“No! No, I don’t agree to this. And I name you all witnesses to how Bolesław has dishonored Mieszko’s will in the moment of his death. Mieszko wanted his eldest son to rule over the conquests in the south. Silesia, Małopolska, Moravia, and Slovakia. And the younger were to get what he had written down for them. Bolesław is harming a widow and children…”
He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He could see every twitch of her eyelid. Every tiny wrinkle on her still-beautiful face. Every muscle pulsating in anger.
“What harm?” he asked, and his fingers squeezed tight on her shoulders. Yes, this was a threat. She pretended not to feel it. She stared into his eyes defiantly. “I gave you and my brothers land. You will want for nothing.”
“I want to stay in Poznań,” she began to negotiate. And let go of her sons’ hands.
“No. I don’t need to live under one roof with my father’s widow.”
“Ostrów Lednicki, then.”
“You won’t bear any more children, and Ostrów is the Piast nest. Our chicks hatch there. And yours … they will either obey me, or I will do what the eldest eagle chick does.”
“What’s that?” she asked, and finally he sensed her fear.
“Peck them apart,” he said, quietly that only she could hear him, and tightened his grip on her shoulders so that she hissed in pain. He added loudly: “My father was a hawk, I will be an eagle.”
“I won’t give up my sons to you!” she shouted, pushing his hands off her shoulders. “They’re mine.”
He walked over to Mieszko and Lambert in two big steps, and put an arm around each boy.
“You’re mistaken, my lady. Sons belong to the dynasty.” Lambert stood calmly, but nine-year-old Mieszko was shaking under Bolesław’s arm. Like me when I was afraid that Father was leading his firstborn to the pyre, he thought, and for a moment he felt sorry for the boy. But this wasn’t the time for sentiment. “Don’t allow the country to be divided. I leave much for the chicks, but you rule over them,” he heard Mieszko inside his head. He continued:
“Daughters belong to fathers, then to their husbands. Widows don’t belong to anyone and are reliant on the heirs’ graciousness.”
“Disgrace,” one of Oda’s guard stated, and reached for his sword. “This isn’t how you treat a widow.”
Bolesław didn’t even have to nod. Jaksa knew what to expect and what he should do. They disarmed the guard and escorted him out of the hall.
“Does anyone else think that Mieszko’s widow is being harmed?”
No one spoke. Bolesław stepped onto the platform and sat down on his father’s throne. He had waited for this moment for years, but now he barely even felt it happening. Because he knew it wasn’t over yet. The most important was still ahead of him. Oda stood with her children, facing away from him. She was the only one to do so.
Bishop Unger called out:
“No sin was intended when the duke’s document was created, I’m sure we will all agree to that. It’s time for oaths of fealty, pledged in front of God.”
Bishop Unger stood by Bolesław’s throne, under St. Peter’s sword hanging on the wall, and the golden cross, clearly indicating who was to stand guard over the honesty of the words which were about to be spoken.
“Duchess.”
Oda seemed to be fighting herself. She flinched and grabbed her sons’ hands again. And then, without turning, she walked out of the hall, taking them with her. Lambert turned around for a moment, Mieszko did not.
As the gathered lords pledged their fealty to Bolesław one by one, Unger whispered with a stony expression:
“Mieszko was the one who said that when you’re defending the dynasty’s nest, the last step of defense is to cut off both bridges with a single stroke.”
28
THE BALTIC SEA
Świętosława leaned against the gunwale of the Wave Queen. Eric had ordered the ship built because they’d planned for the royal couple to travel to Roskilde and Hedeby, to present themselves to their Danish subjects and bring peace to the conquered province. But plans changed, her king was smothering unrest caused by attacks from the east, and she had sailed to her father. The Wave Queen’s first journey was thus the journey to accompany Mieszko’s last. There was enough space on the wide deck for her one hundred men who could not be bought, who were coming back to Sigtuna with her. Bolesław had managed without them, sending Oda and her boys to the Saxon border.
