaps she is too bold for you?”
“You’re the bold one, daughter,” Mieszko said, visibly straining to keep his anger in check. “And the empress isn’t playing fair. Haven’t you noticed that no new bishop has arrived here since Bishop Jordan’s death two years ago? An abbot has been ordained as bishop to come here. I’ve been waiting for him for two years, but the Greek tyrant won’t let him leave his abbey.”
“Vengeful, unforgiving, and cruel, yet she holds so much power,” Świętosława said sweetly. “I like hearing about Empress Theophanu.”
Mieszko felt a surge of anger, but couldn’t help laughing at this. She was too much like him indeed. My bold one, he thought, and replied, “You’d be even worse in her place, Świętosława.”
“I’d love to be in her place, Father.”
“Then learn!” He slammed his fist on the table so suddenly that his hawk startled and leapt from his shoulder to the back of a chair. “A woman dons a crown only as the wife of a ruler. And a ruler’s wife must be smart enough not to be dismissed and replaced by another. And, above all, she must give birth to an heir.”
Świętosława reached out. Not to him, but to the hawk. The predator cocked its head and looked at her with a golden eye. It stepped cautiously onto her arm.
“And I think that, above all, she must be strong,” she replied, looking at him. “To not die in childbirth. To survive her husband in good health, as Theophanu has survived Otto. And to rule as a widow and regent. Have I learned today’s lesson well, Father?”
He stared at her. Her hair was like amber, her skin pale, her eyebrows dark. Her eyes were green or gray, like Dobrawa’s. She was ugly, because she resembled them both. And beautiful, because she was like no one else in the world.
* * *
Mieszko took Bolesław and Świętosława to the banks of the Warta before sunset. A group of young people were gathered on the opposite shore, driving stakes in the ground and carrying over firewood. Midsummer was approaching.
“You’ll give the blessing to the newlyweds this year,” he said to Bolesław.
“Why can’t I come with you to the Hoftag?” Bolesław asked, his annoyance clear.
“It would be incredibly foolish to send out a ruler and his heir together. In case something were to happen.”
The hawk on his shoulder shifted its weight. It was hungry.
“Are you expecting something to happen?” Świętosława asked.
“Are you naming me your heir?” Bolesław inquired simultaneously.
“Yes.”
“Yes what? Danger or heir?” His daughter laughed.
Sometimes it’s one and the same, he thought, but aloud he said,
“Bolesław, you’ll be my heir when I die. I don’t think anyone has ever doubted this.”
Even if my Oda won’t like it, he added to himself.
He shrugged and let the hawk fly off to hunt. The bird pushed itself from his glove with strong legs. Mieszko lifted his head and followed its flight, curious to see what the bird would hunt. Crows were clustered nearby, and he could hear their warning caws. The hawk must have seen them, too, because it was hurtling toward them, gaining speed. It wasted no time scouting and circling its prey. It dove suddenly, scattering
the crows, then flew back with one of the dark birds clutched in its talons.
“Victory is beautiful.” Mieszko stretched and looked at his children. The hawk landed near them and tore into its prey with a sharp beak. “You asked me if I expected danger. Yes, always. I expect it at every meeting with the Reich leaders, when I set out to every war, hunt, feast, even when I bed my wife and, to anticipate your question, let me clarify; it doesn’t matter whether it was Dobrawa or Oda. I’d be a fool if I wasn’t always prepared. But…” He laughed and spread his arms. “I’m not afraid of it. Fear takes away a person’s freedom, it’s more crippling than any wound.”
The hawk finished eating and took off once more. The youngsters on Warta’s opposite bank were practicing the pipe, and uneven sounds interrupted by laughter drifted toward them across the water.
