No one will respect a frightened queen, she’d told herself that night, and walked with her head high, smiling to those watching the bedroom march. She even stopped once or twice on her way to the king’s room, accepting toasts from guests who raised their glasses to her. She drank a goblet of mead and discovered that it lessened the pain Eric caused her in the bedchamber.
“Queen Sigrid Storråda,” Great Ulf shouted, his broken tooth on display.
“To the health of the queen,” the guests responded, raising their horns and cups.
Jarl Birger stepped off the platform and handed her a full goblet. She caught Bjornar and Litobor’s surprised glance. At the courts in Ostrów Lednicki and Poznań, matters of the marriage bed were handled with discretion. Wilkomir wouldn’t meet her eyes, and Geivar’s face was hidden in shadows.
“A toast, to all the swords under my husband’s command,” she said, and took a drink of the mead. Strong and thick.
“Beautiful are Freya and our lady,” the slightly drunk Icelandic bard was shouting. “Golden-eyed, golden-haired, golden-fingered!…”
“Silvertongue, if you start a song about his wife’s beauty without your king present, my husband will rhyme you with the clang of his blade,” she responded cheerfully. “You’ll know with your own skin why they call him Eric the Victorious.” She took another sip of the mead and handed the goblet back to Birger. She gave Ulf a sign that they were walking on. Shouts of flattery followed her.
She needed the noise they made, to give her courage. Great Ulf closed the doors of the bedchamber behind her. Silence fell.
Eric was waiting in bed.
Be like Oda tonight, she commanded herself. Like Oda.
“Will you drink, my lord?” she asked, making her voice sound gentle.
“From you,” he murmured, and his eyes gleamed in the dark.
She poured some mead for herself and walked to the bed. She leaned against its sculpted frame and, drinking, looked at Eric. Light reflected off his bald skull.
“Come to me,” he demanded.
“What’s the hurry, husband?”
“I want you.”
Eloquent, she thought, sneering internally.
“Are you already prepared?” she cocked her head, trying to remember what else Oda had done that night.
“Why don’t you check, my lady,” he said, sitting up.
She’d walked. She’d walked all around the bed like a cat. Oda’s image came to her just in time.
Świętosława set the goblet down and let the fur slip from one shoulder, revealing the bare skin under her nightdress. She walked toward the bed with slow, languid steps. The king’s eyes followed her, his breath quickening. When she was within reach, he began to take his shirt off.
“No, my lord,” she whispered. “Allow me.”
This took her husband by surprise, and she stepped onto the bed as if she were climbing a stair. She leaned over Eric so her hair brushed gently against his bare head. She took off his shirt slowly. She smelled the sharp tang of his sweat and for a moment, she felt faint. She wanted more mead, but the goblet was too far now. She knelt opposite her husband. She stroked his chest.
“Sigrid…” he whispered fervently. “I want…”
She kissed his broad chest lightly, then lightly jumped off the bed. She leaned down to pick up her goblet.
“Here.” She gave it to him.
“Not mead. I want you.”
“How much?” She drank some herself, greedily.
“Like I’ve never wanted anyone before.”
With the mead, the memories continued to flow; she was in the unused vent with Bolesław, watching Oda and Mieszko through a crack in the wall.
“Say it again,” she demanded with a slow smile.
“Like I’ve never wanted anyone before. Come here. Do you want me to beg?”
“Yes,” she said, shaking out her hair. “Beg, my king.”
“Please.” A note of impatience crept into his voice.
Świętosława knew not to play with fire. She came back to bed and sat down on top of him.
“What are you doing?” he asked, surprised.
In all their times together, Eric had been the one to take her, never the other way around. She untied his trousers now with nimble fingers. She laughed without raising her head.
“I see you are indeed ready, my king.”
