The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  He reached for a jug, not because he was thirsty, but because he needed an excuse to look at Jom’s chieftains. What effect did his words have on them? He couldn’t tell. They sat, leaning back, their faces visible only to the newcomer.

  “What do you mean, my lord?” Styrbjorn looked unsettled.

  “Power, guest,” Sven replied. “If I won the Swedish throne for you, that would mean I’d be strong enough to sit on it myself. So, I ask again: What’s in it for me if I give it to you?”

  “The young king is thinking of a viceroyship,” Palnatoki interjected.

  “I don’t understand.” Styrbjorn studied Sven nervously, then his gaze slid sideways, first to the right, then to the left, over the faces of the other chieftains.

  “If I won Eric’s throne, I’d give it to you as my viceroy, you would be Denmark’s ruler in Sweden. Is that clear enough?”

  Styrbjorn reddened. Yes, he understood it now. He rose from the table.

  “I cannot agree to this, my lord. Allow me to bid you goodbye.”

  Sven nodded to him and the young Swede left.

  “I want to speak to you alone,” he told Palnatoki quietly, as Sigvald walked their guest out.

  The jarl made a gesture for the other two chiefs to leave them.

  “You have made an enemy, boy,” Palnatoki said when they were alone.

  “Not by accident,” Sven replied, turning his chair so he faced his aging mentor. “I’m in trouble myself, Palnatoki, and I can’t help Styrbjorn stand against his uncle. But I’d prefer him to think that I’m choosing not to because he won’t pay me as I wish.”

  “Ah. Cunning,” his mentor said. “If I didn’t know you, I’d have believed it. I’d have thought you arrogant and demanding.”

  “I did it for them, too.” Sven nodded toward the empty chairs at the table. “The houses of sailors, scouts, warriors, and hosts. The four chiefs of mighty Jom. Each one is comparing me to Harald, each one is wondering which of us is better, the father or the son?” He reached out and gripped the old man’s shoulder. “Palnatoki, I may trust you, but not them. They, and each one of the Jomsvikings, is loyal to my father. Do you know what I fear? That when I face him, your Zealand boys who fought by my side at Hedeby will move against me at one whistle from Harald.”

  “As long as I’m alive, that won’t happen. But look at me. Skin and bone.” Palnatoki spat onto the ground and ran his boot over the saliva. “I wrap a belt around me like…”

  “Are you ill? What the devil is wrong with you?” Sven watched him, unsettled, noticing again the old man’s hollow cheeks.

  Palnatoki shrugged. “My time is coming to an end.”

  “Stop. A codfish drying in the wind grows skinny, but it’s still strong when placed back in the water. Palnatoki, you must sail out, don’t rot in a stronghold, go somewhere. Even if it were with that boy, Styrbjorn. Set a high price, get your arse on a longship, and sail. It’ll do you a world of good!”

  “If life is a jug of mead, then I, my little one, am at the last sip. But perhaps you’re right. Death with a sword in my hand, death at sea … a good ending.”

  Sven didn’t want to hear this. He grabbed his mead, then let it go just as quickly, as if it burned him. The jug was empty. He stood up and brought over a new one. He filled their cups, and they drank. But instead of sweetness, Sven tasted salt.

  Sven, don’t cry like a child! He bit his tongue. “What will happen after you’ve…” He hesitated at the word. “… left?”

  “Ragnarök, perhaps?” Palnatoki joked.

  “Stop!” Sven slammed his fist on the table. Palnatoki spoke so calmly, and Sven didn’t want to make peace with the old man’s imminent passing.

