Ulvila, Suomi
September - October, 1126
Zygmunt had an uneasy feeling as the ships returned to the capital that morning, made worse by the distemper of his companions. Duke Kaur was making sour jokes, while Prince Mieletty’s sense of failure radiated off of him in waves.
As the longship sailed up the Kokemäenjoki river, Zygmunt could see gaps where once there had been warehouses; some nearby structures had visible scorch marks as well. “Sviendorog,” Kaur said at once. “He demands that humiliating peace of us, and then sacked the city just in case we thought to deny him.” Zygmunt could believe that of Sviendorog well enough, but still he wondered. The Virtanen banner still flew in the castle, after all…
As they pulled into the dock, Zygmunt noticed to his surprise that Pihla was standing there, flanked by a dozen guards. Her hair was a tangled mess and her face drawn, and she watched the longship with a grave expression. He felt a sudden spike of unease as he saw her; beside him, Zygmunt could hear the prince suck in a breath.
The two nearly ran down the gangplank to speak with her. Without any traditional greeting, Mieletty simply asked, “Is it Father?”
“He lives,” she said, “But only just. He was struck by an assassin’s blade three days past, and now he fights a fever.”
Kaur swore, and Mieletty flushed with rage. “I will strangle that Latgalian dog with my own bare hands,” the prince said heatedly.
Pihla raised an eyebrow. “I would not stop you, brother, but Risto does not believe that this was Sviendorog.”
Zygmunt had a sudden realization. “The assassin–did he start the fire in the harbor?”
“I believe so, yes. The wretch struck on
Kekri as well, to maximize confusion.” Pihla shot her brother an impatient look. “Brother, we must hurry. Even now Father’s council waits for you.”
The mantle of command settled on Mieletty’s shoulders almost like a physical weight. “Kaur and Zygmunt, with me.” Zygmunt found something unsettling about his friend’s decision to use the formal name, rather than calling him Ziggy as he had since he was ten years old.
The council room was bare and cold, it seemed to Zygmunt. There was only a simple table with one seat for the king and five on the other side for his loyal councilors. Duke Susi of the Karelians was stroking his beard in thought. Andrejs, the young Pruessi who served as the royal tietäjä, ran his hand through his blonde hair. Risto wore a tight smirk, which could mean anything.
“We are one short,” Mieletty observed.
Andrejs offered a pained expression. “His grace Duke Manvydas has been claimed by Tuoni, majesty. A summer fever, just weeks ago.”
“Duke Zygmunt of Masuria will take his place until a replacement can be found.“ Mieletty’s voice was curt and brook no disagreement. “Also, it is
highness, Andrejs. My father lives.”
Andrejs flushed. “Of course. My apologies, your highness.”
Mieletty sat down in his father’s chair and scanned the councilors before him. Finally, his eyes fell on Risto. “The villain who attacked my father. What do you know about him?”
“The would-be regicide was found yestere’en attempting to book passage to Malmö. He had on him a hefty pouch of riksdalers…”
Zygmunt shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the spymaster’s insinuation. “Most merchants use Swedish coin, yes? Visby still dominates the Baltic trade.”
“Yes, that alone means little enough,” Risto conceded. With an aggrieved sigh, he continued: “Albinas–for that is the wretch’s name–was a drunk of no account. He held no grudge against the Suomi, nor against your father in particular. He simply wished to buy enough beer to drown himself in.”
“So he was paid,” Mieletty said impatiently.
“Yes, your highness. He met with a woman in a tavern of no account in Tallinn, perhaps one week past. She was short, plump, perhaps forty. Norse accent. She had a man with her, and the man called her ‘Lilla.’” Risto gave Zygmunt a cool look, with just the hint of a sneer, before returning his gaze to Mieletty. “And your highness? He says the woman wore a cross around her neck.”
A chill went down Zygmunt’s spine.
If Satajalka lives, the gutters will run red with blood. “Anyone could wear a cross. That doesn’t mean–”
“Yes, surely there are those who ape the practices of their fellows to disguise their own false hearts.” Risto’s tone was cutting now. “But in Suomi, where the worship of the cross is forbidden? What fool would claim allegiance to a despised cult, lest she meant it?”
“Someone who meant to throw us off the scent, surely.”
Before Risto could speak again, Mieletty held up a hand. “That point is well taken. Risto, continue to hunt for this Lilla–and make no assumptions about her.”
Risto’s face twisted into a false smile. “As your highness commands. And how goes the war?”
Mieletty grimaced. “The war has ended, my lord, in all but name. Suomi valor was no match for Sviendorog’s numbers.” At Kaur’s outrage, he continued. “I do not take the loss of our land lightly, my lord. We will forge new alliances over the winter and return to contest him again.”
Risto spoke up again, this time in an insinuating tone. “Your highness, there may be a way to, ahhh, to handle Sviendorog personally, if you will.”
To the prince, this hardly seemed to be a question. “By all means, Risto, kill the scoundrel if you have the chance.”
The seasoned councilors of the realm were stunned to hear their prince speak so bluntly about murder. Even Risto raised an eyebrow, apparently expecting that he would need to argue much more fiercely. Zygmunt raised a finger to object, but Mieletty cut him off. “Ziggy, honestly. How many brave boys did we bury because of this one man’s ambition? How is this even a question?”
Risto cleared his throat in an exaggerated attempt at courtesy. “Your highness, should your father recover…”
“When my father recovers.” Mieletty’s voice was like ice.
“
When your father recovers, you will, ah… you will let him know that this was your decision?”
Mieletty made an irritated gesture. “Of course. Just see Sviendorog dead.”