It had been easier than she’d anticipated, she thought, looking at the rainbow mist that had appeared as if by magic as the sun shone on the water breaking against the Wave Queen’s gunwale. Oda had found refuge at the court of one of her distant relatives, but despite her best hopes, none of the Saxon nobles stepped up to support her in her cause. Apparently, she had been counting on Empress Adelaide, the second wife of Otto I, as Oda had been to Mieszko. She had counted on the solidarity of second wives, but all she’d received was cool disdain. Oda was suddenly reminded that she’d walked into the marriage bed straight from an abbey, that she had placed secular service above the godly kind. Nonsense! Even Świętosława, who had hated Oda for as long as she could remember, wasn’t so blinded by anger to think that it had been Oda’s decision to make at the time, rather it had been Margrave Ditrich’s, Oda’s father. The old one was dead, his political influences lay dead with him, and Oda was now punished for it.
Duchess Icicle, as Świętosława sometimes still thought of her, was a Saxon schemer; she had tried to cheat with the document, hoping that Mieszko’s lack of clarity of mind and Bolesław’s long absence from court would result in her having greater influence among the nobles. But she had been wrong on every count. By giving herself into papal care, she had angered the empire, which in return refused to help her and her sons. Bolesław had won fame and the respect of the lords; he’d fought with them in the battles for their new southern territories, and all of them had gained incredible riches alongside her brother’s victories. Oda had sorely unestimated the respect that had been hard-fought and well-earned by Mieszko’s first son, the Eagle, as they now called him.
A seagull cawed overhead. It flashed snowy-white wings between air and water, and caught a fish in its talons.
I learned two lessons from Oda, Świętosława thought, watching the seagull with its prey. The first was about how to control a husband. I used that one, disregarding the pain. And the other, of how easily you can lose everything if you place too much on one side of the scales. I’d be a fool not to learn from her mistakes. Dear God, I wanted to be a widow queen once, she thought. “Widows don’t belong to anyone and are reliant on the heirs’ graciousness.” Theophanu … noblemen and their troops had rallied behind that widow. Oh, when Bolesław had told her that the empress had died, she’d stomped like a child, shouting: “No, I don’t agree, Theophanu can’t be dead!” It had been almost beyond belief that the woman who had finally achieved everything had given in to death like … like an ordinary person, like …
Świętosława shook herself and walked to the stern. Wrzask and Zgrzyt slept in a cage under her tent, stretched out between the two sides of the ship. She had to close them in, since they grew unsettled at sea. They didn’t want to eat, and would growl sadly. It was better they slept.
What if Oda spoke the truth? she thought. Had father really wanted to place his younger sons within the Piast inheritance, and make Bolesław the ruler of the conquered lands in the south? After all, he’d said: “Sometimes you must trample on convention” and “Bolesław, you’re like me. You know how to create. Build a new nest. In the south.” It was difficult to understand the words of the dying. No. She pushed this thought away firmly, that Mieszko might have wanted to disinherit his firstborn. Nonsense.
She paused for a moment beside the men playing hnefatafl. A great royal battle was playing out on the board; round white and red stones indicated military movements. It took her no more than a glance to see that the stones of the white army were smothering the red,
because though the whites had lost more soldiers, their tactics were superior.
The sun beat down mercilessly, and only the wind over the waves cooled the air. Great Ulf was dozing, shirtless, stretched out on a sheepskin. She stood over him. How old was this ugly man? His body looked like Eric’s. Hard, tanned skin with a network of old scars. No longer young, but still strong and large. When Mieszko had given her away, he’d looked the same, and now he’d just died. She leaned over the sleeping Ulf and covered him with a shirt. A moment more and the sun would burn his skin like meat on a spit.
She returned to the bow of the Wave Queen. The view seemed endless under the clear summer sky. “Remember, there are no boundaries … the horizon moves every time you reach what you thought would be the end.”
She unplaited her braids, one by one, and let her hair fly loose in the wind. Droplets of salty water splashed onto her face. The strands of hair untangled with no help from her, as if the air was brushing them for her. She closed her eyes. She lifted her arms to her head, touching the long strands floating in the breeze. She laced her fingers over her forehead and moved her hands over her head, to the back of her neck. She touched the birthmark she found there. A round mark, she could barely feel it. She had no idea she’d had it until Dusza had shown her the mark on Olof’s skull. Dusza had laughed with her mouth and taking her hand, showed her that Świętosława bore the same mark. Świętosława had asked Astrid, who’d been preparing Mieszko for his funeral with the gray servants, to check if father had one too. Yes. Bolesław, Bezprym, tiny Mieszko, and the two sweet girls. She hadn’t had time to check her half brothers’ heads. They’d left before it had occurred to her. Damn it! Regret would change nothing, but yes, she felt sorry for those boys. Timing was not on their side.
