The Widow Queen

by Elzbieta Cherezinska

  “Aren’t you taking off their hoods?” she asked.

  “In a moment. Let them calm down. The falcon is sensitive, easily riled.”

  Like me, when I saw Olav in the harbor, she thought. She felt sick. Memory chased memory.

  “Let the lynxes off the leash, my lady. They’ll scare the water birds from the reeds. Falcons hunt only in the air.”

  She unclipped the leash. Wrzask and Zgryzt stretched, and trotted off, disappearing in the tall grass.

  “Do you remember my father and his hunts with the hawk?” she asked hollowly, to draw her own attention toward anything other than the Norwegian king.

  “I remember everything,” he said. “The night before Yule when your father gave your brother half his squad. And that you came there voluntarily, dressed as Dusza. And you faced down Duchess Oda.”

  He removed the falcons’ hoods delicately. The birds shook their heads at the same time. The female was larger than the male and towered over him on Wilkomir’s arm. The birds had black, shining eyes with no pupils. They cocked their heads, as if trying to see into each other’s souls.

  “Do you wish Mieszko hadn’t sent you north, Wilkomir?”

  “No,” he replied. “I don’t.”

  The sound of rustling wings reached them from the bushes where the lynxes prowled. The falcons stretched their necks. A gaggle of wild geese flew above the field. The falcons launched themselves off the glove with powerful talons. They quickly gained speed, flying in circles and, rising higher, almost immediately separated.

  “I can’t tell which is which anymore,” Świętosława shouted, shielding her eyes with her hand.

  “Nor can I,” Wilkomir replied. “Look, one of them is attacking.”

  The bird had risen above the geese and was diving toward them now. In a split second, faster than the blink of an eye, it hit its target. The goose desperately beat its wings, but began to fall. Then, with a lightning fast, long glide just above ground, the second falcon slid and caught the goose.

  They are so swift that no one can tell whether it’s the female or male who delivers the deadly blow. Does it matter, if they form a couple? Olav, in her memory, looked in her eyes, then slowly turned and walked away. She felt as if someone had just landed a blow to her stomach. She hunched over, clinging to her mare’s neck. Thorhalla responded by neighing quietly.

  How long would Olav pain her? Would this feeling dry with time, like blood on a skinned knee? Would it be covered with a layer of thick skin, untouchable?

  “If you want to give me an answer to my proposal, send a falcon,” he’d said before he left. Wrzask appeared from the grass, followed by Zgrzyt. The bloody streaks on their muzzles told of their successful hunt. Predator cats, predator birds, all had their hunts today. She was the one left with empty hands. If he’d at least confessed his love for her, instead of asking for her hand and armies. Uniting their kingdoms was more important to him than uniting lovers. And the cheek with which he’d behaved under her own roof. Damn him!

  Wilkomir was summoning the falcons.

  “My lady … Świętosława … I’ll say this to you now, while no one can hear us, and I’ll never repeat it. You will not hold your throne alone. You will be forced to marry someone who can defend your and Olof’s inheritance. You know that the game of royals is not without its losses. Your father would say that no alliance tasted of mead. The better the agreement, the bitterer the taste. Tryggvason wouldn’t be a bad choice, even if he cost you some pride.”

  The falcons landed on his arm, one after the other. Świętosława digested his words. Did he know what she truly felt, that Tryggvason had stolen her heart? Did he want to embolden her? Help her make up her mind? Wilkomir wasn’t a child; she’d ordered him to guard the boathouse when she locked herself in with Olav.

  “Give me the glove,” she replied. “I want to tame a falcon.”

  “The male or female?” he asked.

  “I don’t care.” She reached out. “They form a pair, anyway.”

  The mare shook her head a few times, as if irritated by the bird’s presence. Świętosława tried to ride evenly. The falcon didn’t weigh much, but the presence of the hunter of the skies, whose deadly skill she’d just witnessed, made her feel shy. A live creature, she thought, which takes away life.

