She lifted a goblet and smiled at Sven.
“To a satisfying conclusion of our talks.”
He responded with a smile, and drank. At sea, in the sunlight, he had seemed younger than he did now in the flickering firelight. She had already figured out that his smiles meant nothing, that he could serve threats with a cheerful expression. His eyes were the thing that couldn’t lie. Could he really do it? she wondered. Could he really drink my mead, eat food under my roof, and still start a war?
Those who came at the wrong time
Were reprimanded by our merciful lady.
The flames washed their soiled hands
The fire cleansed their …
“Ah, if only that could be repeated,” she whispered to Wilkomir in their mother tongue.
He maintained a stony expression, nodded, and looked at the men sitting at the tables. Her eyes followed his. Sven’s men were looking from the bard to her, open-mouthed. Her people were greedily looking at the flames of the fireplace.
No, my loyal ones, my loved ones, she thought. We gave them your sons as hostages. No more burning those who “came at the wrong time.”
Thank God that Thorvald remembered to leave out the flowery verse which described the burning bathouse, the heat of the flames, the smoke rising from the cinders, the arrogance of the punished suitors, and the screams with which they bid the bold lady goodbye. He moved on to lighter verses, leaving the violent details for other celebrations in a smaller circle.
Sigrid Storråda flies in a golden sleigh
Pulled by two wild cats.
“Oh, my lady,” Sven spoke cheerfully. “There are stories that you have tamed lynxes. Could we see them?”
“If you’d like, my lord.”
She nodded to Dusza; the girl returned after a moment, leading the lynxes. She bowed to Świętosława and handed over the leash.
“They aren’t tame,” Świętosława said. “I beg you, my king, and let Master Jorun and Jarl Stenkil be my witnesses, do not touch them. I have guaranteed your personal safety, my lord, and I would not like to break my word.”
Sven’s eyes gleamed; she could see he was fighting himself, wanting to touch the cats. Wrzask growled warningly. She pulled on the leash, and the lynxes lay down at her feet.
“Then, in the port in Wolin, you were wearing a lynx fur,” he said.
So, he remembers our meeting after all, she thought.
“I don’t wear that fur since I’ve had live lynxes,” she replied.
A lighting clad in speckles leaps
wherever its mistress commands.
“Must we listen to the entire poem?” Sven asked.
It’s not just the one. I ordered Thorvald to add another hundred verses so that Ulf’s men might have time to summon the crews from the northern parts of the country, she thought. Out loud, she said:
“Don’t you like poetry, my lord? Perhaps more mead will help you appreciate it?”
“I’m a king, a warrior, and conquerer, which means I cannot live without bards who will make rhymes about my feats,” he replied, and his blue eyes shone coldly. “Let’s return to affairs of state, my lady, and then we might have more time for poetry. I will ask you a question. Do you want war?”
“No.”
“Then we can keep talking. Firstly, please accept this gift from me.” He handed her something in an open palm.
“It’s a silver coin,” she said, taking it.
She brought the denar close to her eyes and read: ZVEN REX DENER. Sven King of Denmark.
“I ordered a few thousand to be minted. Take it, it’s a gift.”
“I’d prefer to see one that said Olof King of Swedes.”
He laughed aloud.
“You fight for your son. But you don’t have to, I don’t intend to harm him. As proof of my good intentions, please accept another gift from me. Jorun, bring them.”
Jorun’s hair was as wild as a bale of hay. He looked like someone who would stop at nothing in battle, but his pale eyes were good-humored. He returned after a long moment, leading two men with ropes around their wrists. They were dirty and miserable, and at first she didn’t recognize them. Wilkomir had to remind her who they were.
“Erling and Bjarne, the sons of Rognvald of Birka.”
I told Eric to send them to Denmark as tax collectors, she thought quickly. If they are in Sven’s hands, then he might know from them that Rognvald has been rebelling.
“You’re welcome, Queen Sigrid. They’re yours. You can do with them what you wish.” Sven’s blue eyes flashed.
“Firstly, feed them and send them to the bathhouse,” she said.
Uncontrollable laughter spread around the hall.
