The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  It’s strange, he thought, that a man has his entire life to hold important conversations, but he leaves them until his last moment, as if he didn’t know that every word would cost thrice as much.

  “Remember, there are no boundaries … the horizon moves every time you reach what you thought would be the end, but…” He had to rest again. Calm his breath. “Eagle, you will only be able to conquer when you have peace at home. That’s the most important thing … Don’t allow the country to be divided. I leave much for the chicks, but you rule over them, or use your beak to put them back in their place. And you, my daughter queen, protect the north as you go west. Don’t be afraid. It’s fire that carries victory. Ice carries love and fame shorter than a song. Astrid,” he summoned his daughter from behind them. “You bring them both peace. You’re like the priestess of silence.”

  He felt his words ending. He’d told them everything they needed to know.

  “Father,” Astrid called from the darkness. “Tell me of my mother.”

  Oh, yes … I owe her that much.

  “Urdis…” He summoned her beautiful figure from his memories. “Urdis was unhappy because your Freya gave her a gift beyond her strength. She saw my future in the bones she cast: great victories, an enormous country, and a crown after death. But she paid for her gift with her life, Astrid. She sent you to protect the country, and she died in my arms. Now do you understand why I always asked so much of you, daughter?” Tears danced beneath his eyelids. “Urdis was as special to me as … I felt so much sorrow for her … I would rather she had not had her gift, but had lived…”

  The hawk screeched hollowly in the dark. Mieszko shivered.

  “Father,” Świętosława’s voice cut through the air. “Your bird has eyes of fire.”

  “Bloodshot?” Astrid asked, her face vanishing in mist.

  “Yes, bloodshot,” his younger daughter replied.

  And he knew his time had come.

  * * *

  Świętosława had never seen an old hawk before. A bird like this wouldn’t stand a chance out in the wild. Too weak to hunt or protect a nest with chicks. Yes, nature would condemn it to death, but this was Mieszko’s hawk. It had no enemies, no predator stalked it, it didn’t have to hunt to eat. This wasn’t how she remembered it. It was smaller, it had shrunk. Its feathers, once sleek and smooth, were now matted and stood on end. Gray spots appeared on its bright yellow talons. And that eye. Once, it had been a piercing, bright gold. Now it was a fiery, burning red. But still proud.

  She sat by her father, who had closed his eyes for a moment, and she looked at his pointy beard, white as a bone, and she wondered if she’d done the right thing by coming. She could have sent Bolesław the troops he needed, and stayed in Sigtuna. She would have remembered Mieszko how he used to be. The lord father, chieftain, duke. The man whose hand she now held was fragile.

  No, she told herself. His body may be frail, but his spirit still burns. His words may come with difficulty, but what he says is still great. He’s just as he’s always been. Setting us tasks yet again. Ordering us around. Pushing the horizon further and further.

  The doors of the chamber opened to reveal Duchess Oda. A few lords stood behind her, nine-year-old Mieszko and chubby Lambert at her side. Yes, they are also his children, she sighed reluctantly. They want to say goodbye, as we all do. But she didn’t stand up from next to her father’s bed, she didn’t make any space for them. They can approach from the other side if they like.

  “Duke?” Oda asked in a quiet, meek voice.

  He opened his eyes and recognized her instantly.

  “Wife?”

  “Yes, it’s me. I brought your sons, Mieszko and Lambert.” She was trying to control the shaking in her voice.

  “What have you done to my hawk?” He pointed a bony finger at her. “Speak!”

  “I haven’t done anything to it, husband,” Oda replied softly, as if she were speaking to a child.

  “You poisoned it. It has a red eye. You poisoned the hawk.”

  Oda paled.

  “Husband, the irises of old birds’ eyes change color,” she explained quietly. “Your hawk has seen many years…”

  “Yes, my duke,” a commander behind her added. “It’s true. I have hawks for hunting and every one of them…”

  “Who speaks?” Mieszko asked, shaking his head, unsure, like a bird.

  “Przybywoj, my lord.” The man bowed, though father couldn’t see it.

