Ulvila, Suomi
Ukon juhla (Midsummer), 1094
The hillfort was alive with the sound of hammers and saws this morning. King Erik Stenkilsson was to pay a second visit to Ulvila in a week’s time to mark the Midsummer. This time he meant to arrive with his champions and most of his household in tow, a daunting challenge that would require expanding the lodgings significantly.
Otso could hear Satajalka’s voice over the din calling to the laborers. He found the lad stripped to the waist, hauling timbers and hoisting them alongside the laborers that he commanded. The thought filled him with pride; it was true leadership in the Suomi fashion, where a chieftain was just first among equals.
Still, he felt a hint of worry. He had not forgotten, would never forget, the sight of his son’s face covered in blood, a Pruessi arrow lodged into his left eye. For days, they had thought Satajalka would die there in the dark southron forests, the price of Otso’s arrogance. Their
tietäjä quested to the Underworld night after night, hoping to winkle the prince’s salvation away from the fearsome witch-goddess Louhi. Only after a week did Satajalka’s fever break, and Otso could finally let himself breathe again.
The prince noticed his father at last, and jogged over to greet him. As always, his son’s patch gave Otso a pang of guilt. “Good morrow, Father. How is the queen?”
“She is well. Your mother was greensick for months when she had you, but Martyna is carrying the child easily. The midwife is optimistic.”
It was just two months ago when Martyna had told him that she was with child. The midwife said that Martyna was likely carrying a son, and the thought was a joy to him. At the very least, Satajalka would have a younger brother to help lighten his burdens as king. At best… imagine a son in the north, to rule the Suomi, and another in the south as king of the Pruessi. A legacy that any man would be proud of.
Of course the gods rolled the dice whenever a child was born, and this time would be no different, but Martyna’s good health was an encouragement.
Satajalka nodded. “The frame for the new longhouse is nearly complete, as you can see; we should have time to replace the stone on the riverside wall, if Kuutar wills it.”
“Excellent work, son. But I expected no less.”
Satajalka accepted the compliment with a grave nod. “Thank you. I had thought–when we have the gold–well, perhaps we should build a strong stone keep here in the center, in place of the old longhouses. The Germans pile earth into a tall mound and put the keep on top, so the sailors say.”
The thought of living in a motte-and-bailey castle here instead of the old longhouse struck Otso as queer, but he didn’t want to dissuade his son. The kingdom would need to change in order to survive, he had always known that. “A fearsome keep like that would make the Christians take notice,” he said with a grin. “Only I have a task for you first, for after the feast.”
“Anything, Father, you know that.”
“You’ll want to pick the most talented carpenters on your crew, perhaps a dozen or so. Young men, eager to learn. Erik Stenkilsson is bringing a stem-smith from Uppsala, to teach them how to construct long-ships in the Swedish fashion, and knarrs as well.” The longships were crucial for naval warfare, but good sturdy merchant ships like the knarr could mean everything for Suomi trade.
Satajalka widened his eyes. “Truly?”
“That’s right,” Otso said with satisfaction. “A fleet of our own, Suomi men crewing Suomi ships. Suomi merchants trading with Uppsala, Öland, Luebeck… further, perhaps. Beyond the Itameri, even. We’ve had the materials to build ships in abundance, we’ve just never known how.”
Satajalka was thoughtful for a second. “I didn’t realize… this is why you went to such great lengths to flatter King Erik. For this.”
Otso nodded. “I do like the man, believe it or not. That made it all the easier. But yes, I had this purpose in mind, among others. This is how you’ll get the gold to build that castle, lad.”
Satajalka’s eyes were shining when he returned to the labor, and it lifted Otso’s heart. Perhaps a motte-and-bailey castle would be just the thing here, new docks on the Kokemäenjoki river, Suomi merchants selling spices and jewels from far off lands…
Let my grandsons be swaddled in silk from Cathay, he thought with a grin. Who could say that was impossible? While Otso continued on to review his warriors, he found himself whistling.
“Your majesty, you did not tell me that you were a musician.” Ermengarda was looking at him with her head cocked, an amused look on her face.