  The hunt was meant to calm her, to prepare her for her conversation with Rognvald Ulfsson. Instead, it sent her thoughts reeling. He wouldn’t be a bad choice? she repeated after Wilkomir. Since Olav’s departure, she kept catching bits of sentences echoing in her mind. The alder wood gave way to heathland. She should call the lynxes before they reached the road. How? She couldn’t shout, it risked startling the falcon trustingly perched on her forearm. They rode uphill slowly. Wilkomir stopped his horse; without turning around, he waited for her to join him. They saw yellow-green fields, peppered with heather, from the flat, wide hilltop. In the distance, they could see the smoke rising from Sigtuna’s houses. The stony, windy path along which a few people were riding. A week ago, she thought, we rode down this hill and we heard the horns in the harbor. And then the salt on his skin … she didn’t think any longer. She pulled the leather hood off the falcon. She lifted her arm up.

  “Find Olav,” she commanded.

  The bird launched itself from her arm and into the air. It screeched sharply.

  “Find him,” she repeated.

  The falcon beat its wings, and headed west. Wilkomir turned sharply, frowning. She didn’t return his gaze. The riders below had caught her attention, because Great Ulf was leading them. Wilkomir had also recognized him.

  “Ride down slowly,” he cautioned.

  She led Thorhalla carefully, and they met on the road.

  “My lady. A foreign fleet is headed our way. It passed Gotland just yesterday. Scouts counted nearly fifty warships.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “King Sven.”

  Thorhalla neighed, as if she knew what Great Ulf had said. Świętosława made up her mind on the spot.

  “I will sail out to meet him.”

  “What?” Ulf asked, not understanding her initially, and shaking his head when he did. “No, my queen. It will be a fight. Sven will want to take his revenge for Eric’s conquests in his homeland…”

  “I will sail to meet him to avoid bloodshed,” she announced calmly.

  “Świętosława is right,” Wilkomir said, surprising them all. “If anyone can prevent bloodshed, it’s a queen sailing out to meet a foreign king. But we must hurry, before they reach Mälaren Bay.”

  * * *

  Two days later, dressed in purple-red dresses, with the rich necklace of crystals on her neck, and a cloak lined with ermine fur, she stood on the deck of the Wave Queen as it approached Sven’s fleet with its sails billowing.

  “… eight … ten … twelve…” Asgrim counted.

  Tense silence reigned over the deck. It wasn’t fifty ships, as the scouts had said. It was one hundred. Over one hundred. She’d need at least four weeks to match that. At the moment, there were barely twenty with her.

  I am paying for my father and Eric’s war, she thought. For humiliating Sven all those years ago. They’re both dead, and if I don’t come up with something, Olof and I will die, too. Christ, I sent Tryggvason a falcon. Olav is probably heading toward Göta älv’s estuary right now. If the falcon could speak, and ask him for help in my name … Nonsense. I didn’t help him, and the falcon is just a bird.

  The enemy fleet approached, arranged like an arrowhead with one ship in the lead, the royal one, she suspected. On seeing her ships spread out in a line, the invaders did the same.

  “Give the command to sound the horn—to welcome our guests, not to start a war,” she told Great Ulf.

  Both sets of ships stopped. They were close enough now that they could make out individual people on each other’s decks.

  “Which one is Sven?” she asked, walking to the bow.

  “The tall redhead,” Great Ulf said.

>   “Will he accept my invitation to come onto my ship?”

  “He would be a fool if he did.”

  “Welcome him in my name,” she said, rearranging her cloak.

  Great Ulf had a powerful voice.

  “Queen Sigrid Storråda welcomes King Sven onto her waters,” he roared.

  “King Sven is honored that the great lady has sailed out to meet him,” a fair-haired man next to Sven replied.

  “What brings you here?” Ulf shouted.

  Sven’s men began to beat their shields with their swords in reply. The terrible, rhythmic sound of steel carried toward them over the water. Świętosława’s heart raced.

  “Suggest a meeting, in the middle,” she said quickly. “Him and me, six oarsmen each, no weapons.”

  The Danes agreed, and two small boats were soon lowered onto the water. Wilkomir wanted to climb down first, but she stopped him.

  “No, my friend. You stay here. If anything happens to me, you will look out for Olof. Jarl Asgrim and Great Ulf will come with me.”

