“And now, wife, meet the lord of Ribe, Vigmar.” Contrariness echoed in Sven’s voice. This is an opponent, she thought.
“Where is Ribe?” she asked Vigmar.
“On the western shores of Jutland,” the man replied, bowing his head to her.
“Close to the Saxon border,” Sven added. “Why has your older brother, the reverend Bishop Oddinkarr, not accepted my invitation?”
“His health hasn’t been the best, my lord,” Vigmar replied stiffly. “He’s asked me to convey to you and the new lady that he rejoices in your union.”
“Has he sent a gift to make up for his absence?” Sven asked impudently.
Świętosława studied Vigmar and her lord husband with curiosity. She would have been happy to meet the bishop to find out something more about their conflict. The lord of Ribe looked rather disgruntled at having to participate in the celebrations. Will my husband’s enemies be my friends? she wondered.
Arnora sat at the back of the hall, in the corner. Świętosława’s eyes kept being drawn to her. A silver-haired woman with her head held high, the woman seemed completely removed from the celebration around her.
Is she clad in chains under that rich cloak? she wondered, but she knew from Sven’s earlier reaction that she shouldn’t ask about it. Not now.
The hall was full to the brim. Women, wives and chieftains’ daughters; Wulfric with some priests; and groups of men with determined faces whose names she hadn’t yet learned. Her own people were seated around the hall, dispersed, and she saw Dusza taking care of little Wilczan. What’s my son Olof doing now? Her chest tightened at the thought.
Jorun, her husband’s constant companion, stood at the foot of the platform and, lifting a large decorated horn, shouted to the gathering:
“Here we see that all the gods, the old and the new ones … new one,” he corrected himself swiftly, “favor our king. After the infamous and victorious invasion of England, he’s returned home happily, giving us and the country riches. And now the king has given us a queen, the famous Sigrid Storråda. Let’s greet her warmly under our roof.”
She exchanged a swift glance with Ulf. He didn’t like this toast, either.
“To the king!” the guests replied to Jorun.
“To the king!”
She felt her cheeks burn. They didn’t want to drink a toast to her. They looked at her as Eric’s wife, not Sven’s. As if she were no more than the spoils of wars, and not their lady. Damn it! It’s as if he’s dragged me here in chains.
Jorun handed Sven the great horn, and he drank from it and stood up.
“I’m honored the queen Sigrid has accepted my proposal. It’s a sign that the times of war are becoming times of peace, and we all love peace! If you’re bored with it, if home hearths bore you, I will lead you west or north. Let’s give England a chance to rebuild itself after my last visit, and to fill her coffers…”
They were finally cheerful, interrupting Sven with loud laughter.
“… the time will also come to move northward. Norway is forgetting about our old hold over her…”
The guests were hitting the table in glee. She felt bile rise to her throat. So, this is how it will be, lord husband? You conquered England side by side with Tryggvason, and now you dream of defeating Olav?
“… my father’s sister, the famous Lady Gunhild, was the queen of Norway,” Sven continued, “but since she was exiled, Denmark has lost its Norwegian fiefdom…”
Is he speaking of the widow Gunhild? she wondered feverishly. The one who was behind Olav’s father’s death? The one who chased after his pregnant mother? Who preyed on the last heir of the Norwegian kings? Where is he going with this?
“There is an honorable old tradition, according to which a woman changes her name when she comes to her husband’s country after the wedding. I want to ask my new bride to accept the name of the Lechitic Gunhild, to remember the Danish Gunhild. In this way, we will celebrate my famous aunt as well as my new queen’s homeland.”
Her heart was beating quickly and unevenly. Stenkil, Thorgils, Ragn of the Isles, and Uddorm were the first to take up the chant:
“Gunhild! Gunhild!”
Over my dead body, she thought as she listened to them. Sven turned to her with a horrid, mocking smirk.
“What do you say, my lady?”
She stood up. Wrzask and Zgrzyt immediately followed suit, standing either side of her.
