Ulvila/Helsinki, Suomi
April, 1176
Marja did not bother asking where her father was when she returned to Ulvila. It was morning in the spring, so there was only one place that he would be. She raced up the stairs to the rookery, where he was feeding the royal goldfinches.
Most of the year, the finches were fed thistle seeds, corn flowers, and teasels harvested from a corner of the castle garden. One of the junior gardeners would be tasked with gathering the feed in a clay bowl and carrying it up every day, where it was placed for the birds to feed as they will. This was not a task to be shirked. The king was in the rookery three days a week even in winter, tutting over the chicks or quietly enjoying their lyrical twittering, and he would ask if the bowl was empty.
Spring time was different. The goldfinches would mate in the late spring, once the weather had warmed a little. It was her father’s decided opinion that mating finches required live flesh in order to strengthen themselves. So in April and May, King Otso Longshanks would be up in his rookery feeding his birds mealworms by hand. He held the writhing grub delicately between thumb and forefinger, and summoned each bird with gentle cooing noises. How he could separate which birds had been fed and which ones hadn’t, Marja could never understand. They all looked the same to her.
So Marja was unsurprised when she got to the rookery and found her father standing with his back to her, speaking softly to a goldfinch hen. She found an empty chair and sat quietly, enjoying her father in his repose. Her brother Turo had never liked it up here, complaining about the drafts; while Ulavi’s illness meant that he rarely had the energy to climb the stairs. So long as her father was feeding his birds, she had him all to herself.
“Your ship made good time,” her father observed without turning his back. “How was Västerbotten?"
“What gave me away?”
“You take the stairs two at a time, the same as when you were a girl,” the king said with a laugh. “Nobody else is that excited to be up here.”
“Their loss,” she said with a shrug. “The miracle story’s a lie, as we thought. The duke’s as sick as ever, it’s some combination of makeup plus sheer will on the duke’s part that kept him from showing it while we were there.”
“Do you know this for sure? Or is this your suspicion?”
“I have it from a member of his court.”
The king was still for a long moment. “That does make things simpler,” he said at last. The implication was not lost on her.
Her father had told her once of a warlord named Sviendorog who had ravaged the lands of Viro. Babes were slain in their mother’s arms, villages burned, and so forth. All the armies of Suomi could not stand against him and his berserk ten thousand. It seemed that the kingdom might be doomed, her father said. That is, until Prince Mieletty–her grandfather, dead before his time–arranged that this Sviendorog be killed.
Of course it worked. The mad warlord died, and the kingdom was saved. But to her father, this was not the point. The point, he said to her, was this:
think of the lives that would have been saved if the prince had acted sooner. Let one man die in his bed so that untold thousands might live.
Otso Virtanen was in many ways a good man. To his children, he had been loving and attentive. To his subjects, he was tolerant and ruled with an easy hand. He did not harbor grandiose ambitions or paranoid ravings, like his grandfather had before him. But in this way he was utterly ruthless, and he made no secret of it. At least, not to her.
He had arranged with his spymaster, Elzbieta Godziemba, to have at least one rival lord killed that she was aware of. She suspected that there were others. Marja did not entirely fault her father’s logic, but she would never be comfortable discussing murder as if it were just another task that a king must undertake. And Ingemar was no mad warlord: he was simply a proud man who wished to remain independent. Did he deserve to die for that? Thank the gods that she would never have to answer that.
The silence extended until she became uncomfortable, and so she made a joke. “Good news, Father, Elzbieta can leave the wolfsbane at home.” Her laugh sounded forced even to her.
The king returned the mealworm to its cup and turned around. He met her gaze in a fixed stare, not angry but intent. “Elzbieta is your cousin. Your blood. Show respect.”
Marja dipped her head. “Sorry, Father.”
Otso nodded, and then returned to his birds, his back to her. After a time, he asked, “Why the ruse, do you think?”
“Ingemar is playing for time, I think. Keeping the wolves at bay until his son is of age, and perhaps Västerbotten can keep their independence that way.”
Her father started cooing towards a nearby hen. The bird eyed the squirming grub, but made no attempt to approach. Finally, the king said, “His son is nine. That’s a long time to wait.”
“I’m sure he’s desperate.”
“No doubt.” Her father gently shooed away a cock, who had flown over to inspect his hand. “
This one doesn’t seem to remember that he ate already.”
Marja snorted. “There’s something else. My source? Has a claim on the duchy. So he says, but Harald Sigurdsson confirmed as much.”
“Truly?”
“It’s thin, but if Cousin Elzbieta were to come up with the right documentation, the story should serve.” She watched as the hen started feeding from her father’s hand at last. “It’s actually better that way, I think. Better if he knows that he owes this all to us.”
Her father laughed, causing the hen to take an indignant hop from her father’s hand. “Whatever happened to the innocent little girl that I used to know?”
Marja could not recall ever being innocent, nor did she wish it. Innocence made you helpless, and she had no intention of ever being that.