Embarrassed, Otso let out an inadvertent chuckle. He had offered her a position overseeing the instruction of his children, so they might learn the courtly manners of other lands; and since then she had been hard to ignore. Not that he wanted to ignore her. “Oh, my lady, I–I should leave the music to others, surely.”
She scoffed. “Oh, come now. Modesty does not befit the great defender of Ukko. What song was that? I’m not sure that I know it.”
“A woman’s song, in truth. My mother used to sing it to my father sometimes.” Giving a glance around to confirm that nobody was paying them particular attention, he began to sing in a low voice.
There is a beloved in my mind,
a sweetheart in my thoughts,
a lovebird connected in me,
A bird that I protect…[1]
He drifted off, abashed. Ermengarda was giving him an odd look now, surely he had embarrassed himself. “Otso–your majesty, that was… that was lovely.”
They regarded each other for what seemed like ages, until Otso thought to laugh and break the tension. “Rather sentimental for a savage pagan warlord, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell the Swedes,” Ermengarda said with a smile. “Speaking of… I have heard that Erik is bringing his heir with him?”
Otso nodded. “The princess Ingrid is coming with two ladies-in-waiting. A positive sign, I think.”
“Your majesty, I thought perhaps that Tyyne and I might attend to her entertainment. She may not have her father’s taste for… feats of strength.”
“Well, I was just going to have her wrestle Kalevi in the yard,” he said with a laugh, “but I suppose you know best. Good thinking.”
“Thank you, your majesty. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to help Venla with her declensions.” She sketched a slight bow before leaving.
Now there is a woman who could be queen, he thought while watching her go, and then immediately reproached himself. He had a wife, and with it an important alliance with the Slavic peoples of the Itameri coast. Martyna may be a haughty and frivolous lass, scarcely more than a girl, but he had made a promise to her before the gods and honor still counted for something.
Of course, the chiefs of the Suomi had always had other women. He had had other women too, and while this was not the custom among the Slavic peoples Martyna had not begrudged it to him, not openly. He might have approached Ermengarda after all, only… well, such things were not done among the Christians. He had no desire to insult her.
With a start, he realized that Risto was watching him. Everybody has the advantage of me today, it seems. Of course, Risto was always sneaking up on people. The men of the warband had started calling the boy
piru, or demon, for his quiet stride and the hungry look that he sometimes had. He was also given to queer silences on occasion, and today was apparently one such.
The boy may be unsettling but there was nothing to do for it. He was part of the clan, the son of a warrior who died in Karelia subduing the last of the Suomi chieftains. Otso owed his father a great debt, and so Risto was now a part of the family. Losing your father young could shape you profoundly, as he well knew.
“Come, lad. We’re to watch the warband train. You’ve been practicing your swordwork, right?”
Risto studied him carefully and gave him a nod.
“Good lad. You can cross blades with one of the men today, and show me what a terror you’ve become.”
The boy shook his head, his jaw set. He tugged on Otso’s robe insistently.
“Lad, I’m sure that whatever it is, it can wait until after…”
“No.” Risto did not speak much, perhaps because he was self-conscious about his changing voice, but now his voice was sharp and clear. “My liege. Now.”
Reluctantly Otso found himself following the boy out the gates of the hillfort and down the well worn path to the sacred grove. It was a curious time for the boy to seek out the gods, he thought, but as they approached the tree line, Otso could hear something far more carnal occurring among the trees.
Jumalauta, he had been led around like a fool because of a child’s curiosity.
“Child,” Otso said sternly, “I will not have you skulking around and spying on people, it’s simply not–”
“Listen,” Risto hissed. And then suddenly, Otso heard it.
It had been an awkward Midsummer celebration. The king had been treating his wife with cold courtesy for days, and even the dullest children were able to see now that there must be trouble between the two of them. The awkwardness had led to drinking, more so than usual, and that drinking had led here: to what Erik Stenkilsson had declared, in some god-forsaken Germanic/Suomi pidgin, to be a contest of strength to prove the valor of the warriors of the North.
So the champions of both peoples were here, stripped to the waist, while a brief order of battle was devised. Swords and shields were left by the wayside. This was to be a wrestling contest. Men could be such boys, Ermengarda considered. Conducting high diplomacy by wrestling in the dirt.