  Wilkomir grimaced as he always did, and nodded. Asgrim helped her climb down. She almost lost her balance when the small boat swayed under her feet. The even movements of the oars, the slap of water; they were approaching each other quickly. A seagull called overhead. The boats stopped side by side, and then she recognized him.

  Years ago, his red beard had been shorter, and it hadn’t been plaited into two braids. But that hair … still long and restless like the flames. Silver circles decorated his wrists, and he had a triple belt on his hips. Yes, today, he looked like the god Thor.

  “Queen,” he said.

  She replied:

  “Tilgiv mig! Hold oje pa hvem du rorer! Nej, du skal holde oje!”

  Those had been the first words she’d learned in the tongue of Vikings. Ten years ago, in Wolin. A stranger and Astrid had shouted at each other on the dock after the man had collided with them. Świętosława hadn’t known then what they meant, but today she repeated them with full understanding. “Be careful who you stumble into.”

  He looked at her for a moment, frowning.

  “Don’t you remember our first meeting? You weren’t a king, nor I a queen, but we’ve stumbled into each other before, Sven.”

  He laughed.

  “That’s what I’d call a good beginning. My lady, I am honored to meet you a second time.”

  “I would have been content with the first.”

  “If your husband hadn’t rushed into my waters, perhaps I would agree. But, as I’m sure you understand, things have gone too far. Vengeance, a debt of honor.”

  “My husband is dead,” she announced, lifting her chin high.

  If he wasn’t, you’d never have dared, she thought furiously.

  “That’s why I need to settle the score with you,” he said, and anger gleamed in his blue eyes.

  Over one hundred warships against my twenty. A grim outcome was certain.

  “What do you suggest, King Sven?”

  “Well, my lady, since you ask … You have no husband, and I could use a wife…”

  Christ help me, she thought, forcing her expression to remain neutral. Anything but this.

  “I suggest a good, amiable solution,” Sven continued.

  “I have a son, an heir to the throne,” she said firmly.

  “Good,” Sven praised. “That’s proof that you’re fertile.”

  “And you?” she replied quickly, trying to stop herself from slapping his face.

  “I have a daughter, if you need proof of my manhood, my lady, before we meet in the bedchamber.” He laughed, as if surprised by his own forwardness. “I will take care of your son. I can bring your unsettled nobles under control, and persuade them to be loyal to … what’s his name? Oh, yes, Olof.”

  How does he know about them? she thought. Maybe he’s just guessing?

  “And?” Sven asked, cocking his head. The smile didn’t leave his face. “Do you think we have something to talk about? Or would you prefer for us to part in anger and…”

  “There is always time for anger if we run out of goodwill,” she said calmly. “Accept my invitation to Sigtuna, King. And leave your ships here. Let’s exchange hostages to prove our good intentions.”

  “I will happily see the famous royal court. But forgive me, my lady, I will not accept an invitation to the bathhouse. I have heard songs about how hot the baths are in the home of Sigrid Storråda.”

  She laughed for the first time.

  “Oh, King! Those are ordinary suitors, and you, from what I hear, have not come to ask for my hand.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “I will not ask.”

  43

  Olav rode south to the estuary of Göta älv, where he’d told Świętosława he’d meet her; she would be heading there from Sigtuna, traveling west. The falcon had found him, though it arrived half-dead. When had she sent the bird? When would she arrive at their prearranged meeting place? He left without delay, but he was aware that the bird and the meeting he’d suggested, it was all at least a little strange. If it hadn’t been for the emotions which ruled him … He regretted it now. He had been sure that she wouldn’t reply, that her wounded pride would win. Something had gone wrong and it was hard to say which one of them was to blame. That’s why the falcon had surprised him; when it had arrived, he didn’t pause to wonder for a second, he left Varin in command and his armies continuing from Viken to Agder, while he turned back and made for the estuary. The squad his mother’s husband, Lodin, had given him accompanied him.