“For them to wash,” she added loudly. “We will need them alive. And guard them.”
She turned to Sven. “I appreciate your gifts. What are your terms?”
“You will be my wife and I will take you to Roskilde. In return, I will give up my plans to invade Sweden, and your son will remain here, in Sigtuna, and he’ll rule the country in his own name. In case of trouble from the proud merchants of Birka, or other nobles, I’ll serve him with my armies and help…”
You’ll take regency over Olof. Yes, you’ll help keep his opposition in check, but in return you gain influence in his kingdom. They’ll be able to call him a “Danish viceroy.” It’s unacceptable, she thought, translating his words into facts. And, what’s worse, by taking me to bed, you’ll disgrace Eric’s memory. You’ll wash away his greatness and undo the defeat you received at his hands … Christ, and I thought Olav Tryggvason’s terms were beneath me …
She interrupted Sven.
“My lord, is it true what they say, that you still worship the old gods, even though Emperor Otto himself baptized you?”
He took out a chain from under his decorated caftan and waved it toward her with a smile. A small silver cross hung on it, and Mjolnir, Thor’s hammer.
“I know how to marry the old with the new, my lady.”
“My first husband, Eric Segersäll, was a pagan. Have you heard the stories of how he ended his life? If you know those which feature Odin, a knife, and a temple, then let’s accept that you know the truth, my lord. When he burned on the funeral pyre, I swore to myself that if I married again, it would have to be a Christian union. What do you say to that, Sven?”
He pulled on Mjolnir, ripped it off the chain, and handed it to her.
“Lay it down as a gift to Thor in Uppsala. The old gods have apparently heard your prayers.”
She took the silver decoration with a small laugh, shaking her head.
“I don’t lay down gifts for the old gods. Back to the matter at hand. We will be married by a priest, and if God blesses us with children, they will be baptized.”
“Will the bishop of Ribe satisfy you?” He bared his teeth. “His name is Oddinkarr. I know, it sounds suspiciously Odin-like, but I assure you, he has been ordained in Bremen. Or, if you’d prefer, I’ll have a bishop brought over from England. To be honest, that would suit me, as the aforementioned Oddinkarr is rather too friendly with the Saxons.”
“An English bishop is fine.” She nodded. “But Ion, my monk, comes with me.”
“The fat man with cheeks as red as an apple? Do you like stocky men?” Sven asked, patting his flat stomach.
“A monk is not a man,” she announced.
“I disagree,” Ion interrupted. “The queen knows that I worship the Lord in every moment of my life…”
“No more maids, Ion,” she cut off firmly. “You may have been unpunished here, but there you’ll be under the eye of the Church.”
“They don’t have to be maids,” Ion groaned. “They can be married women…”
“Zgrzyt,” she whispered, and the lynx rose. “Ion,” she pointed.
Zgrzyt growled and snapped his teeth lazily. He most certainly did not want to bother with Ion, but the monk fell quiet.
“You mentioned a daughter, King Sven,” she returned to
their conversation. “Does her mother also live at court? Do you have other children out of wedlock?”
“And you, my lady?” he cocked his head.
“No. Olof is my only son.”
“And does your heart not beat faster for anyone else?” he persisted, studying her with interest.
“The heart of a queen beats only for her kingdom,” she said.
A mere two weeks earlier, Olav had sat where Sven did now.
I was proud and foolish, she thought. Now, as punishment, I must negotiate for myself, knowing that if I fail, my fate will be ruined, as will my son’s and my country’s. Olav didn’t threaten me, he only wanted what seemed then too much.
“You give excellent replies, my lady. I will be honored to have such a wife.”
“Not so quickly, my lord. We haven’t finished yet. Let’s talk about my son…”
“The only one for now,” he interrupted and winked, licking his lips with the tip of his tongue.
Maybe Great Ulf’s men will arrive in time? she thought. Maybe they can get the ships?
“I cannot speak about children I do not have,” she replied. “I want Olof to retain his independence. I did not speak in jest when I mentioned his denar. Give him a minter who will prepare coins with my son’s name on them, and a sign to name him the only king of Sweden.”
“Sigtuna,” Sven corrected.
