“Do you want to hear my confession?” she asked Bork.
“What’s a confession?”
“Owning up to one’s sins.”
He nodded. She told him what had happened that night. He drank the contents of his goblet and placed it on the table.
“I see no sins here. I see the bold lady who defended her rights and dignity. I said the same thing to Rognvald.”
“What?” she was taken aback.
“That you saved his only daughter from the honor of the pyre, so you couldn’t be behind his grandsons’ deaths. The right of revenge is not his. He’ll believe it, but that doesn’t mean he won’t stop stirring the pot that you’re in, bold lady. Some people cannot make peace with loss, and they are prepared to start a civil war, or worse, let foreigners in.”
She recalled what Birger had said the night after his wife’s funeral: “Rognvald Ulfsson is sending ships to England.” She felt cold, as if someone had placed steel at her breast. Zgrzyt got up and nudged her hand with a cold nose.
“Foreigners?”
Bork turned away sharply. He lifted his face and began to study the smoke which left the hall through the smoke hole. He moved his head as if he was sniffing the air. He closed his eyes, opened them, blinked.
“Someone is approaching, bold lady,” he said, with something akin to fear. “A husband is nearing, who is led by a bright, powerful hamingia.”
“Hamingia?”
“Power. The spirit that leads a man.” Bork was still looking in the smoke as if he could see the hamingia he spoke of.
“Is this the foreigner you mentioned?” she asked with unease. “The foreigner that Ulfsson wants to send for me?”
“No, bold lady. This is not the one that the merchant of Birka has in mind. But the man who approaches is stranger to me than…”
At that moment, both lynxes leaped toward the entrance to the hall. Świętosława shouted:
“Zgrzyt! Wrzask! To me!”
But the cats didn’t heed her. She rose to go after them, afraid they might hurt someone. Bork grabbed her hand and held her in place.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, and she heard terror in his voice.
She froze. Wrzask ran back into the hall, snorting. Olav Tryggvason was following him, his hand on Zgrzyt’s head. She felt a heat rush over her. Olav took his gloved hand off the lynx’s head as if he wanted to greet her, and only now noticed the gray-bearded priest. He drew back his hand and frowned. Bork didn’t let go of her. The great, gray-bearded man, who had taken her husband’s life to offer it to Odin, was afraid.
“Świętosława,” Olav said. “I wanted to finish our conversation.”
“That’s him,” Bork whispered.
Olav studied the old man carefully. He must have heard his whisper. Zgrzyt was pulling Tryggvason’s glove affectionately, as if he wanted to play.
“I can see that you’re otherwise engaged,” Olav said slowly.
“Yes,” she replied. “I will meet with you later.”
He took a few steps toward them, his eyes still on Bork.
“Are these your advisers, Świętosława?” he asked. “The ones you discuss our issues with? The ones who advise you to reject my proposal?”
A threat colored his voice. Zgrzyt was still nipping at his hand, but Olav didn’t seem to feel it. Wrzask walked over to her and Bork and growled once, a second time.
“I saw his hamingia,” the priest whispered.
“Answer me, Świętosława,” Olav insisted. “Is this the man pulling you away from me?”
If she said yes, Olav would reach for steel, she was sure of it. Zgrzyt pulled on Olav’s glove with his teeth. Tryggvason ripped it back from the lynx’s mouth without taking his eyes from Bork.
“Who have you become, Świętosława?” He finally looked at her.
She saw surprise and anger in his eyes. He walked toward her and Bork with a soft step until he was an arm’s length away. She could smell the scent of his skin when he spoke again.
“Do you place Odin’s priest above the Almighty’s message? Do you choose his advice? Are you prepared to leave me for someone like this?”
“Silence,” she ordered. “You don’t understand, Olav, and you’re breaking the laws of hospitality. Bork is under my roof and you aren’t to insult him, as that is an insult to me. Be silent before it’s too late.”