She held him in her hand. Eric’s powerful sword. Then she realized, in a moment of panic, that she didn’t know what to do next. She had no idea how Oda had sat down on her father, she’d only seen them from behind. Thankfully, Eric seemed to know what to do. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her on top of himself. She cried out and trembled. It felt as if he’d pierced her straight through. He held her hips and rocked her forward. But no—in the palatium, Oda had ridden her father, not he her. Świętosława pulled his hands from her hips, leaned over him and, overcoming the piercing pain, she began to move herself. As if she were in a saddle. Up and down. Eric writhed and moaned under her. She was sweating. Without stopping, she let the fur slip from her shoulders. When she lowered her head, her hair stroked Eric’s chest. The scent of his sweat was sharp, but it no longer disgusted her. Quite the opposite; she breathed him in, and it made her dance faster on top of him. And that was when she realized she no longer felt pain. She could feel him inside her, but not that piercing pain.
Don’t lean forward in the saddle. Sit up straight! the lessons from when she first learned to ride came to her now. You must lead the horse, not the other way around.
She straightened. Eric was a hurtling stallion, bucking underneath her. She leaned on his chest to regain her balance. Canter, canter, gallop.
Her mount shivered, reared up, and threw her from the saddle. She landed softly on the bed. There was a buzzing sound in her head, but she could hear his ragged breathing. The smell of sweat surrounded them. His and hers.
“Sigrid,” he said, catching his breath with difficulty. “I sang the ‘Song of the Mighty’ in your arms. I should pay you morgengold a second time after a night like this.”
“There’s nothing you should do, husband,” she replied quietly. “But you can do everything,” she added after a long pause.
“And what shall I start with?” he asked.
“Mead.” The honest answer slipped out of her.
Eric rose and handed her the goblet. Only when she took it from him did she realize something had changed between them. She took a swallow of the mead and handed the goblet to Eric.
“You know that I’ll ride out against Sven,” he said. “I’ll keep my word to your lord father.”
A wave of relief rushed through her, but she only raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise.
“I was never going to ask that of you, husband. It never occurred to me you might break your word and mar your honor.”
“So what do you want, then?”
“You,” she lied, and embraced him with a smile. The scent of his sweat didn’t push her away anymore. Instead, it seemed to draw her closer, with a dark, dangerous note. “You,” she repeated, meaning it this time.
He laughed throatily and put an arm around her, bringing her close. He stroked her breasts, kissed her lips, then her forehead.
“I never thought I would say this,” he said, still holding her to him, “but what you’ve done with me is enough for one night, Sigrid.”
“We have many nights before us, Eric.”
“Just enough to make sure I don’t turn into a moldering old man.” He laughed.
“And even if you do, I’ll nurse you.”
“Never. A man must die when he’s in full strength. A death should be like life.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, sensing there was more to his words.
“No more than I’ve said,” he replied shortly, unwilling to give her the true answer. “I ask again, what did you want to ask me for, Sigrid?”
“To fulfill one of your other wedding promises. You said you would
never stand between me and Christ.”
“I did promise that.” His rough fingers played with the softness of her skin.
“There is a temple at the bottom of the mounds that I must pass every day on my way to prayer. This stands between me and the God I worship. And the sacrificial grove, where the trees grow corpses instead of fruit.”
“I won’t burn the temple,” he said calmly.
“And I wouldn’t ask you to, my lord. Build me a new manor, in a different place. Somewhere I can breathe clean air, close to water. Where I can awake to sounds other than that of the crows pecking at the sacrifices to your gods.”
“Doesn’t your god accept sacrifices?” he asked, his finger tracing her nipple.
“Quite the opposite, Eric. My god sacrificed his son for all sinners. He saved our souls from endless darkness.”
“And he wants nothing in return?”
“He wants love and loyalty. He doesn’t accept sacrifices where one takes a life, but by giving life.”
“A strange god, though I doubt he’s harmful.” Eric’s powerful shoulders rose and fell as he shrugged. “Perhaps I could accept him, but it wouldn’t be to my people’s liking, or that of the priests of Odin.”
