“He wants me to know what it’s like to love a live animal,” she said, repeating what Olav had said through Geivar.
She felt a stab in her belly. As she drifted toward sleep, she thought of her family. About Geira, who had miscarried. Bolesław’s wild and dead wife. His firstborn, who would grow up without a mother. Eric, whose secret she was afraid to uncover. Olav, who had lost a child in her sister’s womb and who hunted dangerous cats for her to tame.
A few hours later, she rose quietly, trying not to wake her son. She walked to the lynx fur which was draped over a bench. The one she’d worn so often. The one which made her feel stronger. She folded it gently and placed it in a chest. She couldn’t wear the skin of an animal she wanted to tame.
19
POLAND
Olav felt relief every time he got the chance to ride away from his home.
He was the viceroy of Pomerelia now, with a home on the Baltic shore, so he could no longer complain that he felt like a fish out of water. But he was. His days were spent overseeing the construction of the port and guarding the shoreline from potential attacks. Olav didn’t neglect either task, but day after day felt the same. His life was a continuous cycle of grayness and ennui.
There was no danger from the north; an alliance with Eric was ensured by Świętosława’s marriage. Pirates from the east had visited once, but, hungry for battle, Olav had chased them as far as Truso, catching them in the Vistula Lagoon. A cloud of burning arrows, let loose by his men, had turned them into floating torches, which sank, leaving behind nothing but trails of black smoke. Dozens of fishermen watched from the shore.
After this, Olav became known as “The One Who Burns Ships,” and the attacks on his shore ended. Now, he was left with only fantasies—imagining the great duke Mieszko breaking his alliance with Eric, calling on Olav to lead a fleet to vanquish Świętosława’s husband and bring her back. Dreams. Mieszko had no fleet. He had married Astrid to Sigvald, and the old Danish king had died, so Mieszko had the iron boys of Jomsborg, and that was enough for him.
Bolesław and Świętosława’s words came back to him, like the steadying sound of oars cutting through water: “Imagine your father, then, but don’t regret not knowing him. Ours rules us as if we were an extension of the arms he uses to play his games.” Yes, Mieszko had placed them on the game board like troops before a battle. Astrid and Sigvald watched over the unsettled western shores. He and Geira were responsible for the eastern one, which was as spitefully calm as a calf near its mother. Świętosława guaranteed peace in the north. Bolesław, an extension of his father’s strength, conquered the south.
It wasn’t enough for Olav. He had his crew still. Vikarr, Torfi, Lodver, Ingvar, Orm, Ottar, Eyvind, Rafn, Thorolf, and Omold the bard had stayed with him. Varin was his right hand. Geivar had gone to be a chieftain in Jom.
* * *
Kanugård had regained mobility a long time ago. Olav built new ships, like the Kanugård, though this wasn’t easy at first, due to the lack of experienced shipwrights. Only once Astrid had sent some of her grandfather’s masters from Wolin did the hulls of the ships begin to take shape. Olav had twelve now, and this was only the beginning. He trained sailors, looking for good crews, and he never stopped thinking of Norway, of his exiled mother and his rightful throne, not even for a day. He wanted to be ready. He sailed to Wolin and Truso, he talked to sailors, sought out information. He knew that Jarl Haakon in Lade still had a strong hold on the Norwegian people. Love for a victorious ruler was strong.
“Your time will come,” Geira kept telling him, seeing his frown whenever news like this was delivered from Norway. He felt gratitude toward her; she had helped him find his mother. Geira was the one who’d made it possible for him to take his mother in his arms, to find out what a son should know of the father who had been killed before he’d even been born. Killed by the widow Gunhild, from whom his mother Astrid had escaped and saved his life. Geira was sweet. As sweet as honey eaten by the spoonful. But her efforts to gain his love only pushed him further away. Too much gratitude has a bitter aftertaste, but Geira was oblivious to this. When she miscarried, she had cried and apologized to him. Inside, Olav had felt quietly relieved, though he never shared this with his wife. She was soon pregnant again, and like a child whose moods change rapidly, the tears were replaced with unbridled joy. Thankfully, this was the moment Thorolf arrived, bringing news that was like water in a drought to Olav’s ears.