Still, the whole silly exhibition had its compensations. Otso had a lithe body, lean and firm even at forty-four.
Nimble hands too, imagine what he might do with those. There were taller men, with broader shoulders, but her eyes kept returning to him. Now that she knew him, she cannot recall why she ever thought he was ordinary looking.
Besides her, Tyyne cleared her throat, and then laughed when Ermengarda started at the sound. “They must have no men in Katalonia,” she said with a quirk of her mouth. “Tell me,
Täti, which one do you fancy?”
Ermengarda began to stammer. She was not able to tell Tyyne that she was having lascivious thoughts about the girl’s father. Some things were just not done, even here in the pagan wilderness. “I, uh… I am just looking forward to the contest.”
This made Tyyne laugh even harder. “Oh, obviously. Clearly the womenfolk have gathered here because of a keen interest in sport. I would say that Chieftain Tohmas is looking particularly
sporting today.” Tohmas, a blond warrior of no more than twenty years, was currently sketching out a complicated roster on a piece of cowhide.
Ermengarda gave the princess a startled look. She loved Tyyne for her candor and her courage, but this was still shocking. Tyyne was a married woman, and newly with child; she could get herself into trouble speaking this boldly.
Tyyne was having none of it. Rolling her eyes, she said, “Oh, don’t fret over me,
Täti. Our men all have other women, you know that as well as I do. Surely we can at least look.”
Ermengarda was confused. “Our men?”
“Don’t be so modest,
Täti. I’ve only been back for a couple of days and I can already tell. Iskä may have married that haughty Pommeri girl but it’s clear that you are the queen of his heart.”
The implication took a second to sink in, and then Ermengarda flushed. “Princesa, I assure you, I would never!”
“Are all Christians so fussy? You don’t wish to marry again, well and good. You don’t need to marry to have a man.”
Ermengarda could think of few conversations that she wanted to have less than this one. Fortunately, Ingrid chose that moment to show up, looking miserable despite her impeccable coiffure. “Princess Ingrid,” Ermengarda called out, “perhaps I could interest you in a curative elixir. The Suomi swear by a stay in the sauna, but I’ve found that a light broth is just the thing for… whatever may ail you.” While she went to tend to the hung-over princess, Ermengarda did her best to ignore Tyyne rolling her eyes.
As Otso knelt in the grove, he let out an involuntary groan. He had felt like a young man when in the company of Erik Stenkilsson, but now that the king had sailed back across the sea, he felt every one of his four-and-forty years. He would have given much to avoid this confrontation for another day or two, but what sort of king would he be then?
The sound of the wind rustling the leaves gave him a little comfort, at least. The gods would give him strength.
Uoti arrived within the hour, with Martyna behind him. She must have known what this conversation would be about, but she strode forward like the queen she was, her head held high, and regarded him without fear. It took a queer sort of courage to stand before him like that, knowing what was to come.
Otso dismissed Uoti with a wave without breaking eye contact with his wife. Once the man was out of earshot, he began. “You. And Mikko. How long has it been?”
She studied his face. If she felt any shame, she did not share that with him now. “How long have you known?”
“I know, that’s enough. How long has it been, Martyna?”
“While you wintered in Sapmi. That’s when it started.”
“Seven months? Or eight?”
“I cannot say for sure, Otso. It was a dark and wintry day, I don’t recall which one.”
“And the child?” My son, he thought. King of the Preussi indeed.
She paused for just a moment. “I have asked myself a dozen times. He may be yours.”
“You would have given me horns and made me a fool in front of my kingdom. You would have had me raising another man’s son, and told me the child was mine.” Even he could hear the bitterness in his voice.
“I had no desire to embarrass you, Otso.” Her voice was cold like the arctic wind. “In truth, I scarcely thought of you at all.”
Otso could feel his composure cracking as he climbed to his feet. “My gods, Martyna. Why? Did I disrespect you? Was I ever less than kind to you?”