  “The Jomsvikings will choose a new jarl,” Palnatoki continued, “voting for one of the leaders of the four houses. If Vagn or Fat Bue is chosen, Jomsborg will remain loyal to your father. Those two belong to him like nuns to Christ. But if they choose Sigvald or his brother Thorkel, you have a chance. Unless you follow the advice you gave the young Swede.” He grinned, showing uneven teeth. “You wait for Harald’s death. But then, you’d have to arrive at Jom immediately, the day after.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mieszko, the Polish duke, is increasingly interested in Jom. He is the sole ruler of Wolin now, and that’s so very close. Your father used to dream that, thanks to Jomsborg, he could take Wolin; some even said that was why he built it in the first place, but that was just a story. Wolin stands on gold, silver, and slaves. They pay us to protect the port and merchant ships, so robbing Wolin would be like chopping off the branch you’re sitting on, and wetting your whole arse. The merchants would stop coming, and the robbed silver would eventually finish. Jomsborg and Wolin both gain by working together. We protect them, and they pay us handsomely for our services. Our people go there for better food, whores, and jewels. They sell their plunder. We’re good neighbors. Except that Wolin works with Mieszko just as closely, and if the new jarl is closer to the Polish prince than to you—well, you can see what I’m getting at, boy. If I were you, I’d drop in to Wolin tonight or tomorrow, see it for yourself. Only leave the Bloody Fox in Jomsborg, you don’t need to announce your presence. Sigvald’s sailors can give you a boat that won’t attract attention.”

  “Mściwój was asking Mieszko about a wife for me.” Sven swept his red hair from his shoulders.

  “Very good.”

  “Not so good.” Sven pulled a face and poured himself more mead. “Mieszko doesn’t like the fact that I prefer the old gods.”

  “You’re as greedy as you are ginger, boy.” Palnatoki laughed. “Why did you ask for Dobrawa’s daughter when she’s even been given a saint’s name? Mieszko has two other daughters to marry off, and neither of those has been baptized. One is Astrid, Dalwin’s granddaughter, Wolin’s own jarl. She makes quite the impression, and I know this for a fact, I’ve seen her more than once. She’d seem to be made for you, right? But that’s exactly why old Mieszko won’t give her to you, because he’s as smart as we are. Think about Geira, the young widow.”

  “Geira?”

  “Gudbrod’s widow. Would that suit you?”

  Sven’s expression clouded over. It would suit him, perfectly, if it wasn’t for the war with the Saxons he had stepped into. Empress Theophanu, the Saxon leader, had regrouped her troops and her armies were beginning to win back the lands they’d lost. Geira of Bornholm wouldn’t help him defend himself or Danish borders from Theophanu. But the empress’s armies would follow the youngest princess, Świętosława, who his grandfather Mściwój was suggesting he marry. The one with the name of a saint.

  “I’ll think about it, old rogue,” Sven answered eventually, and changed the subject. “Is it true that you sail to my father’s summons? Will you rob Norway?”

  “Not rob, only discipline. The lords of the north and Jarl Haakon need reminding that they are Danish subjects. My boys are as eager for this war as if it were their wedding nights.”

  “When do you raise the war shields?”

  “Any day.”

  Sven thought for a moment that this was also in his favor. It would be good to inherit not only Denmark, but also Norway from Harald. Just like his father had ruled in his best days. But he reined his thoughts in quickly, recalling that for the time being he had the Saxons on his back; if he didn’t defend what he had gained, he would lose his people’s respect and then his chance of inheriting anything at all.

  “‘Any day’ means you don’t have fighters to spare, do you? I need a few good crews,” he finally said, what he’d come here to ask in the first place, forcing his tone to remain light.

  “I don’t, my boy. All my troops will sail to face the lords of the north. You picked your time poorly.” Palnatoki met his eye with a sad expression.

  Sven felt as if he were choking as he met his gaze. “See you soon then, my friend.”

  “In Valhalla, son,” the old jarl replied.

  7

  POLAND
r />   WOLIN, WOLIN ISLAND

  Świętosława embraced Astrid and Geira. She couldn’t have been happier to see them.

  “Three sisters! Together again, just like in the good old days. Do you remember when we went fishing for trout in Moscow? Oh, that was something!”

  “I remember when you tore your dress, and ‘that was something’ Duchess Dobrawa wasn’t too pleased about,” Geira teased.

  “And I remember the largest trout I’d ever seen getting away because you were yelling so loudly to reel it in faster.” Astrid pinched her arm. “You have grown, though, Świętosława. I can tell, and it’s so nice to see.”

  “It’s nice to see? As if I wasn’t lovely all along!”

  Astrid laughed. “You were a troublesome little girl. Your mother’s ladies-in-waiting prayed to the graceful Mary when Dobrawa ordered them to fetch you.”