“Fine. Sigtuna and Sweden. Olof King of Swedes, that’s what his name shall be from now on.”
She leaned to her left and squeezed her son’s hand. It was cold, but sweaty. She smiled to Olof, and Sven laughed again. Laughter must be an answer to what angers him as well as that which he finds entertaining, she thought.
“Olof King of Swedes,” Sven replied, and rose. “Olof, come here, let me embrace you. I will be your stepfather.”
Świętosława stopped her son in his seat and turned to the king.
“You can embrace at our wedding. We haven’t finished…”
Sven nimbly turned to her, grabbed her shoulders, lifted her, and whispered straight into her face.
“The bold lady allows herself too much. Choose your words carefully, girl, because instead of you I’ll marry Thordis of Birka, and then neither you nor Olof will be of any use to me.”
She froze as she heard this, knowing he meant what he said, her mind suddenly overrun by the image of herself and her son falling, struggling for breath, trapped beneath the ice. She imagined them dripping and cold, as Thora had been when they’d pulled her from the river. At the same moment, she heard the lynxes growl throatily, and she felt the leash go taut. Without thinking, she leaned in toward Sven’s lips and kissed him. He was surprised, she could tell, but then responded quickly. He released her shoulders from their iron grip and embraced her. Wrzask and Zgrzyt calmed beside her. Joyful cheers sounded in the hall:
“Queen Sigrid Storråda and King Sven!”
“Sigrid and Sven!”
The redbeard grew passionate. He kissed her as if he were fighting a battle, and his hands moved from her shoulders toward her breasts. That’s when she bit him. He jerked back and lifted a hand to his lips; there was a drop of blood on his finger. Świętosława grabbed his hand and laughed.
“And this is our first night together. The first blood has flowed.”
And she licked it off, pulling his fingertips to her mouth.
44
SWEDEN
Sven had fallen in love with her. That wasn’t wise. He’d come to conquer and defile her, but there it was. It’ll pass, he reassured himself. It’ll pass after the wedding, one doesn’t love a wife, after all.
He planned to leave Sigtuna as soon as possible. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that Sigrid might be playing for time and gathering armies in her country. Besides, that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to hurry. Olav Tryggvason was the second. He’d received a message that the Yngling had been in Sigtuna before him, and apparently, he and the queen had parted in anger. But he knew the stubbornness of the “second chieftain,” and he suspected Olav wouldn’t give up so easily. Yes, they were going head to head, as if fate had decided to lead them in tandem. Like Sigrid’s two lynxes on a leash, he thought, then pushed the image away angrily. She got those lynxes from him, and I am not on her leash.
The two deaths Sven and Olav had needed, Eric the Victorious’s in Sweden and Jarl Haakon’s in Norway, had come at the same time. If Olav had joined with Sigrid, their united countries would be more powerful than his Denmark. But Tryggvason, according to Sven’s information, hadn’t come here with a fleet or threatened the queen with war. And he didn’t have a crown to offer her, because he hadn’t won it yet. Who has a crown has the queen, he laughed to himself. I wasn’t first, but I still beat him to it. I can’t wait for the wedding night, when I take to my bed the woman of both my old enemy and the new. Maybe I should call myself Sven the Victorious?
He watched carefully who his new wife was taking with her to Denmark. Without mincing her words, she bartered for everything, for every man or woman.
“Dusza is my shadow, she never leaves my side.” She was adamant that the silent servant was coming with her.
“So I’ll be taking both of you to bed?” he mocked.
“Perhaps let Jorun join us then,” she retorted with a smile.
He blushed. Even his boldest lovers had never suggested such a thing. He hoped she couldn’t see the color in his cheeks.
“Great Ulf and Wilkomir with their men.”
“You’ve got to be joking, my lady. It is tradition that a wife brings her maids with her to her husband’s home. I have been surprised by many things in Sigtuna, but I hadn’t expected your procession of servants to consist of warriors with scarred faces.”
“I prefer men marked by scars than those with smooth cheeks,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
He undid his belt and grabbed his caftan as if he were about to take it off.
“Do you want to see my scars?” he asked.
Instead of blushing, she shrugged.
