Ulvila, Suomi
April, 1122
The shadows were long on the ground now, the sun about to dip over the castle walls, and the council was still arguing over money. Kaur, who styled himself Duke of the Latgalians, insisted that the need for the coming campaign justified any expense. Manvydas, the king’s youngest uncle on his mother’s side, worried about debts already owed to the Christian traders.
Meanwhile, Risto was watching the debate with a disconcertingly eager look on his face. He was silent as ever, but he looked… hungry. It took long hours before he requested a chance to speak, politely clearing his throat.
Inward, Satajalka groaned.
What are you up to now, piru
? “My lord?”
“I apologize, majesty. It’s just… we were speaking of the Swedes in Ulvila, yes?” His pale blue eyes flashed with the hint of hidden knowledge.
Gods, Satajalka despised that insinuating look. Risto owed the Virtanens a great deal, but he had no scruples and no sense of dignity. ”Just speak, Risto. I won’t have you whining for scraps from the table.”
Risto ignored the jibe, as he often did. “Your majesty, you learned Latin as a young man, yes? I have obtained a letter that you might want to read. It’s from the Archbishop, to our dear friend Otto.”
“Obtained?” Manvydas raised an eyebrow. The old man liked these intrigues as little as his king.
The look on Risto’s face almost passed for conciliatory. Almost. “An agent of mine shares the priest’s bed from time to time. She copies his letters once his… appetites are satisfied. Given recent events, I thought it best to keep an eye on him.”
There was more byplay between the lords, but Satajalka was no longer listening. He was well into the letter now, and what it said…
That pack of scheming snakes, I should have killed them all. The king slammed a fist on the table.
The council chamber was blessedly silent for a moment, before finally Kaur had the courage to speak. “Majesty? Is aught amiss?”
Too filled with wroth to speak himself, Satajalka shot a dark look to his spymaster. Risto began to expand with relish. “The archbishop asks how many men hold the castle while his majesty is out on campaign. Asks how many might be raised from the Christian merchants, whether any Christians work inside the palace. Which of the two princes would be most biddable. Questions of this nature.”
“He means to seize the kingdom by intrigue, as the Christians have in Viro.” Kaur’s voice was grim.
Despite his rage, Satajalka did not miss the doubtful look on Manvydas’ face. It took an effort to calm himself long enough to speak. “My dear uncle,” he said eventually, “you know that honest counsel is always welcome here.”
Manvydas looked a little tentative, but he proceeded. “Well, assuming that the letter you have is an accurate copy… we do not know Otto’s response.” He shot a sharp look to Risto, and his next words were dripping with scorn. “You would have told us had you known, yes? You don’t simply mean to inflame the passions, I am sure.”
Begrudgingly, Risto replied, “The Saxon does not share his plans with his bedmate, no.”
Manvydas took that for confirmation, and turned back to the king. “This man Otto is a sensual creature, we all know that. Would he jeopardize his pleasures for this… adventure? Surely not.”
Satajalka thought about that for a long moment. It was true, undoubtedly, that Otto had done nothing more than receive a letter from another, a letter with sinister implications. By law, that was no crime. Still… whether the plot was in motion or not, the possibility itself made clear that these Christians were a threat. Perhaps Otto would not do this thing, but what of the man after him?
“Go to Otto, tell him that his presence is no longer required here. He has broken no law, but I will not wait around until he decides to do so. Any other foreigner who wishes to live in Ulvila may do so… provided that they swear to the gods that they will abide by our law.
Our gods, not theirs.
“Let it be proclaimed: Suomi extends its welcome to the Christians no longer.”
King Satajalka had ordered the expulsion of the Christians from Ulvila the day before. Zygmunt had watched with a sense of unreality while Father Otto was marched to a Swedish knaur, two grim-faced guards carrying the tabernacle behind him. Most of the foreign merchants had left as well, rather than take an oath before the Suomi gods. The foreign quarter in Ulvila was now nearly stripped of foreigners.
Zygmunt had half expected to be marched before the sacred grove to take the oath of loyalty himself. Part of him would have welcomed it. At least it would have offered some clarity as to how they saw him, some way to ease the king’s doubts. Instead those doubts went totally unacknowledged. He did not feel more secure as a result, only more uncertain. There was some secret test for him, but how to satisfy it?
He scarcely slept the night before, so consumed was he with worries. He needed to walk, to move, to go
somewhere. So he walked, slipping out a postern gate unseen and walking through the dark Ulvila streets. Eventually he found himself standing inside the empty chapel. The king’s guards had left a lot for the scavengers to pick through, although it seemed that the locals did not dare.
Among Otto’s things, there was a handsome bound volume. Zygmunt opened it to see a Greek Vulgate, lavish and illuminated. He could not read Greek but he could see the love and the craftsmanship that went into every page. On one page there was an image of Christ so vivid that it appeared to be looking directly at Zygmunt, right into his soul.
Careful, he thought again. His castellan’s final words.
You must be careful, lad. They will always watch you. Suddenly it was obvious what he must do.
The chapel was small enough, but working alone it took long hours to encircle it with grasses, dry twigs and kindling. By the time Zygmunt was finished, it was well into morning. Sweat was pouring down his back and a small crowd had gathered to watch. Most were Suomi, staring with interest; but a few were Swedish or Danish merchants, who had taken the king’s oath and remained. He recognized the guarded looks on their faces.