  “Not to the graceful Mary, you pagan.” Świętosława wagged a finger at Astrid. “You’re twisting the story on purpose to annoy me.”

  “That’s what they whispered! Do you want to know what they called you when nobody was listening?” Astrid lowered her voice conspiratorially.

  “I do,” Świętosława replied just as quietly, and stared at her sister’s lips as if bewitched.

  “Little Satan, Lucifer’s child, a half devil!” Astrid declared, while Geira stifled a laugh beside them.

  “You lie,” Świętosława jumped up. “Dusza, Dusza! Come here. True or false?”

  Dusza nodded three times.

  “Oh, damn you, the whole lot of you are plotting against me!”

  Astrid, laughing, cupped Świętosława’s face in her hands. She looked in her eyes and kissed each cheek.

  “It’s so good to see you!” Świętosława couldn’t stop herself from embracing her sisters again. “Kind souls. Finally, I have someone to talk to. Dusza has so much to say that she says nothing at all.”

  “All right, that’s enough of all these affections,” Astrid said. “Why has Duke Mieszko brought you to Wolin?”

  Neither Astrid nor Geira ever referred to him as father.

  “To learn,” Świętosława replied, not meeting their eyes.

  * * *

  Astrid’s grandfather, Dalwin, Wolin’s viceroy, showed them around. What Świętosława saw surpassed her expectations. Two hundred ships were moored by a massive embankment that was reinforced by logs. There were modest dugout canoes and small, nimble sculls, but these were barely visible, since the rest of the port was overwhelmed with Slavic corabias and Scandinavian snekkes and knarrs. A flock of sheep would have fit on the medium-sized ones, and a few cows could be added to the largest, along with thirty men and countless barrels of cargo. Shallow and wide, bow and stern identical, with a large free deck. Their stem and stern were elegantly arched, as if inviting travelers aboard. Dalwin pointed out different ships in turn.

  “These have come from the east, from Rus, Vladimir’s dukedom. That’s where the rich Holmgard lies, known by the Slavs as Novgorod. They brought marten skins, beaver furs, sables, and dormice. And plenty of wax for the Saxon churches and their candles. These two have come from as far as Miklagard, the large Greek city that they call Constantinople, after an old emperor. They look like mere shells next to the northern knorrs, but their main job is to get across the long River Dnieper, and believe me, Princess, many a brave man has lost his life on her stone threshold.”

  “What have they brought?”

  “Something that doesn’t require a large hold.” Dalwin laughed. “Silver coin for your father, and rose oil for Duchess Oda. These two ships will take sable furs to the khalifs in Baghdad. Look, if you will, at these powerful knarrs. The treasures of the north have arrived on them. Long narwhal horns, morse fangs, whale skins, seal furs and fat, by far the best at sealing out water.”

  “Incredibly valuable,” Astrid interjected with a laugh. “If you get as much as a drop on you, you’ll stink until you’re shrunken with age.”

  Geira brought her head close and whispered innocently, “Would you like some for the duchess stepmother?”

  “And these sea monsters?” Świętosława asked, barely controlling her laughter and pointing at heavy ships with high gunwales. “They look like floating houses.”

  Dalwin nodded. “Geira can tell you about those. She knows more about it than anyone.”

  “Not anymore,” Geira said sharply. “I’ve not taken part in it since I’ve been widowed.”

  “Oh,” Świętosława realized. “Those are slave ships?”

  “Yes, sister. Floating prisons. Many on board don’t last long enough to reach port.”

  “Don’t say that,” Dalwin interjected. “The Arabs take good care of their cargo. If they are paid with pure silver, they make sure the slaves reach the khalifs alive.”

  “I don’t know how the Arabs take care of their human cargo. But I know how headhunters do, before they put people up for sale, and believe me, the fate of the lowest servant seems better than what happens on those ships.”

  “Enough!” Astrid interrupted, knowing how painful this conversation was for Geira. “Let’s show Świętosława the stalls. Perhaps our beautiful princess will pick out something for herself?”

  “Wait!” Świętosława said. “Dalwin, where will I find the famous warships?”

  “Do they interest you more than gems?” Astrid asked impatiently.