  “Did you feed it?” He returned to the matter at hand angrily.

  “I did, husband,” Oda admitted.

  Mieszko simmered with helpless fury.

  “You know I allow no one to feed it, only me, just me…”

  Oda knelt on the other side of the bed. She grasped Mieszko’s other hand. Świętosława didn’t let go of the one she held.

  “Husband, it would have starved to death. Yes, I have fed it, because you haven’t left your bed in weeks.”

  Mieszko panted and realized that the duchess was right. She sighed with relief and kissed his hand.

  Perhaps she’s not as cruel as I thought? Świętosława wondered, watching the affection with which Oda treated Mieszko.

  “I brought your sons, Mieszko and Lambert,” the duchess said, touching her cheek to her husband’s hand. “I want you to give them your blessing.”

  He nodded. Oda looked across the bed at Świętosława, as if asking whether she’d make room for the boys, but Świętosława didn’t answer her gaze, and she didn’t move.

  The duchess sighed sadly, stood up, and called for her sons.

  “Come here, to Father. Come as close as you can.”

  I wonder if little Lambert will be afraid, Świętosława thought. Lifting her head, she saw that there were more people in the room than before. Apart from the ones who had come with Oda, other lords had entered, ones whose names and faces she couldn’t recall. Astrid had retreated into the depths of the room, but Bolesław had done the opposite, stepping forward and standing at the foot of Mieszko’s bed, opposite his father.

  Mieszko made the sign of the cross over each of the boys, and each one leaned down to kiss their father’s hand.

  “Lord Father,” Bolesław said gravely, “this is a good time for you to announce your decision regarding the division of power and the country after your death.”

  “Leave it alone, Bolesław,” Oda spoke gently. “Let’s not interrupt the duke’s final moments with such matters. Everything is clear.”

  “No,” Bolesław interrupted her. “This needs to be settled. As the firstborn, I want to give my brothers lands, and I want Father to choose them.”

  “Your father has already done that,” Oda continued in the same calm and polite manner. “Bishop Unger has a document which contains everything.”

  What the hell is going on here? Świętosława thought, simultaneously feeling Mieszko’s grip on her fingers tightening.

  “Father? Do you wish to say something?” she asked quickly.

  He nodded.

  “Silence,” she hissed at the gathering.

  “Bolesław…” Father whispered, quietly but clearly, “is my heir, because he is like me. A strong predator. Oh, son,” he groaned, “sometimes you must trample on convention…” He swallowed. “I have told you everything … everything … and now, my time has come. The light calls me to me … Dobrawa,” Father laughed, “have you come for me?”

  Świętosława felt a fist tighten around her heart, because she knew that this was it. A low singing reached her from the entrance. She turned around, without letting go of Father’s hand. The crowd stepped aside, giving Unger space, and the priests who accompanied him, carrying large, fat candles and humming a psalm. They surrounded the bed in a bright glow. Unger stood on Bolesław’s left at the foot of the bed and lifted his arm to give his blessing.

  “A moment please, Bishop,” her brother interrupted, and drew his sword.

  Oda shouted:

  “No!”

&nbs
p; The look he gave her silenced her instantly, and he walked over to father, laying the sword at his side.

  “Duke Mieszko was a leader and a warrior. He must die like a chief, with sword in hand,” he announced to the room.

  Mieszko’s fingers wrapped around the hilt.

  “Yes, he was a great chief,” Unger said in a voice that sent shivers down Świętosława’s spine. “But, most importantly, he was the one who opened the doors to Christ. I give you my blessing, Duke, for this last journey. May the Lord’s angels lead you in a procession armed with God’s Word. And may they guide you to our Lord. Amen.”

  As he spoke, he made the sign of the cross over Mieszko. Father died with his eyes and mouth wide open, as if he had a final word he had wanted to say. The priests never stopped humming their psalm, wanting it to guide him on the other side of life.

