“She fell into an ice hole,” one of Birger’s men told her. His sadness at these words was clear. Sweet Thora, she cried again inside. “The water is freezing; Mistress Thora would have passed quickly.”
In the torchlight, Thora looked as if she were fast asleep. Terribly pale and sleeping.
“Does the jarl know yet?” Świętosława asked, raising her head and pulling her fur cloak tighter around herself.
But her question was answered when she looked ahead, toward the manor. Birger had just stepped outside. He was watching the procession and their torches approach.
Oh,God! she thought. Heaven help him.
They placed the stretcher at the jarl’s feet. A crowd began to gather, and Świętosława saw Ion’s chubby face amid the throng.
“Our mistress…” one of the servants who had carried the stretcher began, but seemed to struggle for words. “The fishermen had made an ice hole by the old bridge. They were the ones to find Lady Thora.”
Birger nodded, but didn’t seem to be processing what had happened. He knelt by his wife. He touched her wet hair. His expression was as still as her dead face.
“Birger,” Świętosława said quietly. “Perhaps you’d like Ion to pray for her?”
“My wife wasn’t Christian,” he replied hollowly, and rose to his feet.
“Perhaps you’d like Ion to pray for you?”
He blinked. Świętosława could see that none of this was reaching him. She nodded and gave the orders to the servants herself. Birger needed to be alone right now. Helga, Wilkomir’s lover, appeared at her side, sobbing.
“I don’t believe it, don’t believe it … we laughed together…”
It was true, barely a few days earlier the three of them had sat by the fire, sipping beer and mead, exchanging stories and laughing until tears streamed down their faces.
“What was she doing by the old bridge?” Helga was shaking her head. “Why had she gone there?”
Świętosława put an arm around Helga’s shoulder, and they entered the manor together. Servants were rushing about nervously, back and forth, tracking in snowy mud. Świętosława could hear the impatient growls of her cats from her rooms. She sat Helga by the fire and went to feed them.
“Do you know, Dusza,” she said as she gave meat to Wrzask, “Birger is acting as if he’d been struck by lightning. It’s a good thing he wasn’t the one to find her, who knows if he wouldn’t have jumped into the water after her. Zgrzyt, wait. You’re bigger and fatter, your brother eats first. What was Thora doing at the harbor at night? Strange, isn’t it?”
But a moment after she finished speaking, Birger walked into her bedchamber. He was pale. He pulled off his gloves, looking around.
“Dusza, bring mead for the jarl,” she ordered. “Sit down, friend.”
Zgrzyt caught her fingers lightly, demanding meat. She gave it to him and walked to her guest.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” she said.
“I know why Thora had gone to the harbor,” he said, so low Świętosława almost did not hear. “I’ll tell you, my lady, though it brings me no glory. My wife had a lover. She would sneak out to see him. Do you understand, my queen?”
“No,” Świętosława denied it. “That’s not true.”
“I wish that were the case.”
Dusza returned and handed Birger a cup of mead. The jarl took the cup, looking at Świętosława with sad, red eyes.
“I never caught her in the act, but I knew. She’d been leaving more frequently in the last few days, and because the night is still long it’s easier to hide…”
“Stop. Thora wasn’t sneaking about having trysts.” Świętosława raised her voice. “She was going to see a certain woman who lives on the western shores of the bay. She’s a famous soothsayer and a good healer. She gave your wife hope that she might bear a child.”
They’d spoken about it that evening by the fire. She, Helga, and Thora. Mulled beer with mead and laughter. So much laughter.
Birger shook his head.
“No, Sigrid. Thora didn’t tell you the truth. She accused me of infertility, and if she was searching for a way to get pregnant, it was in the arms of another.” He drank his mead in a single gulp and stood, his expression full of so much pain that she shivered.
Wrzask and Zgrzyt pushed their heads against her, rubbing themselves on her legs.
“That’s what took her,” he said bitterly. “She was running to her lover … Only why did she step on the ice? God…” He gathered himself. “I’ll give her a funeral as a wife deserves. Let this damning secret remain between us, Sigrid. I just wanted you to know.”