Olav’s eyes narrowed like a snake’s. For a heartbeat, she was sure she heard a hiss. He sucked in air. She felt the fury and wounded pride which emanated from him. He lifted a hand, holding the glove as if he wanted to hit one of them. Bork let go of her hand and grabbed Olav’s glove. Zgrzyt leaped up and tore it from their grasp.
“Enough!” Świętosława shouted.
Great Ulf barged into the hall with his sword drawn. She stopped him with a gesture, saying:
“This conversation is over.”
Not this. Not more bloodshed. She saw the silent Dusza take hold of the lynxes’ collars, quiet and transparent as a specter. Olav cooled. The anger seeped from his features. They were standing so close that she could see the movement of every muscle. The white of his hair. The shadow of a beard on his well-defined jaw. The clear outline of his lips. The light reflected in his irises.
“My lady,” he said, coldly and calmly, as if nothing had just occurred. “Apart from English gold and silver, I’ve brought you a pair of falcons. The Danish, my country’s invaders, used to call Norway ‘Falcon Island,’ because they took their tribute from them in the shape of these birds. That’s over now. There will be no more tributes, because the rightful king has returned. The falcons are reliable and trained. Do you know how they hunt, my lady? In pairs. The female and the male set out for the hunt together. One of them chases the prey, the other catches it and finishes the task. They are so swift that one cannot tell whether it’s the female or male who delivers the deadly blow. Does it matter, if they form a couple? No. These have been trained not just to hunt. They can find me anywhere. We can meet at the estuary of the Göta älv, the river where the three kingdoms meet. If you want to give an answer to my proposal, send a falcon, and I will come.”
God, she groaned silently, don’t take him away from me. Olav, don’t leave, I beg you.
She lifted her head high and said:
“If I have an answer for you, I’ll send a falcon.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t touch him. That night shone in his eyes. They clung to each other, their gazes locked in a final violent act of love. He turned away from her slowly. She didn’t close her eyes when his broad back disappeared through the door.
42
THE BALTIC SEA
Sven was sailing on his first journey on the Wind Hunter.
“Let’s see how much you’re worth,” he’d said, patting the gunwale as he stepped on board.
Now he watched the Hunter’s enormous sail billowing in the wind. A great fleet swayed on the water behind him, as far as the eye could see. A hundred ships had sailed east with their king.
After returning from England, the Bloody Fox, as Jorun pointed out, was good only to serve as firewood, but Sven firmly forbade this. Everything he’d ever achieved had been on the deck of the Fox, and the old ship was like a brother to him. He ordered it renewed, no matter what the cost. When he was a gray-bearded old man, he’d have himself burned on its deck. Gray-bearded King Sven: he smiled at the thought.
Eric Segersäll’s death was an unexpected gift from fate, so much so that he hardly dared to believe it at first. He didn’t have much time to think through strategies; the news that the great Swede had died reached him as he was packing up his treasures on the Isle of Wight. He’d left so quickly that he wasn’t able to send for the sweet redheaded Mary so she might sail away with them. Ah, well, he sighed. When he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t truly considered bringing her. Mary had been a fine companion for a chieftain of the Two Kings, but not for the king of Denmark.
* * *
&n
bsp; When Sven had landed on Danish shores, Gunar, an old comrade, waited for him. He’d received Sven with great celebration, shouting: “The rightful king has returned!” But Sven had lived through too many exiles, escapes, and betrayals to trust so easily. How had his country changed during his absence? Gunar had proven himself loyal in the past, but who would he be loyal to today?
While Sven drank with his host at the welcome feast, Jorun and a handful of scouts had mixed in with the crowd. They spent the evening getting guests drunk, asking questions, and, when morning came, Jorun had come to Sven, still sober, and whispered:
“Gunar was loyal to you. Thorgils of Jelling also. Jarl Stenkil of Hobro, Ragn of the Isles, Uddorm of Viborg … those are the names of old and loyal friends. The names of your enemies are Vigmar, the merchant of Ribe, and his brother, Bishop Oddinkarr. Vigmar supported Eric’s viceroys. Bishop Oddinkarr sides with the Saxons, but you can’t accuse him of treason because he has the archbishop of Bremen behind him, and that will give you trouble from the imperial army.”
