The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  Geira, Dalwin, and Dusza were walking ahead of them.

  “You want to talk here? In the crowds?” Świętosława threw the lynx fur over her shoulder.

  “No one can eavesdrop in a place where everyone can hear you,” Astrid replied, helping Świętosława fasten the fur with a golden clip.

  “Father has sent me for you and Geira. He wants us all with him.”

  “Oh!” Astrid’s eyebrows rose. “So what I’ve seen in my dreams is coming true?”

  “You have seen this in your dreams?”

  Astrid placed a finger on her lips.

  “Maybe you can dream something for me?”

  “Perhaps, my sister. If you really need it. Tell me, what’s wrong? I can see that something’s bothering you.”

  “Duchess Oda,” Świętosława said, unable to keep the anger from her voice.

  “Oh, Świętosława. Leave her alone, or I really will believe that you’re still a spoilt young princess. I loved your mother like my own, but you can’t stand Oda? Mieszko has had many wives. None of them are alive today, and you begrudge him the newest one? Don’t be so possessive, sister.”

  “That’s not it, Astrid. Father is planning my marriage, but he won’t tell me who it is. He speaks of it only in riddles.”

  “Perhaps he hasn’t chosen yet? Perhaps he hasn’t decided? The duke is known for his ever-nimble alliances.”

  “He says I’m important, his valuable daughter, a precious heir, but then it turns out to be no more than a lie, just another story. He doesn’t share what’s truly important with me. He took me and Bolesław to see the ancestral mounds, and to Poznań, and he talked to us about…” She hesitated. No, she wouldn’t reveal what he’d spoken of. “… his visions and plans. And then, the day after that, Oda arrived. If you’d just seen her! Draped in riches, pale, proud. She grabbed me and hissed into my ear: Learn the tongue of the Vikings. As if I would believe a word she says. She’s wretched, Astrid, truly.”

  They were interrupted as a tall, red-haired man collided with them.

  “Tilgiv mig!” he said, as surprised as they were.

  “Hold øje på hvem du rører!” Astrid replied sharply.

  “Nej, du skal holde øje!” he snarled.

  The crowd around them had stopped, as if it could scent a fight brewing. Dalwin was already pushing his way back toward them. The angered man had long, fiery hair, with a beard just as bright and red. His eyes darted between Astrid, Świętosława, and the lynx fur over her shoulder. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he turned and disappeared among the crowd.

  “What happened?” Dalwin asked, worried.

  “Nothing, grandfather. A red-haired Viking tried to walk over us, but as you can see, he’s run away. See, my dear?” Astrid turned cheerfully to Świętosława again. “Perhaps it will be useful to learn the Viking tongue after all.”

  “Tilgiv mig! Hold øje på hvem du rører! Nej, du skal holde øje!” Though she hadn’t understood the exchange, Świętosława repeated what she’d heard, her pronunciation matching Astrid’s almost perfectly. Learn the tongue of the Vikings, she thought with disdain, though the phrases she could not understand echoed in her mind the rest of the afternoon.

  POZNAŃ

  Bolesław mounted his horse and set out with no particular destination in mind, only a determination to ride as long as it took for his anger to evaporate. Mieszko had told him what he’d brought back with him from Rohr’s Hoftag. It was early afternoon, and he was out of Poznań in a matter of moments, taking the East Bridge toward Gniezno. Sharp birch branches hit his face when he moved off the path, which he soon left behind completely. His horse slowed, finding other faint trails instinctively, ones probably used by wild animals, or children in search of berries. He could hear a second horse behind him and knew that Duszan had followed, like a ghost. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he still couldn’t shake his anger. The horse was slowing, worn from the long journey. Only when it stopped and resisted his urging to carry on did Bolesław realize that the sun was flitting through the leaves with the purple glow of the sunset.

  “My lord.” Duszan rode up beside him. “The horses need water…”

  “Where are we?” Bolesław swiveled in his saddle.

  “I can’t honestly say, but let go of the reins, the horse will find water.”