He bade her goodbye and left. Zgrzyt was purring so loudly that the sound might have woken a dead man. She flinched at this thought. Its purr wouldn’t bring back Thora.
“Where’s my son?” she asked Dusza.
Her friend displayed an open palm against which she tapped her fingers.
“Ah, yes. With Eric. Dress warmly, then. Let’s go.”
* * *
Świętosława needed Helga because she didn’t know how to reach the healer’s house alone. She had only heard about her from Thora. Wilkomir asked no questions, or at least not as many as he usually did. He only shook his head as he ordered the dogs to be harnessed to the sleigh. The three of them sat down. Helga and Dusza pressed tightly on either side of her. Once they had passed the last houses of Sigtuna, she let the lynxes off their leashes. They were faster than the sleigh led by twelve men on horseback holding torches. Winter was ending, and the sun appeared briefly at midday, but though the deepest frost was melting, high snows still covered the roads and paths. Branches stuck by the roadsides indicated the path between mounds of snow.
I know this won’t bring Thora back her life, Świętosława thought, saying nothing to Helga and Dusza, but perhaps it will ease Birger’s pain? So he won’t spend the rest of his days feeling so betrayed and alone?
Świętosława wanted to speak to this healer that Thora visited for advice. She could clear the dead from suspicion.
And if she doesn’t? Świętosława thought. What if I’m the one who knows nothing about Thora’s life?
She hid her face in her fur and closed her eyes. The sleepless night stretched out sleepy talons toward her. She dreamt of a flaming sail flying straight at her. Even as she dreamt, she knew this wasn’t the first time she was having this dream.
“Sigrid?” Helga shook her shoulder gently. “My lady, wake up. We’re here.”
“Where are my lynxes?” she asked, stepping down from the sleigh. The dogs were panting, tired after the long journey.
“They’re probably hunting.” Wilkomir shrugged and reassured her: “They’ll come back. They always come back.”
She looked around. The hut they were standing in front of was small; if it hadn’t been for the thin stream of smoke, it could pass for a long snowy mound. Helga pushed the door first.
“Is anyone here?” she asked, entering cautiously.
The room was dim.
“Who asks?” a squawking voice replied from within.
“Queen Sigrid Storråda,” Helga said.
“And I’m sweet Freya,” the old woman gurgled with laughter. “Or Gerda, the beautiful giantess.”
Świętosława stepped in front of Helga.
“I am Sigrid,” she introduced herself, and looked at the woman closely.
She was so small that she might have been a dwarf, or so old that age had sucked her body inward. If Świętosława hadn’t known that she was a woman, she wouldn’t have been able to tell. Strands of white hair stuck to her naked skull in oily clumps. She had large, ridged ears, and you could barely discern her irises in her eye sockets. Stiff hairs grew on her withdrawn, trembling chin.
“Indeed,” the old woman replied, cocking her head. “Help me stand.”
Helga walked over and offered her a hand. The woman was half lying on something that might have been a small bed or large chair.
She drag
ged her feet along the floor. She was wearing a dress of thick gray wool, so long that Świętosława was afraid the old woman would step on the hem, tripping and falling. She stretched out a shaking hand, pointing at something in the corner of the room.
“Give me my cloak,” she said eventually.
Helga helped her get dressed, then the old woman shuffled over to a small table, and, quite nimbly, climbed onto the chair that stood there. She ran her shaking hands over the table’s surface as if trying to wipe it clean of crumbs.
“Yes…” She lifted her head. “Sit down, Queen, opposite me.”
Świętosława sat. The woman looked at her, holding her gaze, and whispered:
“Have them leave. Only you. And tell them to silence those dogs, or I’ll say nothing. At my age, you have hearing like … What do you call that bird that has hearing like mine?” She put a finger in her mouth and began to suck on it.
