There was a short, dark-haired man in a leather caftan standing at the bow.
“Who am I welcoming?” she shouted into the sea.
“Who’s asking?” was the reply.
“Astrid, daughter of Duke Mieszko,” she called, the wind tugging her hair.
“Our ship is called the Kanugård, and it needs a shipwright. The storm has taken a bite out of us,” the helmsman shouted to her.
It’s not them, she thought with a wave of disappointment, but then she saw him.
A tall young man stepped onto the deck, approaching them. He had long hair, blond and shining, and pale, bright eyes. He wore chain mail over his leather caftan, with belts over his shoulders and across his chest. Yes, this was the man from her dream.
“My name is Olav Tryggvason,” he said in a voice that carried over the water. “I need a safe harbor.”
That’s what I am, Astrid thought, following with her dream. Aloud she said:
“My father, the lord of this land, welcomes you as his guest,” and she offered him an open palm.
* * *
Mieszko sat on the raised platform in the audience hall and looked at his guests. His hawk was perched on his shoulder. St. Peter’s sword was displayed on the wall behind him. Jarl Birger, the messenger from Sweden’s king, stood before him, a stately, thirty-something-year-old man. His long, fair hair was held back with silver rings. He was dressed richly, his wide shoulders covered with a cloak stitched with a golden thread; after all, here, in Poznań, Jarl Birger represented his king.
The duke stared into his guest’s eyes, trying to read from them what King Eric was truly like. Much depended on his decision. He might gain a son-in-law, or lose a daughter.
“Let us rejoice,” Mieszko shouted, clapping his hands. “God has allowed our guests to arrive unharmed across the seas. Jarl Birger, your place at this feast is beside me.”
Mieszko beckoned for the messenger to join the table on the raised platform, where the duke sat with Bolesław. Mieszko had ordered that the tables be arranged differently than usual, to ensure an easier conversation with his guest. The women sat at another table nearby. Oda looked particularly beautiful tonight. She wore a purple dress and green cloak, a royal diadem resting proudly on her raised head. Since the day many years ago when her nunnery had been attacked by Redarians, Oda had been afraid, but with that fear came a fierce determination that suited her. Beside her sat small, quiet Gertrude, Bolesław’s Saxon fiancée, a child who didn’t draw one’s eye but was very high-born. Margrave Rikdag had sent many messengers, asking “When is the wedding?” Mieszko had assured them all it would be soon, that very year, but still he’d ordered his son not to touch the girl, though Bolesław would not have done so regardless. Świętosława and Geira sat next to Oda, his two daughters, as different from each other as fire and water. Astrid’s place was empty. The tables and benches beside them were filled by his best men, the squad chieftains.
“Father John,” Mieszko called over his chaplain. “Bless the dishes we will be eating.”
Everyone stood up. John made the sign of a cross and said a prayer, ending it with the words:
“Praise be to God and to Duke Mieszko. Amen.”
They sat back down. He signaled to the musicians to begin playing. Servants circulated through the room with jugs full of mead.
“You crossed yourself, Jarl Birger,” Mieszko observed.
“Yes, my lord. I’ve been baptized.”
“And you know our language quite well.”
“My king respects you enough, my lord, not to send a person who cannot speak with you to your court.”
“Two of my daughters also know the language of the north, from their mothers,” Mieszko laughed. “Women can teach us many things, don’t you think, Jarl?”
“Indeed, my duke. My mother was a Slav.” Birger raised a goblet.
“Women connect us.” Mieszko took a sip of mead. “Over there sits my wife, my future daughter-in-law, and my two daughters.” He looked at them and met Oda’s gaze. “Each one is an alliance, a truce, peace, or even a ceasefire. If we only had sons, we would have nothing but wars.” He lifted the goblet again, smiling at his wife from afar.
She responded with a bright smile, one he knew so well. For a moment, he thought of putting down his goblet, disappearing with Oda into the bedchamber for a while, then returning to the feast. The hawk on his shoulder screeched then, bringing Mieszko back to the situation at hand.
