The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “Geira is dead and all that’s around her now is cold darkness. She can’t hear or see us, and even if she can, then at least after death she deserves some candor. Besides, she knew that you and our sister … she told me.”

  Astrid reached for the jug. Olav took it gently from her hand and poured, but only a little. He set the jug back down out of her reach.

  “You weren’t de-stined to be to-ge-ther,” she murmured and took a sip. “A goose cannot hatch an eagle’s egg.” She lifted her goblet as if making a toast, then banged it on the table. With unexpected violence, she threw the cup against the wall and covered her face with her arms. The dark liquid stained the floor like blood. “And yet I still pity her, Olav. She may not have been an eagle, but she was my sister, and I feel so much sorrow … a goose in the dark. The darkness that terrifies me…”

  Olav knew he should embrace a sobbing woman, but he didn’t. He had vowed that he would never again embrace any woman out of pity.

  Astrid rocked back and forth, covering her face. He’d heard the whispers. That she steered Jarl Sigvald into whatever direction she wanted. That her mother, Urdis, was a fortune-teller who’d seen a great future for the young Mieszko, along with her own daughter and her own death. Then, she died in childbirth—at least, that’s what the stories told by the eldest in Jom claimed.

  My wife also died in childbirth, Olav thought bitterly. It’s all stories.

  He drank. He should feel something for his son, anything, but he felt nothing. Not even the empty cradle could bring out any emotion to choke him. In Hedeby, when they’d conquered the Danish port, Eric had held a feast for the victors. A hundred drunk Vikings had raised toasts in the great painted hall known as the Bright Horizon. He’d been among them, pacing like a wild lynx. The one he had tracked for Świętosława. Instead of the lone beast he’d been expecting, he’d found a female with two large cubs. He didn’t intend to kill them, but the mother had launched at him with claws outstretched. Olav carried the scratches on his left breast to this day. He hadn’t had a chance to get his knife before the great cat was on him, saliva dripping from white fangs. Olav had clutched its throat. The pair rolled in an embrace, like wild lovers. He saw only the golden-green eyes, beautiful and untamed, like the eyes of the bold one he dreamed of. He’d strangled the cat. He was stronger. Then, he’d captured the two young ones and closed them in a wicker cage. Świętosława had survived a stormy journey to Uppsala, so if the lynxes were worthy of her, they would also make it.

  Toasts chased down toasts in the Bright Horizon. “For Sigrid Storråda, our king’s lady. Proud and beautiful, with two lynxes on a leash,” a hairless giant with a scarred face roared. Eric’s men answered him with shouts and drank to her health. The king himself spoke of his wife: “Golden-haired like Freya, beautiful like Freya, brave like Freya.” He wasn’t much of a wordsmith, the bald Swedish giant, but Świętosława made him think of Freya, same as his men. Olav couldn’t rid himself of the image of those great arms holding her, touching her, passing her a goblet.

  There was no choice for Olav that evening. He couldn’t sit there sober and listen to these cheers, picturing the bold one with the Swedish king; he needed to get drunk, and quickly, or leave. In the end, Olav stayed, refilling and refilling his goblet. Varin didn’t leave his side. He was like a shadow, and if Olav so much as reached to touch his knife, Varin’s fingers entwined themselves around his hand. The pressure sobered him every time.

  “It’s the darkness that terrifies me, that surrounded her in her moment of death,” Astrid repeated, and Olav shook himself free of the memories.

  “Let’s drink, sister,” he said, though a moment earlier he’d said she’d had too much.

  “‘I’m afraid, sister,’ she whispered to me with her last breath, and her darkness haunts me.” Astrid lifted her face. “I wanted to brighten it, but I didn’t know how.”

  “Why did you not use your power, the one they say your mother passed on to you?” Olav asked. “Why do you fear it?” He reached out a hand and caressed her hair, the color of molten amber.

  * * *

  Astrid shook Olav’s hand from her head. The presence of the man of her dreams so close unsettled her, even if they were simply mourning Geira’s death together. Mourning? Or drinking to it? Many words had been spoken, but not a single tear was shed. They’d been honest with each other, at least, until he tried to get her to speak of herself.