“When my father was baptized, there was a sacred grove with priests near every village. The priests rose up against him. They threatened him with godly anger and retribution, shouting that the people wouldn’t forget. But Mieszko was afraid of nothing. First, the statues of the gods disappeared, and then, so did the priests. Quietly, with no shouting. He left the groves where they stood. What harm could trees do? So, people came to empty groves and brought their sacrifices. They saw that birds pecked the peas and grits they left under the trees. Deer ate their apples. Mead attracted only wasps. They understood that since the statues were gone, so were the gods who accepted sacrifices. They came less and less frequently, until they finally stopped coming at all.”
“An interesting story,” he whispered into her ear. “Where did the priests disappear to?”
She laughed and bit his shoulder playfully.
“So big and yet so childish! Mieszko killed them. But he made sure it wasn’t a public butchery, to ensure the people didn’t rise against him. They simply disappeared, one by one. A rumor began that the god known as Almighty had defeated them. And that my father is the almighty one in his country is, I think, quite clear.”
“And the statues?”
“Old wood burns easily.” She caressed his back.
“What did your father get in return? What has this new god given him?”
“So much that it’s hard to name it all in one breath. My mother, the duchess Dobrawa. Bolesław and me…”
“Do not mock me. You know what I’m asking.”
“He gave him unbridled power over his people. One god, one ruler. The Almighty blessed the dynasty. Since the day of his baptism, my father has won every battle he’s fought.”
Eric laughed.
“Do you see, Sigrid? Everything always comes back to victory in the end. Odin aids me, Christ supports Mieszko. Maybe your god doesn’t need payment in the form of life from kings, but…”
She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed.
“Husband, tell me the truth. What did you promise your Odin in return for victory in the fields of Fyrisvellir? I heard your bard.”
They looked into each other’s eyes. She could see that he wasn’t going to answer, and a cold fear took root in her belly.
“None of your concern, Sigrid. I couldn’t promise him something that wasn’t already his. Odin is not your god, my sacrifices aren’t yours.”
And yet he’s told me much, she thought, her eyes not leaving his.
“I will summon the army in a few days. We will sail for Denmark and defeat Sven, son of Harald Bluetooth. When I return, I’ll take you to a place by Mälaren Bay, known as Sigtuna. If you decide there is enough fresh air and water there, I’ll have a new royal manor built for you.”
“And a chapel,” she added. “I’ll await your return, Eric.”
* * *
The hall was silent as Great Ulf walked Świętosława back to her bedchamber. Her father’s messengers had fallen asleep on the benches and the platforms next to walls. Bjornar, her brother’s friend, rose as she approached.
“May I have a word, my queen?” he asked.
She glanced around the hall.
“We can speak here,” she said. “Apart from us and the ones you came with, there is no one who speaks our tongue.” Birger could, of course, but he was likely sleeping peacefully this time of night.
She gave Ulf a sign to sit down and have some mead.
“Your husband will move against…”
“Don’t speak any names of people or places. They sound the same in every tongue,” she warned.
“Like your son’s name and…”
“Does he know?” she asked. “Is that why he sends me lynxes? For remembering him when I named my son?”
“I don’t know the language of love, my lady.”
“Is he happy with my sister?”
“She miscarried.”
Świętosława wanted to feel pity at this news, but she felt none.
“And my other sister?”
“Astrid is ensuring her husband is a good jarl of the ocean stronghold.”
“Tell her I miss her. If she can ever leave her grandfather’s port, I would happily welcome her here. Tell me about my brother. A third wife!”
“A second wife,” he corrected. “The small Bavarian one, as you may recall, was sent home before the wedding. The Hungarian one died, and her son has remained at court. He has beautiful wet nurses, your brother picks each one himself. And his new wife is a Slav from the Sorbian March. A good Christian and a lady as beautiful as a sunrise.”
“Do her husband’s dogs like her?” she asked, teasing.
“Dogs, cats, horses, the servants, the old duke, and even his hawk.”