What Jorun said matched what Gunar had relayed. Over the following day, old allies came to him, rejoicing in the ruler’s return, paying him homage. Sven drank, celebrated, gave expensive gifts, accepted oaths of fealty, and immediately demanded proof of these. He’d ordered Thorgils of Jelling to imprison all of Eric’s men. The viceroys, tax collectors, and allies. He didn’t allow them to be killed, he wanted them alive. He commanded Uddorm to bring his half sister Tyra to him. She had plotted against him more than once, but harming her would lose him support from the people. He could invite her to his court, though, and keep her near and under careful watch.
“Sooner or later, Tyra will lead you to your remaining enemies,” Thorgils told him. It was valuable advice.
He hadn’t lingered long at Gunar’s welcoming house, and as he sailed to Roskilde, he felt as if they had stepped back in time. To that winter night when he’d hurried to kill his father, to claim his power. The Fox’s sails had been filled with wind and anger in equal measure. Now, he returned home as a victor, the one who had defeated not just his own father, but also the English king on his own land. The manor in Roskilde was just as he’d left it years before, when, after Harald’s lengthy funeral rites, he’d left to face Eric. He touched the beautiful sculpted oak columns. The likenesses of Odin’s two crows stared at him from above. Huginn and Muninn, the omniscient birds.
What future awaits me? he asked himself, crossing the threshold.
He took power in Roskilde easily. He held a feast, hosted allies, and accepted oaths of fealty. Melkorka, the old housewife of the manor house, brought him a small girl with flaming hair.
“Her mother named her Gyda,” she made an introduction for the child standing silently next to her, whose eyes darted nervously from the floor to Sven’s face and back again. “And she said: when the king returns, give him back his daughter. She didn’t last long enough to see you, my lord, she died of the fever last winter.”
“What was her name?” Sven asked, recalling more than one woman he’d bedded during those years he’d spent in Roskilde.
“Runa, my lord. A fair-haired beauty, the daughter of Hauk of Trelleborg.”
“What about this Hauk? Why doesn’t the mother’s family raise their granddaughter?”
Melkorka puffed out her cheeks, and the girl hunched her shoulders.
“They chased beautiful Runa away, my lord. A daughter with a belly and no husband.” The housewife spread out her arms helplessly.
He took a good look at the little one. He didn’t know much about children, so he couldn’t judge how old Gyda was. Six or eight? She was slender, blue-eyed and as red-haired as he was.
“Melkorka, do you swear that this is my daughter?”
The old woman huffed. “Her mother was a good girl until a young red-bearded king arrived to lead her astray.”
Sven acknowledged Gyda as his child in front of the entire country. And he gave her to Melkorka to raise. The days passed quickly; Sven had years of absence to make up for in his kingdom. But his most pressing concern was Black Ottar, the exile from Lejre.
Before his grandfather Gorm had united the country under his reign, the lords of Lejre had been mighty. Gorm chased them off the island and forced them to bend the knee, and Sven’s father, Harald Bluetooth, accepted oaths of fealty from them. But these past few years without a king were enough for the exiles’ old ambitions to be resurrected. Black Ottar was an old man, but he had sons. And a wife, Arnora, whose family had held power in old legendary clans. Sven knew he must deal with Black Ottar and his family, because tolerating these dissenters and their ancient ambitions was dangerous. Though he knew that making them disappear was equally risky. So, he decided he would use one enemy to defeat another.
He summoned Vigmar of Ribe to Roskilde, and his brother, Bishop Oddinkarr. He accused them of rebelling against the rightful king, an accusation equal to that of treason, and then, mercifully, he gave them an opportunity to make up for their sins: he ordered them to kill Black Ottar and his sons. Oddinkarr writhed, flinched, called on Christian mercy, but Sven had touched a nerve with the bishop: the Lejre family was the oldest refuge of Odin’s cult.
“Arnora, too?” Vigmar of Ribe asked.