“If you like to undress in front of the servants.” She motioned at the girls laying the table for the feast.
Damn it, he cursed in his head, letting go of his caftan. I’m not taking a virgin. And I’m letting her provoke me as if I were a pup.
“Great Ulf can come, but not Wilkomir,” he decided. He preferred one of Eric’s old chieftains to be beside her, one who would not be loved in Roskilde.
“Fine. Instead of the father I’ll take the son. Wilczan for Wilkomir.”
“Is he like his father?”
“Quite the opposite, and he’s practically still a child.”
“Why do you want a little boy? I assure you, I’ll give you one of our own quickly.”
“Don’t brag.” She stuck out her tongue as if she were a defiant child herself. “I’m taking Wilczan.”
She didn’t let Sven kiss her, though the sight of her tongue drew him to her immediately. The hellish lynxes were beside her already, though.
“The cats stay,” he said, teasing her just to see her anger. Since he’d arrived, he’d discovered that he liked sharp women. The ones he’d taken to bed and paid in the past were often sweet and docile.
“Fine, the cats stay. But the lynxes come with me. Let’s talk of the dowries.”
“I prefer morgengold,” he teased again. “I can’t wait to give you the morning gift.”
“But you’ll have to.”
He waved a hand.
“I don’t need your dowry. I’m rich.”
“But I want to receive one from you, a bride price, like a real wife.” She smiled sweetly. “Otherwise, someone might argue our marriage could be annulled.”
Finally, after two days of bartering, he managed to load everything and everyone that Sigrid wanted to take. In the end, she even ordered a cage with the falcons to be brought on the Wind Hunter’s deck. The bird she had sent to Olav had returned; every time she looked at the falcons, the pair of them together, it pained her, but i
t would have pained her more to leave them behind. She bid her son goodbye, and her chieftains, jarls, and servants. The great, gray-bearded priest of Odin even walked her to the harbor. Sven’s Christian fiancée, who had so vehemently argued for a church wedding, somehow didn’t mind the blessing of a pagan sacrifice. When they pushed off, she looked behind her only once. He urged the crews to hurry so that they left Mälaren Bay for the open waters as quickly as possible. They had the wind, which he took as a good sign. When they met the rest of his fleet, they exchanged the hostages each side had held during the negotiations, and Sven’s ships sailed west.
“We’re going home, my lady,” he shouted to her. “What was your ship called?”
“Wave Queen.”
“Wind Hunter will replace her from now on. Look behind you, my lady, and see what your future husband is building his might on.” He took her by the shoulders and delicately spun her around, showing her his ships. “That’s the Fiery Cub, with twenty-four benches. And these three brotherly ships are the Night Thorn, the West Thorn, and the Long Thorn. Fast, sharp, and reliable for boarding…”
“Three thorns?” she asked, paling.
“Yes! Three Thorns. Behind them are Loki’s Spear, Golden Helmet…”
He felt Sigrid slide to the deck.
* * *
Olof rode Thorhalla along the shore. His mother had left him her mare. “It’s a sensitive and brave animal,” she’d said when giving it to him. He felt his eyes fill with tears again at the thought. He turned around. Wilkomir was riding quite a distance behind him. That’s good, Olof thought. I don’t want him to see me crying.
Olof understood what had happened; he wasn’t a child, he was ten. But everything inside him rebelled against the tide of events. First, his father’s death, and then everything that happened at the speed of an avalanche. Everyone referred to him as “Eric’s heir, the young king,” but nobody valued him. None of the string of nightmarish suitors who wanted to marry his mother came close to filling his father’s shoes, but they dared to come to his court and pat him condescendingly on the shoulder. He sat at his mother’s side at the feasts thrown for them, and felt disgust at the thought that one of these old men twisted with arthritic joints, youngsters, or fat ones with chain mail that barely covered their bellies would take his lord father’s place. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that each of them dreamed of taking away the crown from a little boy, the crown that was his by right of birth. The two who had kidnapped him and threatened him with a knife … what sort of candidates for fathers were they? It was a good thing that Mother burned them, too, though that horrific night still awoke a monstrous fear in him.
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