She shook her head free of these thoughts. She felt wetness on her face: no, those weren’t tears. Wet ocean wind. But what if the tables had been reversed? If Oda and her two sons had been victorious in this battle, chasing Bolesław away? Would she really be giving in to sentiment then, feeling sorry for those boys? No. She opened her eyes, knowing she preferred the truth to even the sweetest lies.
“My lady?”
She turned violently. The voice had spoken right next to her ear. Much too close.
Jarl Birger stepped back and offered an apologetic smile.
“I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Then what are you doing here? she thought angrily, but she assured him instead that he was not. She was a queen who still carried Oda’s lesson behind her eyelids.
He took a place beside her. They stood in silence, looking at the waves, which changed from green to navy. Then she felt his gaze on her.
“Why are you looking at me?” she asked.
“Your hair is down.”
“I wanted to feel free for a moment.”
“I know. You carry a heavy load, and your visit to Poznań must have given you much to think about. A widow queen must have her allies, as strong as those of her dying husband.”
She didn’t answer. She wanted him to continue.
“Duchess Oda made a mistake women are frequently guilty of. She overestimated the power of a court, and underestimated comrades in arms. She thought too much of the value of blood, counting on the fact that two sons would be equal to a firstborn. But how do you measure such value when the firstborn are twins?” He, like her, was considering Thordis’s sons, Eric’s bastards.
“If I had another son apart from Olof, I’d do what Bolesław came up with. I’d make him a bishop. Spiritual and secular power in one dynasty,” she replied, not looking at him.
“Even if you had another three, Eric would never agree to it. It’s a good idea for a Christian country, but not for us.”
“‘For us’ sounds ridiculous coming from your lips, Birger. The two of us wish for a Christian kingdom, after all.”
He touched her hand, which was resting on the gunwale.
“Queen Świętosława…” He pronounced her name so carefully and with such worship that she was too surprised to withdraw her hand. “Everything you dream of is always close by. I carry the same great plans in my heart, and I want to fulfill them beside you. I was a chief at every one of Eric’s wars, the army listens to me as it does to him. Give me a sign if that is what you want.”
She stiffened. She should strike him now, and punish him for the insult. Bloody hell. Eric was alive, and Birger was talking about what would be after his death. But Oda’s lesson was too fresh, etched into her heart too deeply. She slipped her hand from under his and squeezed his fingers, choosing her words so that they meant everything and nothing all at once.
“It’s good that you’re thinking about the future, Jarl. The Almighty God looks down on all our actions. The one whose name we both worship in prayer.”
He returned the pressure on her fingers with rather too much enthusiasm. She wanted him to walk away, to leave her alone with her now doubly turbulent thoughts. As if on command, the wind hit the sail, which billowed dangerously, causing the Wave Queen to lean to one side.
Birger wrenched his hand from hers and looked upward. The sky still seemed to be clear, but a mist was approaching from the west.
“A storm rarely comes from a clear sky,” he said, meeting her eyes. “More often it’s from clouds which are not yet visible to our eyes. Have you spoken to your husband about the oath he made seven years ago, my lady?” Świętosława had not, though she knew perfectly well what Birger was referring to. A man must die when he’s in full strength, Eric had said, and My sacrifices aren’t yours. But they would be hers. Hers and Olof’s. And she wasn’t prepared to face them yet.
Birger’s eyes never left hers.
“Time is as merciless as Odin, my queen.”