  He’s honest—a voice whispered inside her. The same one whose knees went weak at the sight of him, who was ready to reverently touch every strand of his long, white hair. To kneel before him and whisper …

  Whatever was lurking at the tip of her tongue wasn’t worthy of articulating in her dead sister’s bedchamber.

  “I’m not afraid,” she replied. “I’m just not sure yet if this power is real. I can feel it, but I can’t use it. I didn’t know how to help Geira,” she admitted.

  “There is no cure for unrequited love,” Olav replied, watching her with eyes as bright as a winter sky.

  Be silent! The part of her that was madly in love squealed inside her head.

  But instead she heard herself asking, “Do you really want me to cast bones for the future?” She had never done this before. Like Olav, she knew the stories of her mother, of her visions, and of her death.

  “I do, Astrid.”

  His eyes shone with the light of northern ice, before which there was no resistance. Once more, she felt pity for Geira. If his eyes could sting like this, she could only imagine how his seed must have burned.

  She picked up Olav’s goblet, having flung hers away earlier, and downed the contents in a single swallow. Then she reached to her belt and untied the pouch with the rune-marked bones.

  “Ask,” she commanded, tightening her fist over them.

  “Where did Geira go to?”

  One of the bones pulsed with heat against her skin. She drew it from the pile and tossed it on the table before them.

  “Into an endless night.”

  “How can the darkness be dispelled?” Olav asked. His light hair covered his face.

  The bones stuck together and she threw out two.

  “Word and water. Wisdom and strength.”

  “Where will I find them?”

  “West,” she said, looking at the next bone she’d cast.

  “How will I know they’re real?”

  “A bare rock and a dog,” she choked out.

  “What will happen when I accept them?” His eyes pierced her with a blue glow.

  “The throne will be yours,” she said.

  “And she?”

  She cast a final bone. She lowered her head.

  “Speak!” he ordered like a king.

  “Wyrd,” she murmured with difficulty. “A hollow bone. The fate one creates for oneself.”

  She collapsed on the bench. The runes were howling their wild song at her. Olav pulled her up.

  “Repeat that, sister.”

  “You’ll make your own fate the moment you accept Christ,” she said, while the girl inside her pleaded, “Kiss me, kiss me!”

  Olav seemed to hear them both. He kissed her forehead and caressed her hair, blind to the fact that his touch felt like a burning seal. Astrid’s head fell gently onto the cast bones.

  She heard Olav’s next words as if through a fog:

  “There’s no stone in the water, the anchor which kept me at this dock. I’m sailing to make my fate.” To a bare rock, a dog, and a throne.

  22

  SWEDEN

  Świętosława’s lord husband came home from his trip to break Denmark apart in the glory of victory, leaving his men in charge of the previously Danish country. Eric had led the forces which conquered it, after all; it was only right that he would take charge of the country once their endeavor proved triumphant. “Eric the Victorious! Eric Segersåll!” his men shouted. Świętosława said nothing as her husband drank to his own success. Without pause all through autumn and winter, as i
f he could never be sated. But when the spring came, the king sobered up, and together they set out for Sigtuna. Eric, Świętosława, young Olof, the lynxes, Dusza, and the rest of the court, with Wilkomir and Great Ulf, who, by some miracle, instead of killing each other, managed to share their duties of protecting the queen.

  When Ulf had been away fighting with Eric, Wilkomir and his squad guarded her, and Świętosława hadn’t let them waste any time. She ordered each of them to take a Swedish wife and learn the language. They all obeyed her, except for Wilkomir. “The lord duke ordered me to protect you. Nothing was said of wives.” Her brother’s obstinate comrade took a lover, Helga, who was soon pregnant. They had a son he named after himself, Wilczan.

  Helga was lovely, and their son, Wilczan, was obedient, while Wilkomir was as stubborn as a mule. However, he was the first to learn the northern tongue, though he was better at watching and listening than he was at speaking.