“Four mounds, like the four cardinal directions,” Mieszko said, and though he was rarely moved, he felt something nearly overwhelming now. “Four generations ago, Piast won the people over at a rally. My great-grandfather, Siemowit, Poland’s first duke, inherited his power and fought war after war. He was focused on pushing back enemies. His son, Lestek, understood that if he attacked an enemy after successfully defending against them, he would double his gains. By the time he passed on power to my own father, Siemomysł, no one dared attack our boroughs and villages. Your grandfather was free to pour all his energy into strengthening the country.”
The young people across the river lit a fire. One of them notched an arrow and lit its head. They aimed at the straw wreath on one of the poles.
“I received beautiful lands from my father, but it wasn’t enough.”
He stopped. Should he tell them about the endless hunger? That he had been born with it and couldn’t satisfy it, even now? That he felt constant discontent, that when he looked at a forest he didn’t care about the trees, only what was beyond them? That watching a sunset, he already wondered about the sunrise? How could he explain?
The wreath on the pole now burned brightly across the Warta. The kids began to dance around it.
“My grandfather and father achieved much, but they were still only tribal chieftains. They had to stand in front of crowds and listen to the endless talk of the people. And the people, once they gain a voice, will hold on to it. They can judge a ruler, punish or reward them. The people see only what’s in front of them: the harvest, a full breadbasket, the neighbor who stole a cow, a horse with laminitis, a sick child. It’s life, of course, but a ruler must see more.”
Dusk was falling. The hawk squawked as it returned to them. Mieszko pulled on his leather glove and raised his arm.
“Because if an enemy comes, there will be no harvest. If neighbors sense a weakness in our lands, they will invade and steal our horses, cows, homes.”
The wreath had burned out, and the young people on the other side were stamping out the remains of their fire.
A narrow boat arrived on the Warta’s current, with a white sail and a single rower.
“Your mother and her religion were a revelation for me. I’d waited for a sign, a lesson like that for my whole life, something to show me the path on which I’d succeed. For a god who gives a ruler the right to rule.”
A few of the youths now walked into the river, but only one got into the boat and sailed away with the rower. The bright sail fluttered in the wind as the others watched them go.
“Now, the people believe only God can anoint a leader. Not factions or priests or the people.”
The others began to play their pipes again.
“Not the gods of fire, sun, water, war, peace, life, death, harvest, different ones for each tribe. The one God. One Lord and one ruler. Him and me. Since the day of my baptism, God has given me the right to rule, and I have opened the borders of my country to him.”
The hawk began to clean its feathers, which interrupted Mieszko’s musings. He stretched out an arm and let the bird walk over to Bolesław’s shoulder.
“I built an army, trained and armed by me. Always ready to attack or defend. And I doubled the lands I inherited from my father.”
He watched his son with the hawk on his shoulder. He saw himself, not in the past, but in the future. He said, slowly:
“I’m a predator, but I don’t hunt alone.” He looked in the eyes of his children, and emotion threatened to choke him. “You, my children, are now grown, and strong. But I have only two heirs, and I must reach for all four corners of the earth. Try to understand. That’s why I can’t stop with you. I have to reach for your half brothers, Oda’s sons, as well.”
He pulled his children to him then, embracing them. He felt the warmth emanating from their bodies. They were bone of his bone, blood of his blood. And he was about to rob them of their childhoods.
6
POLAND
JOMSBORG, WOLIN ISLAND
After reclaiming Hedeby from the Saxons, Sven, the future king of Denmark, had sailed to Jomsborg, home to the Jomsvikings—mercenaries of legend who had been steadfast in their loyalty to his father. He would need their support before standing openly against Harald.
Sigvald’s ship was the one leading them into the Viking stronghold. Since the victory in Hedeby, Sven had come to greatly respect the brothers Palnatoki had sent to him, Sigvald and Thorkel.
As their ships slipped forward, Sven stared around him. This was his first time in the legendary port, and without a guide, Jomsborg was nearly impossible to find.
The old king, his father, had picked this place perfectly, Sven thought. A massive wooden gate blocked their path into the channel, flanked by a stone wall, and a stone bridge with a manned watchtower. Sigvald stopped his ship and gestured for the others to do the same.