“Oh, that must be a great love! And the duchess Icicle?”
“She has shown no malice toward the new princess.”
“Maybe she’s ill? I’m beginning to worry about the poor thing. Perhaps she’s beginning to lose form?”
“Quite the opposite. I know you won’t be concerned to hear she lost her younger son to a fever.”
“You guessed right, I won’t mourn her cubs.”
“You wouldn’t have had time, because she’s already given the Hawk another son. Let’s say that motherhood and working on the lord duke to avenge her father’s death are keeping her occupied.”
“Is she successful?”
Bjornar laughed so openly that she felt for a moment as if they were young again, back home in her own country and on a hunt in the Notecka Wilderness.
“Your lord father has decided to make the most of favorable winds and your brother’s unfailing strength. The duke is marching south, claiming the richest lands step by step, pushing back the Czechs and his old brother-in-law. Taking over mines of silver, ore, and the trade route as he goes.”
“Śląsk beyond the Oder?” she squealed happily.
“You lost,” Bjornar laughed. “You said a name first.”
“Forget it. ‘Śląsk’ sounds to my scar-decorated guard the same as every other rustling sound in our language. Oh, the Old Hawk! I’ve missed his greed. It won’t be long and, thanks to my husband, my father’s dream of destroying the power of…” she struggled to find another word for “Denmark.”
“The redbeard’s country,” Bjornar suggested, enjoying their game. “The young king has redder hair than I do.”
“I don’t believe that. He’d have to be a squirrel’s son, and I don’t know a people who would bow to a redtail.”
“Your husband won’t fail?” Bjornar asked, bringing them back to the real reason they were having this discussion.
“No. For him, a word once given is a gift you don’t take back,” Świętosława said solemnly.
Bjornar sighed with rel
ief.
“What do you want me to tell your father and brother?” he asked softly, warmly, as if he himself was a brother to her. “What is life at this court truly like for you, at this manor that can only be reached on paths between the burial mounds of pagan kings? Under an oak laden with the corpses of humans and animals alike? In the shadow of the temple of the One-Eyed?”
Świętosława took a deep breath, answering with a question of her own.
“What have your eyes seen? What have your ears heard?”
“My eyes have seen a Viking queen, decorated with jewels, silks, and expensive furs. More beautiful than the girl who boarded the Haughty Giantess, the ship with a golden boar on its mast. They saw her son, treated with the respect a future king deserves. My ears heard the toasts given in her name, with honest love and fervent admiration.”
“Tell them that.”
He nodded. “Your father will be proud of you, my lady.” Then he winked at her, not like a messenger, but like a childhood friend. “I know of no other country in which a sharp tongue and untempered character would be a queen’s strengths. You are fortunate.”
“Is that what you truly believe?” she asked, the smile slipping from her face.
She signaled to Ulf then. His scarred head had been swaying from side to side as he fought sleep. It was nearly morning now. The scarred man walked Świętosława to her bedchamber, which she entered alone. She stood with her back to the door, eyes closed in relief.
* * *
Dusza rubbed sleep from her eyes. Little Olof was in her arms, they’d fallen asleep in the big bed. Świętosława stopped her from rising with a gesture.
Świętosława took off the polar fox fur and approached the cage with the lynxes. They watched her with mistrustful green and gold eyes. She picked up a bowl with meat. It had dried since the evening before. She licked a strip of raw lamb, then slid it between the bars of the cage. They threw themselves at the meat, ripping it from her fingers. She picked up another piece. She licked it and fed her cats. They ate hungrily. She fed them piece by piece until her knees had gone numb from kneeling on the hard floor. Finally, fed and sated, they began to purr and close their eyes. She opened the cage and slid a hand inside. She touched the soft fur on one head, then the other. They meowed, and Olof began to cry at the noise. She closed the cage and walked over to the bed. She lay down beside her son and gave him a breast. He sucked hungrily. She caressed his bald head and listened to the lynxes settling once more in their cage.
The Widow Queen Page 22