  “And rightly so,” her grandfather added. “But I’m sorry, Princess. They aren’t here. This is merely a trading port. I have space in my harbor for merchants and sailors, the working people of the seas, but not for the ocean’s armies. War ruins trade, and in the long term trade is stronger than war.”

  “And Jomsborg?” Świętosława asked.

  “The opposite. If need be, they provide the escort. We pay them for protection.”

  “I’d like to see this famous Jomsborg.”

  “Women aren’t allowed there,” Astrid pointed out, and pulled Świętosława toward the borough.

  There was plenty of space on the embankment to unload the ships, and cargo was carried along wooden bridges into the borough. The palisade that protected the hidden city inside stretched as far as the waterfront itself. And there was much to protect. Piles of cargo, merchant homes, workshops altering the goods brought to Wolin. Crowds of people of every nation. The dark faces of the Arabs, wind-hardened sailors, fair-haired Normans, and dark-haired Finns.

  “And who is that beauty?” Świętosława asked, looking at a tall woman with a gold scarf wound around her head.

  “Her, I don’t know. Perhaps she’s come from Miklagard? I’ve heard the Greeks wear scarves like that.”

  “No, Astrid, Greek women veil their faces,” Geira said.

  “A true tower of Babel,” Świętosława whispered, amazed at the bustling scene around her.

  “What?” Geira and Astrid asked together. Of course, Świętosława thought, they don’t know the story of that magnificent tower.

  “Nothing,” she replied, feeling suddenly alone among the crowd.

  * * *

  They meandered between piles of eastern silks that shimmered like dragonfly wings. They touched thin, almost transparent fabrics from Flanders, and thick spools of Icelandic wool, arguing over which fine material was the prettiest, until Dusza found the clear winner, which Świętosława bought her as a prize. Then there were ear cuffs, rings, bracelets, necklaces, chains … the stalls seemed endless as the sisters strolled through them.

  “I like all of it,” Geira sighed, “so much so that I don’t want any of it anymore.”

  “Then look here, sister,” Świętosława called out to her, studying a fur coat spread over one of the benches. “Oh, my!” She grasped the soft hair, touching her face to the red, mottled fur. “Lynx? Is this a lynx? I want it! Whose is it?” Świętosława looked around, searching fervently for the seller.

  “It belongs to you, holy lady,” a slender older woman said, emerging from the stall.

  “I’ll
pay whatever you want for it. And for any others you have!”

  “I have only this one, holy lady. And since I’ve been selling furs I’ve had no other. A lynx is a quarry that by far outsmarts man, and is a prize rarely won by hunters.”

  As her excitement over the fur settled, Świętosława picked up on the title the woman had used. “Why do you call me that?”

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?” The woman bowed to her humbly.

  Świętosława felt a flush creep into her cheeks. She had embarrassed herself again, acting like the impulsive girl her sisters saw her as. She paid for the fur and, clutching it to her chest, quickly left the stall.

  Astrid pulled her toward the cottages of purse-makers, tailors, wood-carvers, but Świętosława was no longer interested in the market’s treasures. Though at a blacksmith’s forge she found herself examining the daggers on display.

  “You’ll see some real treasures there,” Dalwin praised. “Blades from every corner of the world.”

  Świętosława liked the intricate pattern on the blade of Damascene steel. She chose two, one for herself and one for Bolesław, then her eyes fell on a row of idols, gleaming, each with four gloomy faces. “Not the gods of fire, sun, water, war, peace, life, death, harvest, different ones for each tribe. One Almighty God,” her father’s voice from their day by the Warta echoed in her head.

  “The beautiful princess has bought the best blades, let her take a whetstone for them too.” The merchant passed her a whetstone decorated with the four faces.

  “This princess could sharpen knives with nothing but her tongue, Gunnar.” Astrid stepped between them and firmly moved the merchant aside.

  “I’m not a child,” Świętosława said, once they’d left the stall. “You don’t have to protect me all the time.”

  “It’s a reflex, I’m sorry.” Astrid took her hand and kissed it. “Tell us again about why Mieszko has sent you here,” she said, clearly trying to take Świętosława’s mind off the incident. “For learning, you said. For learning what?”