“I understand what you ask for,” she replied quietly. The words came with difficulty. “But I don’t know if you understand what you’re asking for. I’m a queen, and I rule in the name of my son. There is a place for a husband in this arrangement, but I don’t know if for a king. Where would we live?”
“I will set up a new royal court in Trondheimfiord,” he answered.
“Oh, yes. You invite me to a kingdom that you haven’t yet won.” The words felt heavy. “My son cannot leave Sweden, otherwise the merchants will claim power.”
“Your son will stay here,” Olav replied. “You will sail with me to Norway as my wife and queen. My fleet awaits in Viken. When we join forces, conquering the country will be a mere formality.”
“When we join forces…” she repeated after him.
That morning Wilkomir had said, “Olav needs a marriage with you because that will help him demonstrate strength to his people. And I suspect he also needs our ships and armies.”
“Isn’t that obvious?” she’d asked them all in the morning. “Isn’t Tryggvason a better choice than any one of these…”
Ion finished for her. “Men burned alive? Ah, my lady, those were minnows. Our queen deserves a whale.”
“You marry a whale, monk,” she threw out angrily.
And that’s when Great Ulf announced: “This is a good match, my lady, but the devil is in the details.”
And Wilkomir asked: “Who would your brother see beside you? Shouldn’t Bolesław have a say?”
She had been furious at that. “Bolesław backed Olav a long time ago, but the decision is mine. Not his.”
Now, she said calmly, “Olav, I’m tired today. We’ll discuss matters between us tomorrow.”
“Do you want to sleep, Świętosława?” he asked quietly, and she shivered at his voice. “Do you want company?”
Yes! she wanted to shout. Come to bed, undress, lay me on your breast. I want to feel you inside me again, I want to melt under your fingers, howl with delight.
“No, Olav. I want to be alone,” she replied, and walked away without looking at him.
* * *
Olav tossed and turned in bed. This night was even worse than the previous day, steeped as it had been in waiting. He couldn’t sleep. He kept imagining that the sword hung over the bed was about to fall and cut off his head. He couldn’t take it any longer, and, when morning wasn’t far off, he got up and walked out of Eric’s bedchamber, heading toward her rooms. Great Ulf barred his way.
“What are you searching for, my lord?” he asked. “Water, mead? Everything is here.” He pointed at the remnants of the feast which lay scattered on the tables.
Olav grabbed a goblet and drank. The mead tasted bitter. Ulf stretched, and then, as if by accident, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and stood in front of the queen’s door.
“Sleep well, my lord.” He yawned. “Tomorrow’s a new day.”
Sleep finally came at the end of the night, and his dreams tired him even more. In them, he was fighting. Without a weapon, fighting a female lynx, feeling her breath on his face, her growls. Fangs dripping with saliva. The cat was lighter than him, but he still couldn’t free himself from her muscular paws. Her two pups were playing under the ferns on the side. Wrzask and Zgrzyt. He could pronounce their names in his dream. He rolled the lynx over onto her front, found himself on top of her, and suddenly felt lust far stronger than fear. He dug his fingers into her spotted fur and wanted to mount her. To copulate with her. He ripped himself free from the dream covered in sweat, disgusted by the fantasy. He rolled across the bed and grabbed his groin. He was breathing hard. He heard a sound which resembled a throaty meow. A soft head nudged his hand. Was that her? Was he still dreaming? No. It was a lynx. One of them.
He sat up. The cat jumped onto the bed, looking in his eyes.
“Wrzask or Zgrzyt?” he asked.
Green eyes. Wrzask. “First, there’s the shout to the skies, and then the sense that something had gone wrong.”
The lynx he’d caught years ago and given to the bold one had grown into a predator. What is it like, to love a live animal? He didn’t need to ask Zgrzyt what had gone wrong. He touched the cross around his neck. It was wet with sweat. The lynx stretched out its neck, wanting to lick the salty metal. Olav shooed it away. The lynx leaped down to the floor and began to circle, sniffing the bed.