“Explain to me, Jarl,” Bolesław spoke up, “how is it that you, a believer in Christ, serve a pagan king?”
“King Eric respects his countrymen’s attachment to the old gods,” he answered, and Mieszko sensed Birger was choosing his words with care. “And at the same time, he understands that the world is great and varied.”
“Does he accept Christians at his court?” Bolesław asked. “Or does he merely tolerate them, thinking them harmless to his position?”
“If he chose me to represent him in a matter as important as an alliance with Duke Mieszko, then what would you say, young prince?”
“Is he prepared to be baptized?” Mieszko asked bluntly.
“That’s not a condition of our alliance,” Birger answered. “But if you’re asking me privately, Duke, then I will respond with your words: women can teach us many things.” He lifted his goblet to his lips as he spoke and took a sip without breaking eye contact with Mieszko, then nodded toward the table where the duke’s wife and daughters sat.
“If Eric wants an alliance as badly as I do, and if he doesn’t care, for obvious reasons, for a sacramental marriage, then I can offer him the hand of one of my older daughters,” Mieszko said, setting down his goblet.
Birger frowned, and said after a moment, “My king promises you that he will attack Denmark. When he destroys it, the ring of enemies around your western borders will be broken. Mściwój and the Obotrites are nothing alone. You will defeat the Veleti and the Czechs yourself, great Duke. You’ll be free from worry. But Eric, king of Sweden, will only give you such a precious gift for the price of your most valuable daughter’s hand. We speak only of her, and have been from the very beginning, my lord.”
“Can you even tell which one she is?” Mieszko asked, his tone harsh and mocking.
“The one with hair like amber, eyes like a wildcat, and a tongue as sharp as a knife,” Birger said. “Those are the stories the bards tell Eric in the great manor at Uppsala.”
“Can you pronounce my sister’s name, messenger?” Bolesław asked, rising slightly in his seat.
“Women change their names after marriage,” Jarl Birger said calmly. “So it may be more easily pronounced by their new subjects.”
* * *
Świętosława took a sip of mead and nudged her sister.
“Geira, father is looking at you.”
“More likely at Astrid’s empty seat. Can you see that frown? He’s picturing how best to punish her, I’m almost certain.”
They clinked their goblets, laughing. From a distance, it was easier to joke about their father’s stern look.
“Why so merry, my dears?” Oda asked, leaning across Gertrude to speak to them.
“We’re wondering which convent Mieszko will send you to, since your one in Kalbe has been destroyed,” Świętosława answered with the sweetest of smiles.
Geira kicked her under the table, but Świętosława continued to smile over at her stepmother. The sip of mead had given her courage.
“Your father, Duchess Stepmother, has already been forced to visit Rikdag, Bolesław’s future father-in-law, isn’t that right, Gerd?” She lifted her goblet to her brother’s fiancée.
Oda puffed out her cheeks and jutted out her chin. The girl flinched when she heard her name.
“Don’t be afraid, little Gerd.” Świętosława placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You’re safe here, like a chick in its nest. I won’t let anyone hurt you, and you’ll soon grow out of your flat chest and those pimples, I promis
e. My sister Astrid will know how to help. She’s gotten many a girl out of trouble, and she’s attracted the attentions of a cold husband for quite a few, too.”
“The insolence!” Oda interrupted, but fell silent as the hall doors opened and Astrid walked into the room.
She was wearing a dark cloak, the hood dripping with rain. She looked frightened, Świętosława thought, as if she had come to tell them that the Final Judgment had begun. She watched her sister open her mouth, as if to speak, but then glance carefully around the hall instead, her eyes resting for a moment on their father, then on her own empty place.
Astrid bowed to Mieszko and the guests. She gave her cloak and hood to the servants. And, refusing to meet her sisters’ eyes, she took her place beside them at the table.