“Your ship and captain?” a soldier shouted, though he had to have seen the emblems on their sails.
“Jarl Sigvald’s Zealand Falcon and young king Sven Haraldsson’s Bloody Fox.”
A horn sounded from beyond the gates, and hinges creaked as the giant doors swung inward. Sigvald didn’t signal their men onward, and after a moment Sven realized why. There was another gate beyond the wooden one, this one made of iron. The head of a wolf was emblazoned on each door, the sign of the Jomsvikings. The second gate now opened too, and as they sailed through both gates, Sven understood why Jom was said to be unconquerable. The iron gates clanked shut behind them.
They sailed into a port that could have easily fit a hundred longboats. Fifty were anchored there now. Sven disembarked, following Sigvald’s lead, and studied the Jomsvikings who greeted them. They stood in a silent line, stretching all the way to the manor entrance. Sven couldn’t help but feel as though they were trying to hide the inside of the stronghold from him. And that, as they silently watched him approach, they were comparing him to his father.
My hair is just as red, and I’m taller by a head, he thought with a vengeance.
The chiefs of the three houses of Jom awaited him before the manor, alongside the jarl of the Jomsvikings, his tutor and old friend, Palnatoki.
“Young king,” Palnatoki greeted Sven formally.
“Jarl!” Sven opened his arms. “It’s good to see you again!”
They embraced, and Sven felt his throat go dry. Palnatoki felt fragile in his arms, the skin on his cheeks loose, marking his face with two deep lines.
“You look good,” Sven lied. His tutor looked at him meaningfully, but didn’t challenge Sven’s comment in front of the others.
“Come, join us for a feast, young king. A traveler from afar awaits you.”
Fires burned in the long hall. Shields of fallen enemies decorated the walls. Sheepskins were draped across the benches. The bowls and chalices were plain and unornamented. There was nothing excessive or luxurious about the hall. And there was not a single woman present, as Jomsborg’s laws denied them access to the stronghold. Before arriving, Sven had dismissed this as a mere story, but now he saw that not only were there no women, but there were also no servants. Jugs of mead stood on the table
s, inviting guests to pour for themselves. All places at the chiefs’ table were equal, and Sven sat on Palnatoki’s right, with Sigvald and Thorkel next to him. The Zealand brothers were leaders of two of the houses of Jomsborg and had once studied here under Palnatoki themselves. They had been crucial in the fight to reclaim Hedeby from the Saxons, and Sven was grateful his tutor had brought them to his side.
A young, dark-haired man in a rich caftan threaded with silver walked into the hall and bowed his head toward Sven. “Styrbjorn, Olof Björnsson’s son.”
“I didn’t know your father,” Sven said, “but I know some who fought by his side, and I know he deserves a place in Valhalla.”
“True,” Styrbjorn agreed. “My father ruled our country justly when he was alive. But when he died, his brother refused to acknowledge my right of inheritance. Eric disinherited me and decided to rule Sweden himself.”
A father and a son, a nephew and an uncle, thought Sven. Each fighting for power.
“What do you expect from me?” Sven asked aloud, realizing that the arrangement of the chiefs’ table wasn’t accidental. They sat in a line on one side, not looking at each other when talking to a guest or interrogating the accused.
“Support in my fight against Eric,” Styrbjorn replied.
“How old is your uncle? He was older than your father, if I remember correctly. Would it not cost you less to wait for him to die?”
“My father didn’t die in his bed,” the newcomer said indignantly. “Eric may have seen more than forty years, but he’s still as strong as a wild boar. I don’t want to wait for his death, I want to deliver it!”
Mine’s older, Sven thought, and I also would prefer to be rid of him by my own hand.
“If I help you, what will I get in return?” he asked bluntly.
“I will share Eric’s treasure.”
“That’s not enough,” Sven replied. “The Jomsvikings fight for silver, but you asked for a meeting with a king. You must offer more than silver to a king.”
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