“Husband, lords of Denmark. Gunhild is a beautiful name,” she called out in a singsong voice, and fell silent as she looked at them all. “But you mentioned, my king, that Queen Gunhild had been exiled. And I, since I’ve met you and since you’ve shown me your country on our journey here, would not want to have to leave sweet Denmark for all the riches in the world. These dark-green waters, charming rocky isles, gentle slopes of the fjords. Why, at the same moment that you’ve shown me such a wonderful and welcoming country, would you want to give me the name of an exiled queen?”
The silence she heard in the hall encouraged her to continue.
“I met your brave men today. Thorgils of Jelling, Uddorm of Viborg, Ragn of the Isles, Haakon of Funen, Gjotgar of Scania…” She nodded at each of them. “And I had the honor of hosting the noble Stenkil of Hobro in my home in Sigtuna. I suspect that your loyal comrades fought against my previous husband years ago, King Eric. Do you think it doesn’t matter to them, my sweet Sven, that now at your side sits Sigrid Storråda, their old enemy’s wife? My new friends, will your hearts not be happy to hear this name? It is, after all, the best proof of your victory.”
They were nodding. Yes. She wielded their own weapon against them. Would she win? She turned to Sven. He looked concerned. She smiled radiantly at him.
“But it is your right, husband. If you wish it, you can call me Gunhild.”
“Gunhild,” he reached for her, “welcome to Denmark.”
Have I lost? she thought angrily. May the devil take you, Sven. A name is just a dress. It can be discarded at any moment.
“Gunhild Lechitic!” Jorun shouted. “Our queen! Long live the queen!”
“Gunhild!”
“Sigrid!”
“The queen!”
She held on to the mixed shouts greedily. Sven had chosen, but his people were hesitant. She could not openly disobey him. Not now.
Sitting down next to him, she caught his eye. The redbeard was satisfied. She had no intention to give him more reasons for satisfaction by being angry.
“Don’t let Melkorka wait any longer,” she said. “I’m hungry.”
He gave the sign and trestles were quickly brought onto the platform. A fair-haired servant covered it with golden-threaded fabric, and another, redheaded like Sven, laid the crockery. Świętosława’s attention was caught by two goblets of green glass, given by the servants almost worshipfully.
“An ice cup,” Sven said proudly. “A great rarity.”
“A beautiful thing,” she agreed, lifting it against the light. “We had many at my father’s court, and carafes, too. From green and, far rarer, blue glass. Arabian merchants brought them for my father.”
Sven’s eyes narrowed. It made her happy, and without letting her expression change, she added:
“Yes, glass is very precious. We have a palace chapel in Poznań where my parents are buried. An entire wall of the chapel is made of glass bricks. It has a beautiful hue, you know? Like Baltic amber. What will we drink from your glass goblets?”
“Wine,” he shouted.
“Your country surprises me more with every passing moment. Do you have vineyards?”
“No. But your husband knows how to get wine,” he snarled.
He’s volatile, she thought, as the fair-haired servant poured her wine.
“What’s your name, maid?” she asked the girl.
“Vali,” she replied, quite confidently.
“Thank you, Vali. That’s enough.”
She took a sip. The wine was sweet and strong.
Shoul
d I get drunk to handle my wedding night with redhaired Sven better? Or should I remain alert and sober?
She had two daggers with her. One in the top of her shoe, and the other, a small one, hidden on her back, under an ornamental belt of hard leather she’d put on under her dress, just over her shirt. She and Dusza had devised it as she was being dressed for the wedding. She had managed Sven well enough in Sigtuna, but here, he was at home. She must still be prepared for anything.
“Tell me about your mother, Sven,” she asked when they’d brought out the food.
Melkorka’s pig looked appetizing, though the meat was already cold. She helped herself to a portion out of politeness, but she only nibbled at some bread. It was fresh and crunchy.
“Beautiful, sweet Tove,” Sven said with his mouth full. “She was a Slav like you, my lady.”
“Mściwój’s daughter, the Obotrite ruler.” She remembered her conversations with Mieszko. “What was she like?”
“A mother is a saint to her son,” he said, washing the meat down with wine.