The path to the house of the Lord is neither straight nor wide. It is a stony and steep road on which everyone who doubts will twist an ankle, falling into the abyss, the old man, Hundrr, chuckled in his memory, an abyss for all eternity. Only the chosen ones set out down this road, and he chose you, boy.
Zgrzyt was pulling at something under the bed. He let out a long growl and pulled out a dirty piece of material, tormenting until it was torn into pieces. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, Olav saw old, brown blood on the snatches of cloth. Dear God, what happened in this bed? he wondered, and felt a wave of sorrow for Świętosława. He hadn’t asked, even once, what her marriage to Eric had meant to her. Receiving her husband’s bedchamber for his guest room, all he’d thought of were his feelings, his own fits of jealousy and madness.
Longing, desire, dissatisfaction, my boy, Hundrr squawked in his head again.
Olav dressed and walked outside. The smudge of light on the eastern skies promised the impending dawn. The stable boy woke up as Olav led one of his horses from its stall.
“I’ll return before noon,” he told the guard at the gate.
No one dared stop him.
When he reached the shore of the bay, darkness had been chased away, but the sun hadn’t yet risen. A pale glow indicated dawn would soon be victorious. He undressed and walked into Mälaren’s cold waters. He swam until he lost his footing. Then he took a deep breath, and dived.
When he emerged from the water, he was shaking; he’d put his body to the test once again, as he had in the Dnieper waters. He’d forced it to swim without breath, to conquer the challenge posed to him by his own lungs. And he’d been victorious. It was only a body. It must give way to the soul.
* * *
That day, she decided to speak to him before the feast, and Olav knew that this gave him a chance. She invited him for a ride, one on one. He waited for her in the yard by the stables, watching her son and Wilczan, Wilkomir’s son, throw javelins at a shield hanging on a pole. Eric’s boy was determined, practicing technique, not strength. When he noticed Tryggvason was watching, though, he tried to show off. Unfortunately, he missed four out of five throws.
“You’re tensing your shoulder too much,” Olav said.
The boy looked at him darkly.
“Don’t think about who might be watching,” he advised. “Focus only on your target.”
The boy, without dropping his arm with the javelin, twisted toward him and changed his grip on the shaft so that the head was aimed at Olav’s chest. His eyes were narrowed into slits and sweat gleamed on his upper lip.
“Is this better?” he asked. “I’m thinking only of my target now.”
Olav saw the boy’s determination begin to change into fury. He tried to find something of Świętosława in his face. He couldn’t. This pup is a stranger’s litter, he thought.
“Aiming at an unarmed opponent isn’t a worthy thing to do for a man,” he said calmly.
The kid reddened.
“Oh.” Świętosława’s voice sounded behind him. “I see that my son has chosen you as his target. Olof, focus on your training, leave the guest to me.”
She walked between the two of them, holding her lynxes on a double leash. She smiled at her son and added:
“Besides, the king is your namesake, that’s an obligation.”
“For whom?” they both asked.
She laughed.
“Both of you.” She kissed her son’s forehead and, placing her hand on the javelin, pushed firmly so it pointed at the ground. “Shall we?” she asked Tryggvason.
The stable boy brough
t her horse, and little Wilczan helped the queen mount. Olof still stood motionless, with the javelin aimed toward the ground. When Olav was in his saddle, he saw the boy boring a hole in the earth with the tip. As they rode through the gate, he wondered what was worse. Not having a father, like him, and arranging his entire life to win back his inheritance? Or having it, and living always with the pressure of matching a victorious parent?
When they rode into the fields of heather around Sigtuna, he noticed the armed men accompanying them, in front of and behind them. He looked at Świętosława. She was wearing a simple woolen dress the color of autumn leaves. She had a cloak lined with fox fur over her shoulders, and a hood, since the clouds hinted at rain. She shrugged.
“I’ve gotten used to it,” she said, motioning toward the guards.
“Are you still the mistress of your own fate?” he asked.
She stopped her mare and looked at him with golden-green eyes.