Why do men value helplessness in women? She had never understood.
Changing the subject, she said, “I suppose that I’ll be off to Guoládat in a few weeks? If I get there in May, there may only be two feet of snow on the ground.” Guoládat was far to the north, deep in Sámi territory. Her father had long cultivated the Magga clans there, in hopes of eventually bringing them under the throne of Suomi. She was to help prepare the ground.
Otso stilled, his shoulders tense. “No, I’m afraid you’ll be closer to home this summer. The Magga clans are beset with the grippe, and I won’t have you risking your life.”
The grippe. Of course. “Father, I had it as well, if you recall.
Tietäjä Agafana says that I’m unlikely to get it again.”
The king looked troubled. “Agafana says. He also said that draining the foul humors would restore Ulavi’s vigor.”
Her father was being overprotective, as he often was. “Father, think about it. High Chieftain Aggi is suffering, his people are suffering; and you send your own flesh and blood to help, with a team of healers alongside her. No missive could be more impactful, no matter how eloquent.
This is your chance.”
“Why does it have to be you leading it, though?”
Marja smiled. “Because I’m your favorite, and Aggi knows that.”
Otso Virtanen stared at the bird resting on his finger, chirping happily. He turned his head back to her. “The minute you get so much as a cough, Marja…”
Thank the gods. “I retire to a tent. Alone. Of course.” It was an easy concession to make, and she might even follow it. The important thing is that she would be allowed to do her work.
*****
The window in the hospice was a marvel. The artist had cunningly fit glass into a metallic frame, fashioning a picture with vivid colors: verdant greens, wine-reds and deep blues. If Marja was not mistaken, the image was Lemminkäinen’s abduction of Kylliki while her fellow maidens danced unaware. As a girl, she found the old stories boring, but the artist had her considering it anew.
“I’m glad to have pleased your highness,” a woman said behind her. She had a light accent that Marja could not place.
When she turned, Marja found a full-figured young
tietäjä, with warm auburn hair and sunlight dancing in her emerald eyes. She wore a moon of Kuutar around her neck, and it hung over the woman’s ample chest. The woman was dressed in the distinctive robes of a Sister, one of those who fled Christendom in hopes of finding greater freedom in Suomi. These women adopted a style familiar to them, those of the women religious, and hence took up the name the Sisters of Saint Ermengarda.
A second too late, Marja realized that she was staring. “You made this?” she blurted out at last.
The
tietäjä’s smile was bewitching. “My father was a glazier in Strauwing, your highness; and some of the larger churches there have stained glass like this. He talked about them often, so I knew how they were fashioned.” Suddenly, she flushed and lowered her head, seemingly worried that she had said something wrong. “I do not mean to speak so boldly, of course! We contracted with a glazier, of course, and many of the Sisters worked on this. I played only a small part.”
Marja did not believe that her part had been as small as that, but she did not want to embarrass the woman further. “What is your name,
tietäjä?”
“Emma, your highness,” she said in an embarrassed mumble.
On instinct, Marja placed a finger on Emma’s chin, and gently guided her face up until they were making eye contact again. “And I am Marja. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“You as well, your h–Marja.” Emma gave her a shy smile, which made Marja happy. She did not want to make this woman uncomfortable.
“The colors are very striking, Emma. Did you paint the glass? It must have taken a deft hand.”
“No, you–Marja. No paint at all, in fact.” Emma’s voice became confident again as she spoke of the craft, rather than herself. “The glazier makes the glass in the usual fashion, and once it is bright red and liquid, he adds a dash of a certain powder. Then the glass itself is colored.”
Marja was impressed. “What wonders exist in the world. I suppose it is different powders for different colors?”
Emma nodded. “Yes. Cobalt for the blue, for example. And gold for the red. One could use copper for red instead, but the color is too bright and less soulful, I think.”
And cheaper, Marja thought to herself. She did not say it, however. Now that Emma was smiling again, Marja did not wish her to stop.
“I should introduce you to Father. He would love to have something like this for the palace.” Suddenly Marja remembered why she was there. “That will have to wait, I’m afraid. His majesty has asked that I lead a group of healers north, to Guoládat. Many of the clans up there are afflicted with the grippe, and he feels that it would be a sign of goodwill to send aid. I was hoping that your abbess would know who to send.”
Emma nodded, her look suddenly grave. “Of course, your highness. Shall I take you to her?” The
tietäjä paused for a second before adding, “Might I go, do you think?”
“You wish to go?” Marja was surprised. It would be a long, uncomfortable trip full of risk and heartache.
“Yes, your– Marja, I do. I came here with nothing, and the Sisters took me in. I feel I owe… something. Service, I suppose.”
Marja suddenly felt cautious, for no reason that she could discern. It was just that there was something about this woman that she wanted to protect. “There are many risks involved, Emma.”