  Duszan was being sensible, as always. And patient, which drove Bolesław mad. He let it go, though, ashamed he’d ridden the animals this long without stopping. He released the reins and his mount snorted and picked a direction. They stepped onward slowly but with purpose, while mist rose between the trees.

  “Water is near,” Duszan said happily from behind him.

  He was right. When they reached the edge of the forest, the horse’s hooves sank in soft moss, which soon turned to pale wet sand. There was a small lake in front of them, and the bloodred shield of the sun was drowning on its surface.

  They dismounted and let the horses carry on as they wanted. Bolesław crouched down and cupped water in his hands, splashing it on his face. Thirst was hitting him now, too. He pulled off his caftan, shirt, and trousers, tossing them carelessly aside. Duszan caught them before they could hit the wet sand, and Bolesław was already running into the water, throwing himself forward, diving.

  He opened his eyes underwater. He swam hard, surrounded by opaque green waters, and emerged only when his lungs burned from lack of air. He gasped as he broke the surface, then froze. Smoke and flames surrounded the lake. Had he woken up in a nightmare? No, there was Duszan on the bank, and the horses, too. The fires weren’t surrounding them. Midsummer, he remembered. It was tonight. He was supposed to bless the newlyweds by the Warta River. Everything had been ruined, though, when Mieszko arrived from Rohr early and announced who he’d brought with him. Damn it, with the memory all his anger returned, and again he dove furiously into the water. If he couldn’t shake the rage while riding, perhaps he could drown it? When he finally turned back toward the bank, his shoulders were aching. He rolled to his back and allowed the water to carry him briefly. A thin crescent of a moon shone in the sky, like a mocking smile.

  “I have only two heirs, but I must reach for all four corners of the earth.” Damn Mieszko! That night by the Warta had been priceless to Bolesław, just him, Świętosława, and Father. He would give his life for his father, their family, their legacy, and he … how easy it was to tarnish someone’s pride, blast it!

  Floating in the water wasn’t doing him any good, though. He made another lap around the lake, watching the fires that burned on its banks. There was singing and laughter. Boys and girls, women and men, dancing together or sneaking off into the forest, choosing partners as they wished. Damn it all!

  He reached the edge and walked out of the water, shaking himself like a dog.

  “Have you washed away your anger?” Duszan asked hesitantly. “I think if you remain ruled by your temper like this, you will soon be the strongest on the duke’s squad. I’ve seen you almost bend horseshoes before in your fury.”

  “Be quiet,” Bolesław whispered. “Can you hear that?”

  Duszan cocked his head. “The water carries the songs to us.”

  “Someone is coming.” Bolesław listened.

  “I’ll check.”

  “No, guard the horses. I’ll go.”

  He walked forward, Duszan mumbling something as he did. He stepped into the forest. Someone was sneaking toward them. Bolesław hid behind the trunk of an alder tree. The person coming nearer was breaking twigs as they walked; they weren’t expecting to find anyone.

  They’re not sneaking, just walking, Bolesław thought.

  Water dripped from his hair and down his back. He hadn’t taken any weapons with him, everything was still by the horses. The specter moved quickly, as if it were almost leaping in his direction. It’s a woman, he realized.

  He moved, and the specter stopped.

  “Is someone there?” He heard the fear in her voice.

>   “Don’t be afraid,” Bolesław said, stepping from behind the alder tree.

  They stood close to each other; a horse would have cleared the distance in one leap. She was naked, completely naked. She had a flower chain in her dark hair.

  “You’re…” she whispered.

  “Yes, I am…” he said.

  “… You’re naked!”

  He held his tongue. How stupid, I thought she’d recognized the prince.

  “You are, too,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for a fern flower,” she said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Why?”

  “Are you a fool? To gain a lifetime of riches!”

  It was difficult to see her face in the darkness. He walked closer.

  “And I thought it was love that folks searched for on Midsummer’s Eve,” he said.

  “Only the ugly ones. I can find love in broad daylight,” she said.

  Bolesław laughed. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought he was speaking to his sister.