Świętosława gave Helga and Dusza a sign to do as the old woman said. When they were alone, she spoke:
“I’ve come to ask about Thora. Do you remember Thora, Birger’s wife?”
“Is she pregnant?” The old woman’s head swayed.
“No, she drowned.”
“Well”—this time she nodded her head, back and forth—“the bones didn’t lie. The land of the wet death came for her.”
“Her husband thinks she was betraying him with another.”
“His thoughts do not belong to me. He can wonder what he wants.” She puffed out loose cheeks.
“But…”
“I won’t talk of the dead or to them. I won’t touch seidr—I won’t look into the past. And you should stay away from it, too. Who once dips their fingers in seidr will never clean them. Black magic is for witches. I heal and see the future, but I do not deal in black magic. I say what I see, I heal what I can, that’s all. Do you want me to look forward for you? Into the years that will come?”
“I do,” Świętosława said quickly, certainly, before she could frighten herself out of it. “Do it.”
“Reach out your hands, bold lady, and touch me,” the old woman demanded.
Their fingers joined. The old woman placed her hands on hers, and Świętosława shivered. The thick, worn nails moved as if the old woman were lightly scratching her. Until suddenly, she dug her hands into Świętosława’s, and Świętosława felt as if the old woman was sucking the life from her. She ripped her hands free. The old woman chuckled.
“Yes, yes. The bold lady wants to rule fate herself. Why did you stop my beautiful visions? Each one of your sons will be a king, but the youngest will give you the most love, I’ll tell you that much. Each death will bring you a crown, that’s how one’s born a ruler, eh?”
“Will I know love at a man’s side?” she asked.
The old woman cocked her head.
“I didn’t see.”
She looked at her with eyelashless eyes for a long moment. Świętosława said nothing. She felt unsettled under the old woman’s gaze.
“I’ll throw bones for this love,” she said eventually, and retrieved a box of polished wood from under the table. “Bones enclosed in bones.” She laughed and, not looking at them, pulled one out. The smile froze on her toothless lips. She grimaced and said reluctantly: “Thurisaz, it means thorn.”
“What does a thorn have to do with love?”
“All that’s the worst.” The toothless gums seemed to chew over these words. “Rape and force. Lust and dissatisfaction. Desire which cannot be fulfilled. Even worse than one thorn are three thrown simultaneously.”
“There was a branch with six thorns under my son’s saddle, placed there by the merchants of Birka,” she said thoughtfully.
“Pff.” The old woman’s lips twisted. “That was a branch with thorns, it’s not what I speak of. Beware, bold lady, of three thorns thrown out together.”
* * *
On their ride back to Sigtuna, the healer’s words rang in Świętosława’s head; she could still feel the clawed grip on her hands. Świętosława regretted asking the woman to look into her future. Even more so, that she’d asked about love. Though the vision of more sons warmed her heart.
On arriving in Sigtuna, they found a sad feast was underway, with Jarl Birger the host.
Eric and Olof hadn’t returned; her lord husband had taken their son for a winter hunt of reindeer.
“He’s nine years old, Sigrid. He’s almost grown,” Eric had said, prepared to argue with his wife, but she’d be the last to stand in the way of a man’s upbringing. In her husband’s country, there was no tradition of ceremonial hair-cutting of six-year-olds, but that was roughly the age at which they passed into their fathers’ care. She could still remember Bolesław’s hair-cutting. Świętosława had been four, sweet Dobrawa had been alive, and Mieszko had been in full health following his defeat of Margrave Hodo at Cedynia. That time, her father had been the one to humiliate the empire. Her brother’s dark-gold curls were thrown on the fire, to the joy of those subjects who could not yet appreciate the depths of faith. And then father had led Bolesław to the chapel by the palatium, where old Bishop Jordan had given her brother his first taste of the Eucharist. The feast for the nobles under purple-red tents in the manor’s yard, and a feast for her father’s squads on tables around the palatium. And a feast for everyone else who had come to Poznań for the prince’s first celebration on the green fields by Warta. A few weeks later, Bolesław, accompanied by a procession of armed men, left for Magdenburg to become a blood hostage for Emperor Otto. He returned half a year later, when the emperor died, and the Reich lords had their own issues to manage. He’d brought Jaksa back with him. The wild Redarian pup. Oh, she missed that skinny, never-smiling boy. And Bjornar, the redhead. Dark-eyed Zarad, whom she’d kissed when she was seven. And her brother. Bolesław, Bolz. Tumultous and strong. Dear God, and Lord Mieszko! Father … she missed them all, the men who had never let her down.