Emma met her gaze evenly, a sudden fierceness in her eyes. “There were many risks involved when I left Bavaria, many risks in coming here. Life is full of risks, and I would rather face them than run.”
Marja smiled, despite herself. “Very well. Show me to your abbess, and we shall decide who is coming with us.”
*****
There were many happy consequences of the thriving Suomi trade, Turo reflected, but one of them was this: a whorehouse in every port. Even in a backwater like Uusimaa, even here in this half-Swedish mongrel town, there was cunt to be had. Praise be to the gods.
It was Erik the Heathen’s fault, he supposed. If the man hadn’t failed in his war against the other Erik, then his followers never would have fled here to pagan lands. They never would have claimed this tiny port on the gulf, nor would they have afflicted it with the name Helsingå, which had since been garbled into
Helsinki. No Odin-worshippers, no Walpurgisnacht, no secret human sacrifices held out in the woods where nobody could see.
That was perhaps unfair. Turo did not truly hate Swedes, but he hated being relegated here, a few days’ ride from anywhere worthwhile. He was a prince of Suomi, and would be king when his father passed. And yet King Otso had in his infinite wisdom sent Turo here, to manage the petty feuds and revenues of this tiny county.
The common room of the brothel rang with the laughter of whores, as phony as their cries of pleasure. The crowd did not quiet right away. Turo must have been recognized, however, because slowly the roar of conversation ceased. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see sailors whispering to each other.
Is that the prince? Here of all places?
Turo tried not to smirk. It would not do, to admit that he enjoyed the attention. He might have arranged a more discreet arrangement with the madam, but this reaction amused him too much.
Let Father hear of this, he thought with satisfaction.
Let him know that he has not cowed me.
The madam did not make him wait. She had a new girl, she said, a winsome blond that would be his for the night. “Be gentle, your highness,” the madam said with a smile. “You will be her first.”
Turo did not believe this, but he respected the pretense. He nodded gravely to the madam and promised that the whore would be safe in his hands. It pleased him to play the courtly lover, even in these degraded circumstances. It reminded people who he was and who they were.
After Turo was spent, he found the need to talk, as oft he did.
“She was a flower, ripe for the plucking. And plainly her husband was no longer up to any such plucking. Doubtless the count was a fine warrior in his day, but Erkki Sydӓnmaa’s day was long, long ago. Why should she be left with his feeble embraces? It was a crime, even you can see that.”
“Even me,” the whore mumbled as she absently ran a finger through his chest hair.
“The good count found out that I had given him horns, of course. Or that she had. Or…” He could not recall entirely how the expression was supposed to go. “Anyway, he found out that I had fucked his wife, and he was not best pleased, I can tell you that.” Count Sydӓnmaa had bellowed and tried his best to loom over Turo. The display would have been less comic if he were not two-and-eighty.
“So Erkki did the only thing that he’s good for, these days. He complained to my father.”
Turo could still remember the grim look on King Otso’s face, could repeat the lecture he had received perhaps word for word.
A king, his father had said, beginning in a low but urgent tone,
is master of many things. But if he is not master of himself first and foremost, then he will lose the rest in time. My grandfather did not understand this. He indulged his fears and resentments as he would, until he had very nearly lost his throne.
It was only happenstance, only the love that a Christian held for my father beyond all reason, that I wear this crown now. His father had advanced upon him while he was saying this, using his height to intimidating effect.
If you wish to face the angry hordes naked and alone, then by all means continue as you have been. If, however, you wish to actually be king, and your son to be king after you, you will master your appetites.
“...and then he sent me here, of all places. The end of nowhere. To learn to rule, he said. So I would die of boredom, more like.” He snorted. “Not that there aren’t compensations, sweetling.”
He heard nothing from the whore except a soft, even breathing. Annoyed, he roughly shook her awake. “I’m not paying you to sleep, woman. When I talk, you listen.”
The whore scoffed. “Do you honestly think that you’re the first man to come in here and complain about his father?” Her eyes grew wide after, as she realized that she had spoken out loud. She began to stammer out some feeble apology, but he did not hear her.
The first time he struck her, it felt like the väki were inside him, giving him strength. It felt so good that he struck her again, and then a third time. After that, he lost count. There was something beautiful about the red blood against her alabaster skin, he found himself thinking. Something like art.
Turo misjudged a motion. Beside him a carafe full of ale fell to the floor, shattering upon impact. The noise startled him out of his reverie, and he suddenly looked around. In the doorway, the madam stood, a measured look on her face.
He imagined the scene from her point of view. Him standing naked with bruised knuckles. The whore, curled up into a ball, weeping and begging for him to stop. His heart raced with panic, his face heated with something that might have been shame. But then the prince remembered: it did not matter what this woman thought of him.
Turo adopted a sneer of cold command. “I don’t want to see this whore again, understand?”
The madam nodded stiffly. “Of course, your highness. Shall I have somebody clean up this mess?”