Świętosława caught Melkorka’s uneasy glance. She bit into the roast immediately. Cold, burned, full of fat, and so tough that she could barely swallow it. The guests seemed to have no difficulty, though. They stuffed themselves as much as they could.
“Like a wife is to a husband,” she responded to his comment about Tove.
He drank from his goblet as if it were mead rather than wine; he placed it on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and laughed.
“You jest, Sigrid. If that were the case, we’d marry our mothers.”
Pig, she thought, but she noted what he’d called her with satisfaction. She didn’t comment. Let him get it wrong as often as possible. She took a sip of wine. Could it be that he knew about her and Olav? Was that why he wanted to name her Gunhild? Impossible, how could he know? It was more likely that he wanted to send Tryggvason a warning, to threaten him, or at least rattle him with the memory of the bloody widow. At the thought of Sven starting a war with Olav, she felt sick. She reached for her wine. She didn’t have to think about everything right now.
The feast flowed lazily. Skuli, Sven’s bard, was killing them with a poem about his king, in which Sven, as a brave warrior, was referred to as the “feeder of carrion,” “Thor’s flame,” or “the destroyer of wolves’ hunger,” and his sword was compared to vipers. Świętosława missed Thorvald’s verses, or anything other than this arrogance.
“Do you know the ‘Song of the Mighty,’ Skuli, bard with the silver voice?” she called out. “I’ll give you a ring if you can recite it for me.”
“The whole thing, my lady?” he asked, his eyes flashing.
“Yes, the whole thing, Skuli.” She laughed. “So long as my husband has nothing against that.”
“Me? Of course not.” Sven took the goblet from his lips. “I’m surprised that my lady, a Christan, wants to hear Odin’s verses.”
“Wulfric.” She turned to the monk. “Are you, a priest, offended by it?”
“Of course not, my queen, what’s wrong with poetry? Besides, adversae res admonent religionem.”
Adversae, adversae, she repeated. I heard this before. Where? When? Father John! That’s what the good priest had been muttering with a sigh when he left the lesson he’d spent trying to teach Bolesław and his friends the catechism. “Adversity reminds men of religion,” yes!
“I agree with you, Wulfric,” she exclaimed cheerfully. “So, Skuli? Will you accept my challenge?”
“‘Song of the Mighty’ for Queen Sigrid,” the monk Ion shouted.
“Gunhild,” Sven corrected him.
“Attendite a falsis prophetis,” the chubby monk muttered.
“What are you saying, priest?” the king asked sharply.
Wulfric refrained from laughing and answered for Ion:
“The pious Benedictine is quoting the Holy Scriptures, King. I will be happy to help you familiarize yourself with them.”
“Later.” Sven swatted Wulfric away as if he were a fly. “Today is my wedding day. Wine!”
Attendite a falsis prophetis … Does that mean “beware of false prophets”? Świętosława tried to remember. In a matter of moments, she felt as if she were back at the feasts in Poznań. Duchess Oda knew some Latin, and had tried to show it off in front of Father John and his chaplains at every opportunity. She’d been moderately successful, and thanks to that Świętosława and Bolesław had grown somewhat familiar with the sound of the Church language. Could I include Wulfric among my allies? Give me him, at least.
Skuli began the long poem. For the first three verses, silence reigned in the hall, then he had to move closer to the platform as her husband’s men grew bored with Odin’s story and returned to talk brought on by beer, mead, and wine.
“Husband? Aren’t you drinking more wine?” she asked, noticing that he pushed away fair-haired Vali when she approached him with a jug.
He smiled at her cheekily.
“And you, my lady?” He motioned at her goblet, which was still half full. “I have washed down all these celebratory rites. Wulfric, the long sermon in the church, the oaths to God or this and that. I’ll be ready to go to bed before Skuli is finished with the poem. What, my beauty? Did you think I’d get drunk on my wedding night? Not likely!”
May you rot in hell, she groaned inwardly.
“Excellent. The next goblet will be shared,” she said, and turned away so she didn’t have to look at him.