  Oda started to cry. She was covered in tears and choked on her sobs. She threw herself on the body, which was still warm, though already beginning to cool. Świętosława felt it under her fingers all too well. She didn’t let go of Father’s hand. One held the sword, the other her hand. There was little left for Oda.

  The duchess lay across Mieszko’s body while the psalm lasted. When it ended, she got to her feet quickly and, without wiping away her tears, said:

  “Now we can go to the audience hall and read out the great duke’s final will.”

  * * *

  Bolesław knew that there was a document that had recently been created, in his absence and under Oda’s watchful eye. Unger had told him about this, but he was pledged to secrecy and he didn’t reveal any of the details. He added only that he would take the announcement of its contents on himself, and cautioned: “Prince, don’t call it a will. It’s only a document, please remember that.”

  This did nothing to settle Bolesław’s nerves, which was why he had insisted so strongly on father deciding what lands his half brothers were to have. The duchess’s influence over Mieszko during the last year had been so strong that he couldn’t rely on his father’s common sense. Now, walking to the main hall, he felt shaky. He hadn’t lost a single word that Mieszko had uttered that day. “You’re like me. A strong predator.” “Sometimes you must trample on convention.” “I leave much for the chicks, but you rule over them or use your beak to put them back in their place.” He was afraid he would have to fulfill this bloody will.

  At first, when he stepped over the threshold to the hall, he felt as if he’d gone back in time. Everything was as it used to be, the purple-red silks hanging from the ceiling, a row of court guards in silver chain mail lining the walls, and the great golden cross on the main wall, with St. Peter’s sword mounted underneath it. An archaic cleaver. That’s when Mieszko’s empty throne on the raised platform stung his eyes. Like an open grave. Oda’s throne beside it. His fingers made their way to the empty sheath at his side. His sword remained in Father’s cold hands.

  “We can sit together,” the duchess said in a tone intended to convey her goodwill.

  He stood by the platform, turned around, and spoke first to Oda:

  “Forgive me, but I will decide what we do now.”

  Then he announced to the room:

  “The great duke has died, but the dukedom remains. Even as we mourn and worship his memory, we will rejoice through our tears, because just as God promised Father eternal life, so his work on this earth hasn’t yet ended. I’ll accept oaths of fealty from you today.”

  “The will,” Oda said coldly, meeting his eyes.

  Far more people were gathered in the hall than could possibly have fit in Mieszko’s chamber. Emnilda with their children and Bezprym. Astrid. Świętosława, who had reclaimed the lynxes from Bjornar on her way from Father’s chamber, and now kept them close to her side. Black-eyed Bishop Unger, the priests. Lords from almost every land. Other nobles stood behind Oda, alongside Mieszko and Lambert. Zarad and Jaksa guarded the door. Bjornar was undoubtedly doing what he’d been ordered to outside. Let it be done, he thought, and said:

  “Please, read the document.” He remembered everything Unger had told him.

  The bishop picked a priest, and he began to read in Latin. Bolesław caught individual words. Dagome iudex—Dagobert? The name father used when he was confirmed? Craccoa, Oddere. His heart beat faster. Kraków. He had conquered it himself. Damn it …

  “Translate it, please,” he ordered.

  “I’ll do that,” Unger said, taking the parchment. “This document says that the duke, under his rarely used name Dagobert, and Duchess Oda, and their sons Mieszko and Lambert, give into the pope’s care in Rome the dukedom, the lands between Szczecin and Pomorze, the lands of the Prussians, Rus in the east, Kraków in the south, Ołomuniec and the River Oder in the west.”

  “What does this mean?” Bolesław had never exerted so much self-control. “The duchess said this was a testament, but I hear nothing about his last will.”

  Unger’s black eyes revealed nothing.

  “The duchess used the wrong word. It’s not a testament, it’s a document. And it means exactly what I said, my lord. It gives the country into papal care,” he replied loudly.

  “And it delineates the borders of my sons’ country,” Oda added melodically.

  The lords murmured.

  “No, my lady,” Unger replied firmly, his expression unmoving. “It only gives the majority of the dukedom into the pope’s spiritual, not military, care.”