“War, my lord,” Thorolf shouted, as soon as he walked into the hall of Gdańsk’s manor.
Geira trembled and placed a hand on her still-flat belly.
“Don’t scare my wife, Thorolf,” Olav said, but his eyes shone. “Geira, don’t be afraid. War is like a breath of fresh air for a man.”
“You’re my fresh air. If you sail out, how will I breathe?”
Thorolf glanced at Olav, surprised, murmured an apology, and withdrew.
“Don’t say that,” Olav said, hoping to calm her. “Most of your life was lived without me by your side.”
“I don’t remember anything that was before you. I beg you, don’t leave me…”
“Geira, I have pledged my loyalty to your father,” Olav said, using the argument he knew she could not deny.
“And you pledged your love to me!” she shouted through tears.
Not love, but care, he thought, though he kept that to himself, too.
“War is not women’s business, wife. Duke Mieszko summons me. Forgive me.” He ended the conversation and left.
Thorolf was waiting at the port.
“I envied you your wife, my lord, but I don’t anymore,” he said bluntly.
“I don’t think I’m made for a quiet life,” Olav said, unwilling to say anything against Geira. The wife he didn’t love but to whom he owed so much. “Tell me what you know.”
“King Eric has answered Duke Mieszko’s summons. He is gathering a fleet and will strike Denmark any day. We are to join forces with him in Bornholm, then the Jomsvikings will join us.”
“Then it is time for us to put these new ships to the test.”
* * *
It was good to feel wind in the sails again. Kanugård leapt over the waves as if it had never been touched by a storm. The storm that had led Olav to Świętosława. Everything reminded him of her. And now, damn him, her husband stood at his side as an ally.
Meanwhile, Mieszko was fighting his old brother-in-law in the south, the prince of the Czechs, and had placed Olav in charge of the northern excursion. Mieszko trusted Eric, but a massive fleet of foreign ships at your shores is never a safe thing, especially when their forces differed so much in number. Olav had twenty ships. The Jomsvikings promised fifty. Eric sent two hundred. He knew how to make a statement.
“He knows how to make a statement.” Varin had echoed Olav’s thoughts and clicked his tongue with admiration when the majestic Golden Boar came into view, leading the huge fleet behind it.
During their midday chieftains’ meeting, Olav’s eyes never left Eric, who, as a king and main supplier of ships and men, hosted the meeting in his tent, sheltered from the winds by the rocks on Bornholm’s shores.
“You keep an eye on the king,” Varin had whispered to him, “and I’ll keep one on you, my lord. Forgive me, but I won’t let you do anything you might regret later.”
“How do you know I’d regret it?” Olav asked just as quietly.
“Because I am older and wiser than you, my lord.”
Varin and Geivar knew of his feelings for Świętosława. How? Olav had never spoken of them to anyone. Geivar claimed it was enough to see the way they had looked at each other the day the duke’s daughter had sailed from Wolin with Jarl Birger. Now, as Olav stood opposite Eric at the meeting, as he studied the king’s powerful frame, he couldn’t rid himself of the thought that it was this bald, bearded man who bedded Świętosława, and he felt Varin’s hand on his back. He gritted his teeth and focused on their plans. The sea is treacherous, everyone knew
that.
They sailed out the next morning. Olav’s twenty ships, a mere tenth of what Eric commanded, were on the left flank. Jomsborg scouts joined them on the way. Olav couldn’t make out Geivar’s drakkar among their number, but his old friend recognized Kanugård by its golden weather vane and approached his ship.
“It’s good to see you at the helm, old friend,” Olav shouted.
“And you, Olav. The new king Sven has gathered his forces in Scania. Once we pass Rügen, we must take extra care.”
“What of his forces?”
“My scouts have spoken of two, possibly three hundred ships. I don’t know if the Danes will decide on open battle, or if Sven will wait for us in the bays. He may try to drag us onto land where we’re weaker.”
“Where’s Sigvald?” Olav had yet to see his other brother-in-law amid the fleet.