29
ENGLAND
Sven needed a woman after every fight. For the Danish heir, the euphoria from a victory, fury caused by defeat, pain of lost comrades, happiness at the loot gained, gratitude that death had once again missed him, all this fermented in him like beer in a brewery, leading to only one thing: he wanted to make love and drink. In the English camps, there was plenty of opportunity to do both. They hadn’t taken any women by force, they hadn’t had to. The women offered their bodies in return for protection, or rather, to prevent attack. The peasants wanted to pay for their villages, the sweet merchant daughters for towns, the ealdorman daughters for entire provinces. But Sven hated having his hands tied, so he never accepted these offers. He found himself women independently, agreeing on a price. He was as good as his word, and paid with silver.
Olav Tryggvason’s idea to recruit new people had been a success. A hundred new men had greeted them after their first winter on the Isle of Wight. Jarl Haakon’s arrogant subjects from Norway, Icelandic bandits exiled for escaping the Althing’s rulings, fishermen from Scania, who didn’t care whether they caught fish or plundered English villages in times of poor crops. Those who suffered most because of the great bald Swede Eric’s taxes on the small Danish islands. Sven’s old subjects met him uncertainly, not voicing what they were all thinking: that Sven had lost the battle for their lands, that they held him responsible for the horrendous conditions in which they lived today. According to the agreement he’d made with Olav, each chieftain incorporated any men from their own lands into their crews. Even the deep scowls of his islanders’ began to fade after the first victorious battles, and after the second plunder they loudly called for “King Sven” at the feasts.
“Yes, sweet Mary. I want to be King Sven,” he whispered into the red-haired beauty’s ear. He had picked her out of the crowd by her fiery hair.
“Are you fiery only on your head?” he’d asked, and she’d boldly replied, “Between the legs, too. If you’re not afraid, my lord, you can check for yourself. But don’t blame me if you get burned.”
But he didn’t burn himself, and Mary didn’t disappoint. So, he’d been checking for the past six months, and he still hadn’t had enough. Perhaps because it had been six
months of battle? Or perhaps because her hair was redder than his own.
“You’re my king already…” Mary purred in his ear, rolling to her side. She liked it when he took her from the side. She was flexible, writhing in his arms like a fish lifted out from water.
“I’ve been a king since birth,” he said, squeezing her white breast, “but I won’t be content until I take my place in the great hall in Roskilde, and until my nobles pay homage to me.”
“Do I not give you enough?” she asked playfully. “Take me to your Denmark. I want to be your danegeld.”
Danegeld. Danish forced tribute. That’s the word the English used to describe the ransom King Ethelred had paid them.
No, sweet Mary. You’re only the tax on the plunder, the silver won with blood, which will give me back my throne. Even if I don’t get bored with you, you’d sail with me as one of many. You won’t be my lady, my queen. You’re lovely, but you’re not the one who will sit beside me on Harald’s throne.
“Where are you from?” he asked, breathing in the scent of her hair.
“Canterbury. My father is the kennel master for Archbishop Sigeric. Ah…” She stuck out her bum, waiting for his thrust. “Come on, hurry up.”
“Who did you sleep with before me?”
“With the head stable master, with the overseer of the archbishop’s servants, with the tax collector … oh yes, Sven!”
“Why did you replace your tax collector with me?”
“Because you chose me … more, more!”
“How am I different from them?” He thrust harder and harder.
“You pay me. They took for free.”
“That’s all?” He grabbed her red hair and pulled.
“You’re a king and your cock is better than theirs. Oh, Sven! You pay and you win against them … it’s better to be a king and captain’s mistress than a tax collector’s, even if the king is a barbarian.”
Jostein and Guthmund, the other two chieftains in the four who called themselves Odin’s Sword, had separated from them and gone to hunt themselves. Sven had laughed, since he had proposed exactly this to Olav six months ago, and Olav had said no. They’d been saved only by their new crews, rallied at Olav’s suggestion, so they didn’t feel the loss as sharply. But Silver Ole worried him. They’d fought side by side so many times now, ship by ship, shoulder to shoulder. Olav was strange. Ruthless. He didn’t break eye contact when they argued. He didn’t change the topic when Sven reached for his sword. And he didn’t hesitate for a heartbeat when he killed. Even when the son of an English ealdorman was removing his helmet, dropping to his knees and giving up his riches and family. Olav killed even when his prey looked in his eyes. He’d say “Die!” and cut them down, cold as steel.
The Widow Queen Page 33