* * *
Bolesław studied Gertrude from afar. Next to his sisters, she looked even more plain. Geira, with her height and long, fair hair that fell in waves across her broad shoulders. Astrid, who had only just arrived, with hair like dark tree sap and unsettlingly blue eyes. Świętosława, with her gleaming amber plaits and her beloved lynx fur draped over her shoulder. Next to his royal siblings, his fiancée seemed pale, ordinary, almost transparent. Jaga’s image rose to his mind, the girl from Midsummer’s Eve. She would have outshone any princess, Bolesław thought.
But his betrothed was the frail daughter of the great margrave. Gerd the pale. Gerd the shy. Gerd the ordinary. He couldn’t even find it in himself to pity her, though he knew she was likely as unhappy in their home as he was to have her there. But Bolesław felt nothing, only indifference toward her. These were not, however, his feelings about the conversation Mieszko was currently having with Jarl Birger.
“Remind me, guest, what do they call your king’s troublesome nephew?” The boy who hoped to stand against his uncle for the Swedish throne.
“Styrbjorn Olafsson, prince.”
On the table next to his father’s own plate was a golden bowl with raw meat, for his hawk, who no one save Mieszko was permitted to feed. Now, the duke chose a piece of the bloody meat and placed it in the bird’s open beak.
“Styrbjorn,” he repeated after Birger. “He was seen in Jomsborg.”
“We know that Styrbjorn has asked the Jomsvikings for help against his uncle, King Eric,” the Jarl replied. “And we also know that he wasn’t successful.”
“He was second.” Bolesław’s father clicked his fingers.
“What do you mean by that, Duke?” Birger asked, unsettled.
That the first in line to gain help from the Jomsvikings is always the Danish king, Harald, Bolesław answered silently. Of course, he wouldn’t voice this thought, because Mieszko was the one to decide what knowledge they shared with their guests and what they would keep for themselves.
“After Jomsvikings carry out King Harald’s command and have returned Norway to him, they’ll be free,” Mieszko answered. “They might find some time for Styrbjorn then.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Mieszko spoke again:
“I have no interest in giving my daughter to a king who expects trouble, Jarl Birger. I want a strong son-in-law, who will give my daughter and her children a stable throne. I don’t want her to have to worry that Styrbjorn will appear and demand his power back after her husband’s death.”
“You talk of widowhood before the wedding?” Birger asked.
“Look at my wife, Jarl,” Mieszko answered, pointing at Oda. “Beautiful, isn’t she? And twenty years younger than me. Which is, more or less, the age difference between Eric and any one of my daughters.”
Bolesław had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. Father was still baiting Birger, acting as if he might offer Eric not Świętosława, but Astrid or Geira.
“My wish, Jarl Birger, is to give my daughter a good future.”
“If the guarantee of that is Styrbjorn’s head, then I can promise you that can be arranged. But not before the wedding. That would create unnecessary unrest. King Eric will not be like the widow Gunhild, chasing usurpers to his crown halfway across the world, because he doesn’t see it as a worthy occupation. However, if his nephew ever does declare war on him, then Eric will be ready, and he will defeat Styrbjorn, with or without the help of the Jomsvikings.”
“Good.” Mieszko slapped a hand on the table. “Then we have that point discussed. I will give you men who will accompany you to my viceroy in Wolin. Dalwin knows how to reach men who have Styrbjorn’s ear, and it will be up to you to convince the arrogant nephew to declare war. Because neither you nor I doubt Eric’s victory.” He signaled the servant to pour him more mead.
Bolesław looked at Świętosława from afar. Did she suspect that Father, at that very moment, was toasting her future? That he was proposing to start a war, and that she would soon be the queen of Sweden? Her future husband’s crown came not from the pope or the emperor, because Eric, as a pagan, did not desire the former, and, as a leader of a country with no ties to the empire, had no need of the latter. Nevertheless, the independent Swedish Viking hoped to enter Europe through marriage. Did Eric know that apart from the splendor, this would be mean endless trouble? And Świętosława, how would she navigate the far north? What would she say when she learned her husband was almost their father’s age? And that he hadn’t been baptized?