“On the Zealand Falcon. He’ll sail at our back, in case Sven tries to trap us in the straits and attack from behind.”
Wars of the lands, wars of the seas; Olav was under no illusions that he was fighting his own battles. Once more, as it had been with Vladimir, he was the mercenary of gratitude. If at least he loved Geira, he might have convinced himself he was doing this for her. His love for Świętosława was powerful, but its strength was like a mountain avalanche. Destructive. Eric might die, and so what? What kind of person would he be if he abandoned one sister for the other?
His eyes searched the bays, his hand directed Kanugård, and his body didn’t betray him, though his mind was feverish and burning. My life is still not my own.
Mieszko had commanded Olav to keep his heritage a secret: “The sole heir to the Norwegian throne—between the forces of Denmark and Sweden—might be too tempting for one of their kings. You won’t lose your name simply by keeping it to yourself for a while longer. Now you are Olav, Mieszko’s son-in-law, which is more than enough reason for you to be one of my chiefs. Don’t tempt fate, and the day when you’ll be known as Olav Tryggvason will come sooner than you think.”
My life is still not my own, but I can influence the lives of my people.
His eyes caught movement by the broken line of the shore.
“Ships on the left!” he shouted. “Shields on board!”
Sails appeared from behind the rocks, one after another. They seemed endless. A long line of colored points. When they were two arrow shots from each other, Olav and his companions could make out the shields.
“Thorgils of Jelling, Stenkil of Hobro.” Geivar’s Jomsvikings called out the names of their enemies. “Gunar of Limfiord.”
“Do you see Sven’s ship?” Harald’s son would be desperate for a victory that would help him further secure his seat on the Danish throne. He was a formidable adversary with no ties to Duke Mieszko, who had no more daughters to marry off to establish an alliance with Denmark. The only way to keep Sven and Denmark safely contained was war. So, Mieszko had summoned his sons-in-law, and there they were—Olav, Sigvald, and Eric, all of them united, fighting for the Piast leader.
“No, not Sven’s ship.”
Olav continued to watch his brother-in-law, the Swedish king, as their fleets progressed. The ships under the golden boar were sailing evenly. Eric’s men were nimbly placing shields on their gunwales. One might say many things about him, but it seemed that Eric knew what he was doing in a war at sea.
“Don’t be afraid, King,” Varin whispered. This was the title Varin used for Olav when they were out of earshot. “There’ll be enough fight to go around. We’ll absorb the first hit.”
Olav laughed then, breathing in the wet, salty air. They needed to say no more; they missed spilling blood.
“Archers,” Olav gave the command and waited for the ships to approach to avoid wasting arrows. “Now! Shields!”
He knew their enemy would do the same. The volleys passed each other in midair, and a moment after they’d released their own arrows, a hailstorm hit Kanugård. The crew ducked beneath their shields as the arrows rained down.
“Archers,” Olav shouted and pulled the helm firmly, guiding the boat into the strongest position he could. “Fire!”
Ingvar shielded him, and he was the one to shout:
“Chief, they are driving a wedge into Eric’s right wing.”
Olav, protected under Ingvar’s shield, ran to the other side of the ship. Yes. A new, long snake of ships was sailing toward Eric, spitting venomous arrows as it went.
“We still outnumber them,” Olav decided, returning to his place at the helm.
Geivar approached the left gunwale.
“Can you see the long ship with a horse head on its bow?” he called over the noise. “That’s Gorgeous Gunhild.”
“She looks more like a Bloody Whore. She has a tatty stem as if she’s been battering her whole life,” Olav shouted back.
“Old Frorik from Funen is her helmsman. He’d always been in love with Gunhild, King Harald Bluetooth’s sister.”
“That Gunhild?”
“The one and only, my friend.”
Olav ducked as an arrow flew by his chest. That Gunhild. The bloody widow who had sentenced his father to death. The one who had sent one hundred armed men in search of his pregnant mother.