She shook herself free of the memories. Wilkomir and Great Ulf could not be faulted. And Eric, her lord husband? He’d let her down by having had bastards before she’d become his lady and wife. Was that such a great fault? No, if it didn’t affect her son and Eric’s heir. Jarl Birger. She could rely on him, too, and now, drowning in grief, he’d need her. She changed quickly; the cloak and bottom of her dress were wet with snow. The lynxes had sated their hunger by hunting on the journey, so she didn’t need to feed them.
“Dusza, do you want to go to the feast?” she asked, looking at her servant’s tired face.
Dusza shook her head. Świętosława kissed her cheek, pink from the outdoors.
“Go to sleep, then.”
The lynxes meowed, stretching. Zgrzyt began to circle, as always when trying to settle down to rest. It made her laugh. She stroked first one, then the other on their great heads. She pulled at the black clumps of hair growing from their ears.
“The lynxes are off duty, too. They don’t have to come to the feast with their mistress.”
Wrzask arched his back, then stretched his paws out, adorned with beautiful black claws. He meowed and lay down.
“Good night, my loves,” Świętosława whispered, and left for the feast.
* * *
“Queen Sigrid.” Jarl Birger stood up when he saw her. “We’re drinking the goblet of memories.”
“I’ll join you. Thora was my friend.” She sat down and motioned to Birger to settle near her. She noticed now that he’d slipped off the silver rings which had held his long beard in place.
“In the past, the goblet of memories would have been filled with horse blood and passed around over a fire,” he told her glumly. “Do you know, my lady, what happens to blood that’s heated by a flame?”
“I do,” she said, cutting him off. “These aren’t those times, thank the Lord. Although I’m sorry that your Thora’s soul will travel to the goddess Hel rather than bright paradise.”
“She made her choice,” he said firmly, and took a long gulp of his mead. “I as
ked her so many times to turn herself toward the Good News. It didn’t help, like chopping a log with a blunt axe.”
“That’s a horrible comparison,” she chided. His grief is making him careless with his words, she thought. “Even if she was a pagan, she was a good woman, and she deserves respect.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he replied, and lifted his goblet again.
“I don’t believe in her betrayal, Birger. I went to see that healer. She confirmed that Thora had been coming to her for herbs to help her conceive. Believe me, it was an unfortunate accident, friend.”
He gave her a long look. She forgave him. It was still the day his wife had died.
“Rognvald Ulfsson is sending ships to England,” he said, leaning toward her.
Rognvald, the powerful merchant of Birka—Thordis’s father, grandfather to Eric’s bastard sons. Her enemy. To England? Her heart beat faster. That’s where Olav is, she thought.
“Is he?”
“Undoubtedly, he’s searching for means to reach out to Sven, the Danish king we banished,” Birger finished.
“What for?” she asked, her hopes cooling at the mention of the Danish heir rather than the Norwegian.
“To collude, my lady. Sven has made himself a wealthy man from his attacks on England, like none of our chieftains has in times of peace. Denmark itself is dissatisfied with the tribute they must pay us.”
“Rognvald’s sons are the tax collectors, don’t forget that, Birger.” She smiled.
“And his grandsons are the king’s sons, my lady,” he replied firmly. “For you to feel safe…”
“I sent them away, you know that. My lord husband has given them lands in the northermost part of the country.”
“What will that change once the king dies?” He moved nearer to her, and she could smell the mead on his breath.
The Widow Queen Page 37