Imagining her reaction, Bolesław felt, for the first time in his life, that there was nothing in the world that would have convinced him to trade places with his father.
* * *
Astrid went through the motions as the feast carried on around her, though the smell of roasted meat was making her feel faint, and the music was grating. She could feel a headache building behind her eyes. But every time she closed them, she saw Olav’s pale eyes. They were reflected back at her in every goblet, every bowl. She had left him and his crew in the guesthouse behind the manor, but she felt his presence beside her everywhere she turned.
She knew what Mieszko and King Eric’s jarl were talking about. Mieszko had told her what he intended to do when he’d sent Astrid to intercept the royal messengers. But instead of Jarl Birger, she had welcomed Olav in from the sea. Instead of the king of Sweden, she had brought them the future king of Norway. Astrid bit her lip and clasped her hands tightly under the table, trying to remain calm, to seem unworried, normal, as those around her laughed and drank deeply from their goblets. But she knew the news of Olav’s arrival would interrupt the negotiations between Mieszko and Eric. And she didn’t need to ask anyone to know which of the two kings her sister would prefer.
Several times, she almost rose, wanting to make her way to the duke, to bow and whisper to him who she had brought with her from Poznań. But she didn’t stand. Her hands shook as she repeated to herself: Mieszko wants all three of us together with him, which means that Świętosława isn’t the only one he’s trying to marry off. If she gets King Eric, as the duke has planned, then perhaps I can have the one I fished from the sea. The unplanned one.
There was nothing she wanted more.
“Astrid, what’s wrong?” A laughing Świętosława grabbed her elbow.
“Nothing,” she lied, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “I’m just tired after the journey.”
She knew Mieszko would be angry if she interrupted his conversation with the jarl, but feared his anger would be even greater later, when he learned Astrid had kept the news of their guests to herself. Could she claim ignorance, she wondered, that she hadn’t appreciated the importance of Olav’s potential status? It’s only a man with a claim to the throne, she kept telling herself, and there are many of those in the world. Mieszko wouldn’t exchange an established ruler like Eric for the unsecured Olav. The duke did not change his plans.
But even as she thought it, Astrid knew that it wasn’t true; no one changed plans as swiftly and shrewdly as Mieszko. Was that why she was still sitting at the table instead of standing up and passing her information on to the duke? Yes, she thought, that was precisely why.
But as sh
e watched the duke signal for more mead for himself and the jarl, a new horror came to her mind. She had been so focused on her dream, on the reality of the man who’d come ashore, on his pale, pale eyes, that she had neglected to consider the most important thing; whatever happened next, Jarl Birger’s people could not know the young Tryggvason, the rightful heir to the Norwegian throne, was currently at Mieszko’s court. She allowed herself one more moment in which to imagine that she said nothing; that the feast ended and her wild younger sister was wed to the Swedish king, and she and Olav … Well, the time of dreaming for herself was over now. She stood and approached Mieszko, bowing as she stepped before him.
“My duke…”
She met his gaze, which held surprise and irritation in equal measure.
“My daughter Astrid,” he introduced her to the jarl. “She’ll be your guide on your way to Wolin. She is Dalwin’s granddaughter.”
Astrid felt dizzy. She spoke before the jarl could reply.
“My duke … I’m afraid that…” she stuttered. What was she supposed to say? Would he object? “I wanted to say, that I brought a guest … someone who very much wants to speak with you…”
“Now?” Mieszko looked as if he wanted to hit her. “Now, we are going to make the happy announcement! The guest must wait.”
“As you wish, my lord.” She bowed and, though terrified, she felt a surge of relief.
Returning to her place, she called Bjornar over and whispered into his ear:
“In the guesthouse, there are thirty-two men, survivors from a ship that was sailing from Rus and nearly drowned in last night’s storm. It’s up to you to ensure that they don’t meet the Swedish jarl and his men. Treat them as you would royalty. Do you understand?”
“No,” he replied, just as quietly. “But I’ll do as you command.”
The Widow Queen Page 11