His grip on the helm tightened as he steered the Kanugård toward the Gorgeous Gunhild. When they reached its side, Olav and most of his crew boarded the Gunhild, before the other ship could properly comprehend what was happening. They hadn’t seen this coming; this wasn’t the type of battle at sea they had prepared for. Once on board, Olav fought with a fury he really let himself feel. When he reached Frorik from Funen, the bloody ship’s captain, he told him his name—Olav Tryggvason—and why he had come to kill him, but only once he was certain the enemy could never repeat it. He whispered it as he slid his sword out of the man’s chest.
“Where’s King Sven?” he asked Frorik’s companion, the last one alive on the Gorgeous Gunhild.
“Not here, my lord.” Frorik’s veiny comrade was so old that he felt no fear in the face of death.
“Where is Sven?” Olav roared, grabbing the old man by the chain mail. “Did he run? A coward?”
The old man laughed and spat.
“Just the opposite, pale one. Redheaded Sven will plunge his Jomsborg sword into your sterns. You’ve lost!”
The laughter caught in his throat. He died without closing his eyes.
* * *
Sven, under the cover of his grandfather Mściwój’s Obotrite ships, safely sailed out of Rügen’s bay as soon as Eric’s long snake of ships passed westward. His chiefs could manage the first and second collisions with the enemy without him. They had to. They had to last until he returned with backup. Jarl Haakon of Funen, Thorgil of Jelling, and Gunar of Limfiord, those he was sure of; he knew they were strong enough to defend themselves, and cunning enough to escape death. But what about Ragn of the Isles, Stenkil of Hobro, and the others? If all went well, he would know by early morning.
He set course for Jomsborg, and the Bloody Fox raced toward his allies. There wasn’t much time. When they were near the stronghold, a drakkar with a Jomsborg wolf on its mast sailed out toward them. Sven had no reason to love the Jomsvikings, but for the first time he felt relief at the sight of the square wolf head. It was short-lived.
“Where is Jarl Sigvald?” he called out.
“He awaits you, my lord, in the sea stronghold.”
“You speak to a king,” Jorun, one of Sven’s men, corrected him.
“All right,” the helmsman of Jomsborg’s ship replied calmly. “King, they call me Ulle. Sail with me.”
“Something’s not right,” Jorun muttered, and Sven felt the same uneasiness in his own gut.
“Even so, we have no choice, friend. Without the Jomsvikings, we cannot defeat Eric. Sigvald promised to help, and he cannot deny us. At dawn, I should attack their backs with fifty ships of Jomsborg and close them in our deadly pincers.”
He looked behind him. The Obotrite ships were still alongside
the Bloody Fox. Their value in battle was marginal. They were useful for fishing, nothing more. But it had still taken much effort to get even this much from Mściwój. His grandfather was nearing his end. He had moments of clarity, but usually his thoughts meandered at the edges of the comprehensible world. Mściwój had chieftains who had insisted Sven marry Mojmira, the Obotrite leader’s daughter, and reacted with anger when he’d sent her back to her home. If he’d known he would need their help so soon, Sven might have acted differently. But his father’s death, which he’d known would change everything, had put into motion powers even he had not expected. Even his half sister, Tyra, had eagerly joined the opposition against him. His Denmark was a fat morsel which attracted many a hungry eye.
Sven and the Bloody Fox led their small fleet into the bay, nearing the iron gates of the stronghold within moments. The guards on the stone bridge called down to them:
“Ships and captains?”
“Serpent and Ulle. Bloody Fox and King Sven,” the Jomsviking who had brought them called out.
The hellish sound of the chains and turnstile opening the massive gates drowned out Sven’s question. When the noise stopped, Jorun repeated it, pointing at the Obotrite boats:
“What about them? We have another ten ships.”
“They cannot enter the stronghold,” Ulle replied calmly. “They can wait for you in Wolin’s port. Nothing is lost at old Dalwin’s.” He laughed and added: “And the beer is better there, too.”
And so the Bloody Fox waited alone for the guards to open the second gate, then sailed into the darkness beyond the stone bridge. As they entered, Sven studied the shore carefully. He counted the ships. Fifty. It would be enough, he thought with relief. They moored their ship to the long dock.
The Widow Queen Page 23