She pretended to listen to the bard, but the only thing she heard was the terrified beat of her heart. She remembered the rabbit Zgrzyt had once caught. The animal had been alive, but it had frozen in fear when it was captured by the lynx. She sipped at her wine, and she was the rabbit held between those jaws. No! She interrupted the vision of fear, and pulled on the leash. Wrzask and Zgrzyt moved toward her. She placed her hands on their heads, and closed her eyes.
Skuli was making his voice heard over the noise of the feast with difficulty:
Flame begets flame until it burns out.
Fire starts another fire …
She recalled Eric’s bard’s songs about Brunhild, the Valkyrie clad in armor and surrounded by a circle of flames. She imagined armor growing out of her skin, invisible to the human eye.
“What do you think, wife?” Sven’s voice reached her.
“About what? I’m sorry, the guests are celebrating too loudly, I didn’t hear.”
“I said that we should send Duke Bolesław the happy news of our marriage.”
“Do you think my brother will be happy?” she asked coldly.
“If we are speaking honestly,” he replied with that arrogant smirk, “then I think Bolesław will be furious.”
“You’re farsighted, husband.”
“Your first marriage was aimed at me…”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she interrupted, jutting out her chin. “It was about your father.”
He burst out laughing.
“I am discovering the joys of conversation at your side. I hope to have a taste of other enjoyable things tonight.”
“This changes nothing with regards to my brother, if we return to the matter at hand.”
“And his fury will change nothing regarding our union. As they say: that ship has sailed. But I don’t care for my brother-in-law’s anger…”
Brother-in-law? Bolesław would hit you if he’d heard that.“I’d want you for a brother-in-law,” he’d said to Olav that night, before they had swallowed the mushrooms.
“… you know him, tell me then, wife, what would satisfy him? I want to send him a gift.”
“He’d be content if you sent back his sister, untouched.” She smiled innocently at him. “But it’s hard for me to say what might sweeten the bitter news of our marriage … Is the minter you left in Sigtuna the only one you brought back from England?”
“Would you like to send your brother a minter? I see that my queen likes to give fishing rods rather than fish as pres
ents. You impress me, wife.”
“Let’s come back to it in the bedchamber. And if you’d like to soothe Duke Bolesław’s anger, prepare a minter for him.”
Fatten the horse at home, the dog in your neighbor’s yard …
Skuli the bard was losing his voice.
Sven stretched widely in his chair, his bones cracking.
Give no faith to a girl’s words,
or those spoken by your wife.
Because women’s hearts are made on a turning wheel,
Unsteadiness beats in their breasts …
“That’s the end of the song,” he shouted, so loudly that the noise in the hall quieted in an instant. “Your king is ready to fulfill his marital obligations.”
“The bedding ceremony!” the fair-haired Jorun exclaimed.
“Bed-ding!” the guests chanted.
Jesus protect me! Świętosława gritted her teeth. She flexed her muscles to feel the knife under the belt on her back.
“Shhh.…” they hissed from below.
An old man who hadn’t been introduced to her rose from his seat. A decrepit old man covered with silver.
“This is the first beeedding,” he screeched, “since Kiiiing Ha-ha-ha…” He began to cough terribly, but everyone waited for him to finish. “Harald and Queen Toooove! Looooong liiiiiive the Helling dynasty!…”
“Skjoldungs!”
“Long live! Long live! Long live!” they roared in unison.
Great Ulf rose from his seat and walked toward her. Dusza too. The women exchanged glances. Dusza’s eyes showed compassion, Świętosława’s the fire which protected the Valkyrie Brunhild. Świętosława handed Dusza the leash. Wrzask and Zgrzyt stretched, rising from the purple-red material. Zgrzyt growled as he walked off the platform.
“Who will accompany the king to the bedchamber?” Jorun called out.
“His warriors!” the hall answered, and moved toward him. A dozen or so men pushed each other out of the way to have the honor of carrying Sven. They lifted him onto their shoulders and walked down with him.
“The king is throwing off his belt!” one of them shouted, and they pulled off the triple belt from Sven’s hips.
The Widow Queen Page 51