“I’m the servant of the kingdom.” As she spoke, she unclipped the leashes and the lynxes bounded away, always ready for a hunt. “But I remain the mistress of my own heart. And you, Olav?”
“Baptism has made me Christ’s servant,” he replied. “He rules my heart and soul. I swore I would make my country Christian.”
“A beautiful goal,” she said, and turned away from him, setting off again. He urged his horse to catch up to hers. They rode side by side. Her silence seemed ominous to him. A seagull sobbed loudly on a nearby rock. The lynxes were tearing apart her young. Feathers spiraled in the air.
“What do you say to my proposal, Świętosława?”
“I’ve been waiting for it, Olav,” she replied quietly, looking straight ahead. “I’ve been waiting for you. The old Świętosława would have dropped everything … Do you know, I looked for you, every day I spent on the Haughty Giantess. I dreamed that you’d stand up to my father, leave Geira, and catch up to the Haughty Giantess with your people. You’d defeat Jarl Birger and the crew, and kidnap me. I imagined that we lived on some island, just you and me. But those were merely the fantasies of a young girl. And then you’d return to me every time my lord husband … I squeezed my eyes shut, clenched my fists, and pretended it was you … but now I have a ten-year-old son who needs years before he’s ready to rule by himself. Until that happens, I cannot leave him. I have enemies in this country, as does any ruler. They’d leap at the chance and I’d have you, my girlish dream, while my son lost his kingdom. So, if you’re asking if you’re still the master of my heart, the answer is yes. And what’s more, since last night you’re also the master of my desires.”
Olav felt his entire body contract, as if the swim in the cold water at dawn hadn’t happened, as if he were not the master of his own body. All it took was hearing those words from her mouth, and desire came over him in a wave so strong that he could have taken her there and then, on the heather, never mind the guards. He breathed in and realized Świętosława was still speaking.
“… but all the reasons which I’ve mentioned before mean that I can’t say yes to your proposal. That doesn’t mean I’m renouncing you, Olav.”
She stopped her horse, and he did the same. They turned to face each other. She had sad, glassy eyes. She looked like an old woman in that moment. Longing, desire, dissatisfaction, my boy.
“Give me time, Olav. Four or five years. That’s enough for the nobles to acknowledge my son as old enough to rule independently. Once the council declares him a king, I’ll come to you and we can exchange marriage vows.”
“I need you now, Świętosława,” he said firmly.
She threw the hood off her head. Her golden hair gleamed in the sun. She was herself again. She whispered heatedly:
“So what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the boathouse by the port, wherever, somewhere no one can see us, and let’s share our love for one another.”
He collected himself.
“We can’t just ride the waves of lust,” he replied, although he was keeping his own at bay with difficulty.
She frowned, and her cheeks blushed crimson.
“You said you wanted me now,” she said haughtily.
“When I return to my country with a wife, a Christian queen, the task the Lord has given me…”
“Say it! Say it as it is. You don’t want me, you want my armies. You need support to win back your throne.”
“I desire you and I need your armies, that’s true,” he replied. “Does the vision of our joined kingdoms not tempt you? A country twice as big? A kingdom we can give to God?”
“You speak of God more than you do of me,” she snorted.
“Because He comes first,” he replied. “A man cannot come before God.”
“Then my proposal should suit you.” She lifted her head high. “First, win back your throne and baptize your country. You’ll fulfill your mission, and then my time will come.”
She whistled and, without waiting for a reply, urged her horse forward. He saw Zgrzyt and Wrzask run toward her and the guards riding at a canter, enclosing their queen in an unbreachable circle of spears, swords, and shields.
* * *
Świętosława, riding into the yard of the manor house in Sigtuna, was resentful and angry. She hid her face in her hood, not wanting Wilkomir to see her emotions. He was right, damn him! Olav wanted only her strength, authority, and armies. He had asked “Will you marry me?” but he hadn’t said “I love you.” Damn him!