  “Do you want me to help you look?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he could tell a fern from other plants.

  “I don’t know.” She hesitated. “The old wives all say you have to search in solitude.”

  “Do you know anyone who’s found such a flower?”

  “No.”

  “And you think you could be the first?”

  She didn’t reply. She lowered her head.

  “And what are you doing here?” she asked, sweeping hair from her face.

  “Me?”

  “Admit it, you were looking for it, too, yes? You’d also want to find riches, because you don’t look like one who is searching for love.”

  “Why not?” he asked, feeling warmth spread through him.

  “Well, you know…” She jutted out her chin.

  “Are you saying I’m handsome?”

  “I don’t know…” She sounded embarrassed. “I’m not a phantom, I can’t see in the dark.”

  He stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the flowers in her hair.

  “And now?” he asked.

  They studied each other. She had full lips. Large, slightly slanted eyes. Narrow eyebrows, lifted and bent like a swallow’s wing. Dark hair covered her shoulders, and it was long enough to cover the tips of her breasts.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, lifting a hand and placing it on his chest.

  “Me, too,” he whispered, his hand on her waist.

  Her skin was cool to the touch, and smooth. He pulled her toward him, and she moaned quietly, sweetly. My god, he thought when her soft chest touched his ribs. She embraced him and stood on her toes, her face nearing his. He lowered his head, clumsily bumping her nose with his own, touching his lips to hers. He opened his mouth and felt her warm tongue on his lips. He shivered. This was what it was like? He’d wondered hundreds of times what it felt like to be with a woman, but he had never thought it might be like this. As violent as anger, as hot as a flame, as sweet as honey. He held her, picked her up; he lay her down on the moss, and she gasped, “It stings!”

  But she spread her legs, and he sank down on top of her. It crossed his mind that she knew what to do better than he did. She lifted her hips and gripped his shaft, guiding it inside her.

  God! When I sheath my sword, it means rest, but now it’s the opposite, the sheath is an attack, a push, a battle!

  She moaned.

  Mist obscured his vision. The girl beneath him raised her hips and they met so fiercely that he felt pain.

  He rose and fell in her depths. He felt bliss and knew it was her. He smelled the damp moss, forest, mist, and her. Everything mixed together into one scent he knew he would never let go of, like a hunting dog. He was hunting. He was the javelin thrown by a sure hand. The taut string of a bow. A loose arrow. A knife that cut.

  “Ah!” he snarled, though he wanted to be a silent hunter.

  When they were finished, though, he felt as if he were the prey. He fell beside her onto damp moss.

  “Ah,” she sighed quietly. “You’re my fern flower…”

  It took him a moment to catch his breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it, as if he had had forgotten how to breathe.

  “Who are you?”

  “They call me Jaga. And you?” she asked with a languid and sleepy voice.

  “Duszan,” he lied smoothly. “I’m from far away.”

  “That’s a shame. I’m from the nearest village. What a find you are for Midsummer’s Eve, Duszan.”

  On Saint John’s head, he thought, which he lost for the pagan Salome’s desire.

  “Will you wait for me a moment, Jaga?” he asked, heaving himself up with difficulty.

  “I will. But hurry, my sisters will be searching for me.” She rolled onto her stomach.

  After taking a moment to figure out in which direction the lake lay, he headed back the way he’d come.

  Duszan was waiting on the sand, throwing pebbles into the water.

  “Has my master finished?” he asked when Bolesław emerged, swaying slightly, from between the trees.

  “Not yet,” he said, and walked over to his horse.

  He took a few Arabian silver coins from the pouch at the saddle.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said over his shoulder and walked back into the forest.

  Jaga was sleeping on her side, an arm cushioning her head. He placed the coins quietly into its curve.

  “I’ll be your fern flower,” he whispered, and lowered his head to breathe her in one last time.

  He returned to Duszan, dressed, and let the stallion find its way back. His anger at Mieszko was gone.