  She realized this when they arrived in Sigtuna. While the manor was being constructed, they lived in Jarl Asgrim’s home. Eric was busy with day-to-day business, accepting visits from the nobles and judging disputes. He spent an inordinate amount of time with merchants from Birka, a settlement famous for its trade with ships from foreign lands that also stopped in Wolin.

  She and Olof spent their days sailing a boat in the bay and walking along a particular bank, through birch woods which reminded her so much of home. Sometimes, they took Helga and little Wilczan with them. She would let the lynxes roam free in the forest, allowing them to hunt. She had named them Zgrzyt and Wrzask, meaning “grind” and “scream” in her tongue, and which she knew sounded terrifying when spoken, even to those who didn’t know the translation. Every time she unclasped the leashes from their collars, she felt the cold weight of fear settle in her belly until they returned. But they always did.

  During their stay, Jarl Asgrim gifted her son two small, stocky, saddled ponies that resembled overgrown foals. It was time for Olof to learn to ride, Świętosława thought, and she decided Wilkomir should teach him.

  “Not today, my lady,” he told her when she announced her intentions. “I haven’t had a chance to test those horses. I don’t know if they are suitable for a child.”

  “Olof will be six soon. Bolesław was already riding at his age.”

  “I understand, my lady, but listen to what I’m saying. I haven’t checked those horses, and I don’t know them.”

  “They are meek, fluffy ponies. You might as well check if honey is sweet.” She laughed at the look of suspicion on Wilkomir’s face. “Jarl Asgrim, would you put your son onto one of these ponies?”

  “Without a moment’s hesitation, my lady,” Asgrim replied. “They are gentle and patient.”

  “Then I’m taking them into the field.” Świętosława, ignoring Wilkomir’s thunderous expression, took Olof’s hand and set out.

  Wilkomir followed, soon catching up with the queen and her son. When they reached the pasture away from the manor, he once again spoke.

  “My lady, wait.”

  “I will teach my son myself if you refuse to follow my command.”

  “I am not refusing.” He took the reins from her hand and turned to the child: “Olof, tell me, which horse do you like more?”

  “This one.” Her son pointed to the horse that had the prettier saddle without hesitation. The red-dyed leather, studded with silver, was undeniably eye-catching.

  “Then allow me to ride him first, and you can hold my sword in the meantime,” Wilkomir said, and, not waiting for Świętosława’s consent, gave the child his weapon and mounted the pony. He didn’t get far; the pony bucked as soon as it felt a rider on its back, and Wilkomir fell onto the grass. It was a funny sight, and Olof began to laugh, but Świętosława did not. Wilkomir got up and ran after the pony to catch it. Świętosława quieted her son’s laughter before he’d returned.

  “Give Wilkomir back his sword and go into the field with Dusza.” She didn’t want Olof witnessing this conversation.

  “What was that?” she asked Wilkomir, who was unbuckling the girth.

  “‘Gentle and patient,’” he repeated Asgrim’s words. He ran his hand under the saddle and pulled out a thorny twig. He handed it to her. “It didn’t bother the animal until a rider’s weight pressed the thorns into its back.”

  Only now did Świętosława feel the full force of the fear that had been growing in her stomach since the moment Wilkomir had fallen from the pony.

  “How did they know I’d want to try out the gift straightaway?”

  He cast her a sidelong glance.

  “My lady, anyone who knows you at all knows you want everything at once,” he replied reluctantly.

  “Why would Asgrim want to kill my son?” she whispered.

  “Perhaps not kill, but hurt or maim. And it might not have been Asgrim.”

  “It was a gift from him.”

  “Which is why it’s so easy to blame him. Everyone at court will have heard him: ‘Asgrim said that the pony was gentle.’”

  She studied the man who had sailed all the way from Poland to protect her.

  “And you? How did you know something was wrong?”

  He looked in her eyes.

  “I don’t have an answer for you, my lady. I just did what I was meant to do.”

  “What would you advise me to do?”

  “Allow me to do my job. And next time, listen to me.”