Will I know love at a man’s side? she’d asked the old crone, picturing those lashless eyes and the squawking voice. I didn’t see.
Dusza waited for her in the yard, questions in her eyes. Świętosława pulled her by the hand into her bedchamber and as Dusza helped her change, she was finally able to voice her anger aloud.
“I won’t be a pawn in their games. First Duke Mieszko. And now Olav?… I waited for him … I soiled my hands with Birger’s death, burned the suitors … Everything was for him…”
Dusza squeezed her fingers on Świętosława’s shoulders and lifted her face. She cocked her head and shook it, saying no.
“All right, I admit,” Świętosława gave in. “Birger and the suitors … that was for me.”
Dusza agreed, nodding her head.
“He speaks of God all the time,” Świętosława complained. “Not of me.”
Dusza went to the old chest in the corner of the room. She rummaged inside and dug out a small worn cross. She gave it to Świętosława, who sighed as she took it in her hand.
“Dobrawa’s cross,” she said. “Mother rubbed it when she prayed for Father to truly open himself up to God … Oh, stop it,” she exclaimed, when Dusza folded her arms over her breast as if she were cradling a child. “You have too good a memory!”
Dusza turned her so that Świętosława’s gaze was directed at Eric’s flag hanging on the wall. She pushed her toward the golden boar. She pushed her against the wall.
“Enough.” Świętosława wished to stop the stream of memories. “Yes, I know. I prayed that Eric might want to be baptized. And after his death, I got Olav, who thinks only of baptism. But does the Lord have to give in extremes?”
Dusza spread out her arms. What do they know.
“It’s not that simple, Dusza. There is still my son.”
The girl nodded.
“Dusza, hold me,” Świętosława groaned. “Hold me before I lose my mind.”
But as her arms surrounded the queen, they heard someone knocking. Dusza embraced her mistress briefly and let go. She went to open the door.
* * *
Świętosława saw the priest’s straight back and long beard first. Bork was waiting for her in the hall.
“Bold lady,” he greeted her with a bow. “I bring news.”
“Be my guest, whether it is good or bad.” She invited him onto the platform.
“Rognvald Ulfsson is meeting with people,” Bork said.
“Ulfsson?”
“The merchant from Birka, father of Mistress Thordis,” the
old man reminded her.
Eric’s old lover, she added in her mind what Bork left out. She remembered how angry they had looked across the king’s pyre, and how quickly they had left the funeral feast.
“Mead,” she called out to a servant girl.
Wrzask and Zgrzyt lay down at her feet. Bork accepted a goblet. He drank a little.
“Rognvald accuses you of his grandsons’ deaths.”
“How dare he!” She was shaken.
“By the right of a grandfather who has lost all hopes for heirs.” The old man turned toward her, twisting his entire body like someone with stiff shoulders. His gray eyes were sad. “He doesn’t claim that you did it alone, he is not a fool. He knows that the boys died when you were in Uppsala, surrounded by people. He’s suggesting that you might have given the command, though.”
Curse Birger’s name, she groaned inwardly.
“Quite the opposite,” she said calmly, meeting his eyes. “I gave an order. And when I found out it had been broken, I punished the one responsible.”
“Who was it?” Bork asked without averting his gaze.
“You know who it was. The same man who …
“… suggested Thordis go onto the pyre.”
“Yes. Birger. He had many sins to atone for.”
“What is a sin?” Odin’s priest asked.
“A wrongdoing against God’s and people’s laws,” she replied.
“For breaking the law, a man should face judgment.” Bork sounded strict. “If you’d done that, nobody would dare accuse you, bold lady.”
“It is up to the ruler to decide on how to punish the guilty.”
“But the verdict should be public,” Bork argued. “How did you punish him?”
Only now did she realize that Bork didn’t know. How was it that the news hadn’t left this hall? No servant talked, none of the guests … The burning of the suitors was already the stuff of songs, but Birger’s dismemberment was veiled with silence. Gratitude toward her people flooded through her; to all of them, from the cook and kennel master to the chieftains and their wives.
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