“Every day. Since I first came here. You truly have no idea?” Martyna’s tone was, unexpectedly, pained. “They told me that you would have other women, that you could not help yourself. I was prepared for that, for some woman who warmed your bed while you were out raiding. But to accept her in your councils, take her advice, have her act in your stead while I stood to the side… it did not take me long to realize, I was the bed warmer, she the queen.”
Otso’s sense of guilt only fueled his rage. Now he raised his voice, advancing on her as he spoke. “I am your king! I take counsel where I choose, I take women where I choose, and I will not be rebuked by a whore bearing another man’s seed.” He was inches away from her when he was done, his fist raised as if to strike her, his whole body shaking with rage.
Martyna’s eyes were wide now, the fear evident on her face, with one hand instinctively shielding her womb. “Majesty, I…”
Whatever she meant to say, it was too late. He was weary and disgusted and sick of the sight of her. “Uoti, take this woman from my sight.”
Late that night, so late the sun had set, Otso was standing in front of the Kokemäenjoki river watching the water without ever truly seeing it. It had been a long agonizing day, and he should be abed, but he could not stop his mind from working. He kept returning to the same knot of rage and self-recrimination, worrying at it like a hound with a bone.
After a few minutes, he realized that Ermengarda was there beside him, watching the river as well in a companionable silence. He was grateful that she did not attempt a thin platitude.
“A night like tonight, I really wish I were swimming,” Ermengarda said after a long silence.
“You like to swim? I had no idea.”
“I swim exceptionally well,” she said with evident pride. “I grew up on the coast of the most beautiful sea in the world, your majesty. Although my sisters and I had this pool in the Riera de Merlès that we preferred. It was quiet, just us and the salamanders, and it seemed like only we knew of it.”
“We could find you a place like that here. There are a lot of lakes in Suomi.”
“You must be joking, your majesty.” Ermengarda gave him an incredulous look. “Don’t you realize how cold the water is here?”
“I like how cold the water is. After the sauna, there’s nothing like it.”
“You Suomi are all mad, that’s your problem. You climb into this box that is hot enough to boil fowl and then hop out to roll around in the snow or jump into some frozen river…” She laughed. “The gods must spend all their time keeping you alive.”
“The gods?” Otso cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “Don’t you usually say ‘your gods’?”
Ermengarda gave him a pensive look. Gods, she is beautiful in the moonlight. “To be honest, I don’t know these days which god is mine and which isn’t. When Diego first dragged me here I thought I had reached the ends of the earth. I was sure that everybody here was a savage and soon enough you would find a reason to sacrifice us to some demon.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Otso deadpanned.
“Oh, I’m not disappointed.” Ermengarda’s voice was warm and rich. “Honestly there are mornings when I could believe in the gods and the väki and all the rest of it, only… if I’m not Ermengarda d’Empuries, baptized and raised in the church, who am I?”
They stood in silence again for a time. Otso wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms, but tonight things were too raw for any rash decisions.
“Have you decided what to do?” Ermengarda asked.
“Half the warband thinks I should have her flogged and cast out. The rest are not so kind. But to be honest, I can’t see this clearly.”
“Because you feel guilty.”
Otso gave her a chagrined look, embarrassed that she should have seen that in him. “Yes. I should have paid her more attention; this never would have happened.” It felt good to say that out loud.
“That depends on her as well, I should think. I held to my vows, and Diego gave me far more provocation. She didn’t have to act like a foolish child.”
Otso was surprised to hear Ermengarda speak so fiercely against Martyna, although perhaps he should not have been. “So you agree with my men, then?”
“Not exactly. She is still the daughter of a king, no? The Pommeri alliance might be sundered, but… well, insult her too much and Gwienomir may feel honor-bound to respond in kind.”
“...giving the Piasts a chance to take advantage while we squabble amongst ourselves.” They must avoid war with Poland at all costs; the losses could shatter the kingdom before it ever really got started. “It really is clear when you put it like that.”
“Your majesty is too kind. I just reminded you what you already knew.” Ermengarda sketched a brief obeisance.
“Ermengarda…”
Come to bed with me. “...call me Otso?”
He could see the moonlight sparkle in her eyes, and it seemed that nothing had ever been so lovely. “As you command.”