“No,” Sven said. “She’s too old to have more children. She will live at my court until the end of her days, as a warning to those who might consider rebelling. Maybe I’ll have her shown to the public in Roskilde’s church?” He laughed, and noticed the terror in the bishop’s eyes.
“King,” a pale Oddinkarr whispered, “that wouldn’t be appropriate. The church is not the place…”
Sven interrupted him angrily:
“Don’t instruct me, priest. I know what a church is, and I know that many a sin was committed within it. I was baptized in childhood, never asked for an opinion. I warn you: do not build a nation within a nation here. I know about your secret dealings with the Saxons, and with the archbishop of Bremen.”
Oddinkarr opened his mouth, but before he could protest, Sven grabbed his shirt and hissed, “Silence, and I will let you keep your diocese in Ribe.”
He let the bishop go just as violently as he’d taken hold of him, and he turned to Vigmar, pointing a finger at him.
“Don’t speak, and do as I say: Black Ottar and his sons. And I want the old crone brought here.”
He didn’t trust the bishop or his brother, but after three days their servants brought Arnora and three heads on a cart lined with wolf fur. That’s when Sven decided he had the country under control. He stretched, and went to the shores to investigate the progress being made on his new fleet. The thump of axes sounded amid piles of fresh wood shavings. He praised the wood-carver for the slender bow of the Wind Hunter. He noted the restoration of the Bloody Fox underway. He was content. He summoned his chieftains to the biggest feast he’d thrown since his return. The servants, under Melkorka’s instructions, carried bowls of steaming food onto the tables: smoked herring, dishes of salted codfish and cream, roasted pigs and bloody sausages. Skuli the Icelandic bard, who he’d adopted during his invasion of England, began to recite in a strong, hoarse voice:
The wise king orders battle worms to slink away to the sheath,
The powerful snake of war …
He interrupted him with a toast:
“My friends, who have awaited me in my homeland. And you, comrades, who fought beside me, shield by shield, in England. Now we are all united again, and Denmark has its king. But this isn’t the time to go for our winter rest. We have a new challenge and a new fight in front of us. I haven’t forgotten how King Eric treacherously invaded my country, and I haven’t forgiven him. Eric is dead, but he has left behind a son, and I want my vengeance. Eric conquered Denmark. Now, I will conquer Sweden. Bard, encourage us. Friends, drink to another journey.”
The snake of the clash of swords knows how to find a trail of blood!
The worm moves along heavy paths of thought toward the warm river of dea
th …
* * *
The taste of wine which flowed that night in Roskilde, the sound of Skuli’s bloody verses, the shouts of joy from the chieftains, their desire for revenge awakened … he could still hear it all as he stood, now, on the Wind Hunter’s deck, and sailed on its first journey. East. He stood on the bows and reveled in the salty air whipping around him. He let his red hair down. He spread out his arms and shouted:
“Queen Sigrid Storråda, a king is coming for you!”
SWEDEN
Świętosława went hunting with the falcons.
“His gift should be useful for something,” she said firmly.
Wilkomir cast her a sidelong glance and handed her a glove.
“No,” she said, hesitantly. “You take the falcons. I … don’t know if I want to tame them.”
“I understand,” he said, and they set off.
Barely a week had passed since Olav’s departure, but it seemed to her as if it had been a year. She had summoned the merchant of Birka, Rognvald Ulfsson, whose plotting Bork had warned her of, but he had refused to come to the queen. Jarl Asgrim was under no illusions: “Rognvald is leaning toward outright rebellion. You should quell him, my queen.”
Quell him, but how? Should I send Great Ulf to the Birch Isle? she wondered gloomily as she followed Wilkomir to hunt. It’s nonsense. The island doesn’t need walls to become Rognvald’s stronghold, and he knows that. I should have summoned his sons from Denmark, Erling and Bjarne, before King Sven took back the country. If I had those two in hand, I could call their father to heel.
They passed through the alder forest beyond which a field stretched, then the swamps began. Wilkomir stopped.
“We’ll hunt here, my lady.”
His men were taking the pair of falcons from their cage. They sat on Wilkomir’s glove, their feathers standing on end.
The Widow Queen Page 47