  “You’re a gift as valuable as you are challenging.” She laughed. “You know I have trouble following others’ advice.”

  “I’m not a gift, my lady.”

  She knew he hated it when she called him that. He jumped into the saddle again. This time, the pony walked calmly. He rode for a short distance, then dismounted and gave her the reins.

  “You can teach Olof to ride on it. It’s a good horse for the boy to start with. Let’s not tell anyone about what happened. Whoever has tried to hurt the boy will try again.”

  She nodded soberly, then called out to Dusza and her son to return.

  She watched Wilkomir lift Olof into the saddle. How he taught him to sit up straight, to press his thighs into the horse’s flanks. She turned away from them; she didn’t want them to see her tears. They fell down her cheeks unbidden when, looking at her child, she saw herself. Her father and mother had watched over her and Bolesław, surrounded them with guards and hosts of trusted servants, to prevent something like this from happening to either of them. Something that proved someone in their immediate circle wanted to see her son injured or dead. She felt fear for her child, but she was a queen, and she wasn’t allowed to be scared.

  The next few days brought no clarity. Life followed its calm, unvarying rhythm. Jarl Asgrim was a generous host. Even if the presence of the royal court in his house upset the order of things and ruined his larder, he behaved as if it was all the greatest joy of his life. He rejoiced at the progress the royal son made on the ponies he had given him. Olof, under Wilkomir’s watchful eye, sat in the saddle more surely each day. Sometimes, little Wilczan accompanied them, and Wilkomir would put both boys onto the ponies. It seemed nothing could dampen the happy atmosphere, until Birger came to her with news a few days later.

  “The merchants from Birch Island invite you to see them, my queen. They want to hold a feast in your honor, and your son Olof’s.”

  “Birch Island. It sounds so familiar … there were so many birches around Lednica Lake, where I grew up…” She trailed off when she noticed the look on Birger’s face. “Is it just me, or is something worrying you, Jarl?”

  “Birka, or Birch Island, in the old days used to be the seat of kings. Today’s merchants consider themselves their heirs, and carry a wounded pride in their hearts. I am suspicious of this invitation, my lady. Especially since they invite you to celebrate the harvest with them, knowing that Eric will be making sacrifices in Sigtuna or Uppsala and so cannot join you.”

  “Jarl, are you seeing threats even in banquet invitations now
?” Świętosława laughed, already taken with the idea of a journey to the legendary Birka. She had heard tales of the island’s riches and beauty and was looking forward to seeing them for herself.

  “My lady…” Wilkomir’s voice behind her was cool. “If memory serves, the merchants from Birka were guests of your husband and Jarl Asgrim here in Sigtuna when the ponies were gifted to Olof.”

  “What do ponies have to do with it?” Jarl Birger asked. Świętosława and Wilkomir had told no one about the incident with the saddle and thorns.

  Świętosława nodded to Wilkomir that the jarl could be trusted, and Wilkomir explained what had happened.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Queen?” Birger didn’t try to hide his indignation. “You can’t hide things like this from me! The king must be told … I suspect there’s more behind this than you realize.”

  “No,” Świętosława interrupted. “The king will not be told. And you will tell me what more may lie behind the attempt on my son’s life. Now.”

  The lynxes raised their heads.

  Does Birger know that my cats can smell fear? she wondered. I’m not afraid, so it isn’t my fear they have caught the scent of.

  “My lady,” he began slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “You’ll recall that … I told you once that you shouldn’t deny the king your presence in his bed.”

  “And I do not,” she said curtly.

  “I know, of course, my queen—but I would never have dared to give you such advice if I hadn’t known that my lord…”

  Zgrzyt growled at her feet. Birger ignored it.

  “I was afraid for your position at court, Sigrid, because King Eric has previously fathered children out of wedlock.”

  “Well, yes,” she said, as if this made no impression on her. “And how old are they?”

  “The girls are nearly grown, my lady, and the boys are a few years older than your son.”

  “You didn’t mention this at my father’s court in Poznań,” she observed coldly.

  “Eric didn’t make any of those women his queen. Only you, my lady.”