Fire in a city like Ulvila was nothing to take lightly. The riverfront was crowded with wooden structures, warehouses and customs houses; a single spark might set the whole city alike. The chapel had been built at some remove from the city proper, and thus the risk of a larger conflagration was small. And yet the Suomi would not have tolerated Zygmunt’s actions if they did not, on some level, resent the church. For two generations, much of the city’s wealth was held by foreign merchants who worshiped foreign gods, and this chapel was a symbol of that great disparity.
It was only Mieletty who dared try to stop it. The prince arrived at nearly noon, breathless and sweating in his sparring leathers. His eyes were filled with concern. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “Ziggy, please, you have nothing to prove.”
Mieletty was so earnest in that moment that Zygmunt could not help but love him. He had a fierce protective streak to him that helped you forgive aught else that he might do. Still, he was his father’s trueborn son, and this he did not understand. I have to do it and I have to be seen doing it. Your father will worry about me forever if I do not, and may God save me from the king’s worry.
There was no explaining this to Mieletty however. He was his father’s trueborn son, and so he could not see the king the way that others might. Instead, Zygmunt just shrugged, and offered as reassuring a smile as he could. “It’s just a building,” he said.
Mieletty did not look convinced, but he stepped back all the same, concern evident in his face.
The kindling caught quickly. Ulvila had not seen rain in some days, and they were primed for fire. As the fire consumed the chapel, Zygmunt schooled his face to remain still.
Zygmunt walked into the king’s solar late that evening. The shadows were long, and his every footfall echoed in his ears. It took a moment to master himself so that his voice didn’t break. “You sent for me, majesty?”
Satajalka regarded him for a long moment, his face inscrutable. Finally, he said in a neutral voice, “I’m told that you burned the chapel today.” He did not seem upset, nor particularly encouraged. He simply seemed… blank.
“I did, majesty.” Zygmunt swallowed heavily.
The king’s eyes suddenly blazed with a cold fury. “I can hardly send you to work for that priest now, I suppose. I will have to think of something else.”
“I will take any punishment that you see fit, majesty. You should know that. Only…”
“Yes? You may speak.”
“You told me once… you said that Suomi was like a shieldwall. The nobles were in the front, holding the line; and the common folk were in the back.
Their safety depends on each of us, you said.”
“I believe I stole those words from my father, in fact. It was his favorite metaphor.” His expression softened by a degree, and he gestured for Zygmunt to continue.
Caution, he had said so many years ago. But maybe tonight boldness was called for.
Zygmunt straightened his shoulders and looked the king in the eye. “Well… a shieldwall can’t function if you don’t trust the men besides you, right? And you can’t trust me.”
The blunt statement took Satajalka aback. For a moment, it felt as if Zygmunt was sitting in judgment of his king and not the other way around. The reversal was dizzying. “I have no idea what you mean,” the king said after a long pause.
“Yes, you do. You look at me and you think, he’s going to turn against us when he comes of age. Maybe it doesn’t seem just to you to feel this way, but you do. I can tell.”
Satajalka sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re right, of course. I do wonder about you. I have a responsibility to the realm, to my ancestors, to my son… I can’t ignore risks. So this business with the chapel was…”
“I had to pick a side, majesty. I needed you to
know that I picked a side.” Zygmunt kept his face carefully still.
Once again Satajalka was studying him, this time with something suspiciously like approval. “You are a sensible young man, Zygmunt, I’ve always said so. You have an impertinent tongue, I see, but for now I suppose I can forgive that.” The king snorted, a rare sign of amusement. “Yes, you would do well as my duke in Masuria. Once you come of age, of course.”
Zygmunt felt a sudden lightness in his chest, and he tried desperately to keep a straight face. “You honor me with your trust, majesty.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. You’ll be reporting to Duke Kaur tomorrow morning, bright and early; he’s leading the assault on Viro and I’m sure he’ll have use for a youth with a good head on his shoulders.” Satajalka made a gesture of dismissal. “Best get some rest, this may be your last chance for a while.”
It took some patience, but Zygmunt was able to slip out of the castle again that evening. He passed down the streets of Ulvila as quietly as a shadow, and once again appeared before the chapel. What was left of it, that was. The roof had collapsed, leaving the building nothing more than a pile of charred timbers. Zygmunt felt a pang of guilt at the sight, but he ignored it. He wasn’t here to brood over his decision. Instead, he stepped gingerly past the ruined church and into the woods just beyond.
There had been no time to bury the thing properly. Anybody strolling past this spot in the woods would have noticed that the earth had been recently disturbed. Zygmunt dared not leave things alone even one night. Digging with his hands was slow work, and each bird call made him jump for fear. It was easy to imagine the guards showing up behind him, their torchlight casting in his face, the word
traitor on their lips.
Finally his hands hit not dirt but a sodden wool blanket. There beneath the earth, right where he had hidden it the night before, was the Greek Vulgate. Hiding it had been a risk. Having it shipped back to the Archbishop was an astronomically bigger risk. However, when he regarded the face of the Christ that morning, he found that he could make no other choice.
Zygmunt glanced about reflexively and then whispered a quick prayer.
Christ have mercy on me, a sinner. He could feel his shoulders sag as he said it, as suddenly a wave of exhaustion came over him. It was always difficult to hide in front of all these people, and today had been a truly long day.