  They rode at a walk, the noise of hoofbeats lost in the moss, the sound disappearing like his anger at his father, who had brought with him from Rohr a pale, fair-haired girl and announced, “This is Gertrude Rikdag, the margrave of Meissen’s daughter. She’ll be your wife. You can call her Gerd.” Gerd wasn’t a woman. She was a child, pale and terrified. “Her father has the Veleti on his borders. Fires, smoke,” Mieszko said, as if this would gain Bolesław’s sympathy. “You should be proud, it’s an excellent alliance,” he added, noticing Gertrude’s slouch and gritting his teeth. “But we won’t have a wedding just yet, and you won’t bed her, because although we plan to win back Meissen from the Veleti, if they are faster, it might not be worth it.”

  Yes, his father was a master of alliances. But he didn’t care at all for the feelings of his allies. Even those closest to him, those of his own blood and bone.

  8

  GULF OF FINLAND

  Olav held the helm of the ship firmly. Kanugård. Kiev, that’s what Allogia called it, so that he would always remember who his fairy godmother was once he’d left Rus. A living witch for a godmother.

  It wasn’t a war drakkar, a longboat fit only to be sailed alongside land and down rivers. Kanugård was a snekke that could be thrown onto open waters, that could leap and cut with ease. “A beautiful vessel,” Prince Vladimir had said, when they were looking at it in port. “Sixteen benches, ho, ho! The duchess has given you a ship, and I will give you a crew, I can afford it.”

  Vladimir gave Olav thirty-two men, Varangians experienced in sailing along the Volga and Dnieper, bored with Rus’s rivers, longing for the open seas. Vladimir bartered only for Geivar, the only man he didn’t want Olav to take. But as rumor spread through Kiev that Olav was a Tryggvason, and that the blood of the Ynglings ran in his veins, Geivar left Vladimir’s service of his own volition and threw his leather bag on board.

  They had good winds in Finland’s bay. The crew studied Olav curiously, and Geivar called to him, “Olav, what’s the course?”

  “I know you dream of northern seas, but I need to settle some debts in Estonia,” he said, setting the course of Kanugård.

  “That suits me, but I don’t know if the same can be said about them…” Geivar glanced toward the crew. “They watch you, follo
wing your every step.”

  “I know.” Olav nodded. “I can feel their eyes on my back.”

  Olav had been one of them while they sailed along the Dnieper and Volga Rivers. “Young Olav,” the royal couple’s favorite. But since his heritage had been revealed, much had changed. People used to offer him friendship with ease, saying there was something about him that called to them. Now, he felt the weight of expectation in their gazes. It was easy to steal a lover’s heart—many had fawned over him, whispering to him how beautiful they thought he was. But how to win the loyalty of thirty men who had been sailing their entire lives?

  At night, when he the let Kanugård drift and Geivar stood at the helm, the crew stretched out on deck for the night. This evening, one of the men, Omold, began to sing, tapping a rhythm on his knife handle.

  Silent and thoughtful

  Should be a king’s son,

  Brave in battle,

  Swift in command …

  He sang quietly, as if just for himself, but Olav heard every word.

  Fortunate is he

  Who will win for himself

  A good name and fame …

  Olav pulled the leather blanket over his head. His life, so far, had been divided between slavery and paying his debts; he didn’t remember his escape with his mother. He had heard endlessly of how he owed Vladimir and Allogia his freedom, while he paid and paid his debt to them. He had never felt free in Rus. Only the time he spent on the Dnieper was happy. The ship, the overhangs, and the fight with a wild river. Now, he sailed toward his future, and the land that belonged to him by right of blood. He knew that no one would give him anything, that he would have to win it all for himself, and pay for it with his own blood.

  But before he reached the usurpers, he’d have to prove to these thirty men that he was worth fighting for.

  Olav didn’t sleep. In summer, night fell for only a moment, and before the sun had even risen, he took the helm back from Geivar and set the course for Cape Loksa in Estonia. By late afternoon, they were so close to port that he could distinguish the colors of women’s skirts. The people on land raised their hands to shield their eyes from the sun as they watched the Kanugård float closer on the waves.