  “But he who hands over power has power,” Oda announced triumphantly. “The document clearly speaks of the duke, me, and our two sons. Not a word about Bolesław.”

  He was about to speak, but the bishop shook his head.

  “Prince Bolesław wasn’t in Ostrów Lednicki, my lady, so he couldn’t subscribe to this devout intention. Allow me to remind you, my lady, that the prince was at the time conquering the lands which are missing from this document: Małopolska, Moravia, Slovakia…”

  The lords were nodding in agreement around them.

  Oda took two steps toward Unger, her eyes narrowed.

  “We were both in his bedchamber,” she hissed. “Don’t tell me, Bishop, that you don’t understand that my husband’s final wish was for our sons, Mieszko and Lambert, to take power in the lands named in this document. Bolesław can have the rest.”

  A dangerous roar went around the chamber. Bolesław silenced it with a single gesture.

  “I leave much for the chicks, but you rule over them” and “My hunter, be wary”—Father’s last words echoed in his skull. He thundered:

  “Don’t provoke me, Duchess, to be impolite to you in front of the court. ‘Bolesław can have the rest’ is the most offending thing an heir could hear. Because this is where the Piast throne is. We are from here. From Poznań, Gniezno, Giecz. The ‘rest’ that you speak of, we conquered it. Or, to be accurate, I did. And I don’t have anything against the fact that my lord father, you, and your sons gave my land,” he said these words slowly, with emphasis, “into the care of the Holy Father. A country which has been baptized for barely thirty years could use some additional prayers in its name. But don’t try to tell me, and those gathered here, while Mieszko’s body is still warm, that my lord father wanted to disinherit his firstborn son, the one he had been raising as an heir for years.” His voice grew louder as he spoke, and the last words echoed in a shout.

  “Heir! Heir! Heir!” The hall rang with the chant.

  Oda paled, but showed no humility. She collected herself, took Lambert and Mieszko’s hands, and raised them.

  “These are also heirs. If you insist on the importance of your father’s testament, then what will you give your brothers?”

  “It’s not a will, my lady,” Unger spoke loudly, handing the parchment to her. “It’s a spiritual gift. The word ‘testament’ doesn’t appear once, you can see for yourself, you were a nun in the abbey in Kalbe, were you not, so you learned Latin, I suppose?”

  She reddened.

  “God and the witnesses gathered here h
eard me ask Father until his last breath to indicate which lands he leaves my brothers. He didn’t do it, so I must decide myself.”

  “He did.” She threw herself at him, ready to forgo civility, it seemed. But she stopped midstep as Świętosława’s lynxes growled.

  Lambert burst into loud tears.

  “He did,” Oda repeated. “My sons’ lands are named in the document. Did you not hear your brothers’ tears in the moment of death?” she called out, lifting their arms.

  “No, my lady, I disagree. There is nothing of the sort here.” Unger used his authority to back Mieszko’s firstborn son again.

  Bolesław spoke clearly. “This is my will: I give Pomorze, from Kołobrzeg to Gdańsk, to Mieszko. Lambert will have the Kalisz region and Łęczyca, and he should prepare to take the spiritual path. Bishop Unger will raise him so that he might become a bishop, once he has been sufficiently educated. You, as the dowager duchess, can rule his lands as regent.”

  “You must be joking.” Oda laughed.

  “That’s dishonorable, it’s not enough,” two nobles who supported Oda joined in, but no one else did.

  “You want to remove Lambert from your path, is that it? You’ve separated their lands from each other so they cannot unite? And you have given me, though I am a duchess, no more than Łęczyca?” she exclaimed.

  “My father made you a duchess, you were a marchioness before, and a nun. The road is clear, Lady Oda. If you don’t agree with my will, I won’t stop you, you can go back where you came from.” He paused, for a moment, to calm his voice. And he added, levelly: “But without your sons. They stay. Lambert will begin his education immediately, and Mieszko will leave for Gdańsk. As the eldest, I’m taking over care for my brothers.”