  They rode along the path by the shore; they hurried, and didn’t spare their horses, though when night found them they were forced to stop. The night was dark, moonless and cloudy. They expected autumn rains. They went deeper into the forest, unharnessed the horses, and allowed them to graze. His half brother Torkil organized the night watches and advised them not to light fires.

  “If I’m counting correctly, we’ve crossed into the borderlands,” Torkil said, making himself a bed from branches and his cloak. “This area has been the bridge between Sweden, Norway, and Denmark for years. My father told me that in the old times, kings would come here and share their plunder from bloody wars. They negotiated peace, marrying their daughters and sons. They exchanged hostages, struck alliances. Sleep, Olav. If all goes well, we will be at Göta älv’s estuary by tomorrow night.”

  Despite his half brother’s advice, Olav didn’t sleep well. He lay awake, remembering his time in Sigtuna. Odin’s gray-bearded priest in whose defense Świętosława had stood. Her anger. And she’d confessed her love for him! Why couldn’t she have acted as a woman should, and leave matters of the kingdom to him?

  He laughed humorlessly at his own thoughts, trying to imagine anyone telling the bold one how she should act. He was foolish not to have expected this of her. His heart had been stolen by a lion, not a lamb.

  He got up. There was no point tossing restlessly anymore. The mist was beginning to rise, and a cloudy dawn was coming. He nodded to the watchmen and went for a walk. To loosen his joints, stiff from the cold night. Eventually, he came to a clearing with several big flat rocks. He sat down on one.

  The sun pierced the clouds and, rising between the trees, painted the damp morning air in gold. He heard a cracking branch to one side. An animal returning to its burrow after a night’s hunt? A forest always echoed with sounds familiar only to itself; it was a silent forest that was dangerous. He rubbed his hand over the rock, which was already warming in the sunshine, and some of the moss coating stuck to his fingers. He shook his hand, flinging the bits of dirt and grass away, then looked back down at the rock. He froze. Then he was scrambling up and tearing the moss piece by piece from its surface.

  Images were carved into the flat stone. Long ships appeared as the vegetation was scraped away, sailing side by side in the stone, drawn with men holding spears on their decks. There were silhouettes of reindeer, deer, and great sea fish. A lone dog. People hunting animals. People fighting ea
ch other. Dead people, falling to the depths of the seas. Olav felt sweat break out on his forehead. Someone had carved the histories of battles, victories, defeats, deaths, and births into these rocks. And then his gaze fell onto the highest point, where he’d been sitting moments before. Two great figures, a long-haired woman and a man opposite her. Reaching out to each other like lovers. There was a silver layer of lichen above them.

  He jumped toward them and rubbed the rock clean, his heart hammering. A man, or an old priest, or perhaps an old god, with a great axe in his hand. It was leaning over the pair of lovers, in the midst of delivering a powerful, deadly blow. The stone had immortalized this moment. The lovers would forever reach out to each other longingly, while their murderer would endlessly be about to strike, until the day that time crumbled the rocks. Olav was breathing quickly, shallowly. He understood. The lovers wouldn’t meet, because fate wasn’t in their favor. That’s when he heard quiet footsteps. He turned around sharply. A dog. A great white dog.

  “Are you a vision?” he asked in a whisper.

  The dog barked and jumped onto the carved rock. Olav walked over carefully, reaching out a hand. The dog sniffed it, whining briefly, then lay down on the rock, at the feet of the carved lovers.

  SWEDEN

  Świętosława sat on her tall chair in Sigtuna’s hall. Dusza had braided her hair, placing a silver band among the plaits. Her son sat to her left. Then Wilkomir, Jarl Asgrim, Ion. To her right, at some distance, sat Sven, with Jorun and Jarl Stenkil beside him. She called his men by their names, she’d learned them all, even those who sat at the tables farthest away.

  Thorvald, the Icelandic bard, was reciting a poem about the queen.

  Sigrid Proud, Sigrid Ruthless,

  to whose bright home

  suitors doggedly come,

  from the rocky borders along a swampy path …

  Before the feast, she’d ordered the servants to go through their crockery. “Don’t use anything that Eric brought back from Denmark. Goblets, jugs, bowls … hide everything. We can’t let the guests be given food in their own dishes.”