*****
Satajalka awoke before the sun the following morning, blinking in confusion. He attempted to sit up, but a sudden sharp pain in his right flank stopped him before he even began. When he cried out in pain, he noticed that his voice was a rasp. Lying there in the predawn hour, he found himself trying to recall precisely what had happened. It had been
Kekri, there was a fire.
He recalled at last the Pruessi man, who had seemed for all the world to be blind with panic. The man had crashed into him, and Satajalka had thought it was just that: a clumsy man, a momentary indignity. And then… and then he saw the blood…
How long had it been since then? Days? Weeks?
The door opened with a creak, and Satajalka belatedly realized that his cry of pain had alerted Andrejs. The meek
tietäjä crept forward, peering with wide eyes. “Your majesty has awakened?”
“No, this must be some wonderful dream you’re having.” Satajalka spoke with irritation. Andrejs lacked a man’s courage, and thus he spoke as a woman does, with questions and deprecation rather than plain speech. This grated at Satajalka so much that he became more cutting, thus making the man more anxious still.
“I see that your humor has returned. Shall I inspect your wound, majesty. The infection was most fearsome.”
The king gritted his teeth. “In a moment,
tietäjä. First, tell me what has happened.”
Andrejs bit his lip uncertainly. “You were stabbed, majesty.”
“Well, yes, obviously.”
“The knife was tainted, we believe. Befouled in some way, in case the blade itself failed to kill you. You might have died a dozen times in the last five days, but Kuutar had willed that you were knitted back together. The wound, please?”
Gods, Andrejs, do shut up about the wound. “First, the assassin. Was he found?”
“Found and interrogated. His Highness questioned the rogue last night, rather sharply as I understand it.”
As it often did, the king’s wroth came upon him suddenly. “You let a
boy question him?!” He attempted to prop himself as he spoke, the better to glare at this irritating little man, but a sudden spasm in his injured flank forced him on his back again.
Andrejs squeaked in alarm, either at the king’s rage or the extent of his injury. “Certainly
not, majesty. It was your elder son that I referred to.”
“Mieletty is back? Why did you not tell me that to begin with? What news of the war?”
Andrejs flushed, and he unconsciously backed away from the king’s bed. “I–you will want to ask Mieletty directly. I shall fetch him.” Before Satajalka could object, the tietäjä had fled from the room, the king’s wound forgotten.
Long moments later, Mieletty arrived, with Andrejs lurking timidly behind him. The prince must have been roused from bed, because he looked tired and his manner was taut with tension. “
Iskä,” he said bluntly, “stop pecking at Andrejs like a cornered goose and let him check your wound. He is a holy man, you know.”
Satajalka begrudgingly gave his assent at last. Andrejs removed the dressing, frowned in thought for a time, and then said, “The infection seems to be healing, but his majesty will need to spend the next few days abed.” The king couldn’t help but notice that Andrejs was speaking to his son, not to him.
Mieletty gave his father a pointed look. “I’ll see that he does that. You should get some rest, Andrejs.”
After the little Preussi scampered out the door, the prince sat down heavily, his shoulders slumping. Mieletty looked half a boy again, boneless and exhausted. Satajalka reached out with his good hand to grasp his son’s. “
Poju, I’m going to be fine. It’ll take more than this to stop your father.”
“You should tell that to Arvo. He’s locked himself in his room, and won’t speak to anybody even when Mother comes. I think he blames himself.”
“He was a boy, and unarmed. There was nothing he could do.” Arvo’s guilt made Satajalka feel helpless and enraged, both at once. “Bring him here and I’ll tell him so myself.”
After Mieletty nodded in assent, Satajalka added, “What about the girls?” His eldest Käpy had been with her children in Karelia, but Pihla had been with them when he… when it happened.
“A rider was sent to Karelia; if I know Käpy, she will be here demanding to tear the assassin apart with her bare hands. Pihla… whoever knows what Pihla is thinking? Last I heard she was going out to see some bird this morning, like nothing ever happened.”
“She worries like the rest of you, just in her own way.” Satajalka regarded his son with concern. “And you?”
Mieletty stared out the window, watching a light flurry fall in the moonlight. “I shouldn’t have tarried in Viro. I should have…”
“A full complement of guards could not stop him. Besides…” Satajalka placed a hand on his son’s arm, and paused until the prince met his gaze. “Besides, I am your father and your king. I am to protect you, not the other way around. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Mieletty grimaced. “You haven’t heard the news from the war yet,
Iskä.”
“So we are to lose Selpils? I always knew that was a possibility, and Kaur must have too. There’s no shame in losing a battle to a numerically superior foe,
poju.”
“He… he holds Selpils now. We’ll have to cede him the land, or let him burn his way up and down our Baltic provinces.” The prince looked away from his father. There was an uneasiness in Mieletty’s face now, one that looked perilously close to shame. “Only… Sviendorog won’t live the winter, and in the spring we’ll fight again, with better numbers to our side.”
Ah. Satajalka had refused Risto, but he had been undeterred and had made the same suggestion to his son. The king remembered his wroth before, how he had considered it murder. That was before, however. Before the battle had been lost, before he had been attacked, before he had known his children, his beloved children, to be so distraught. Most importantly, it was before he had felt so feeble.
“As I was saying, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Let Risto kill the rogue in his own bed. Let him gut the bastard like a fish. We will march down there next spring, and we will put his holdings to the sword one by one. His sons will be cut down, his daughters cast out, and all will soon forget the name Sviendorog.” Satajalka favored his son with a grim smile. “You are my son, Mieletty. You don’t owe that dog a thing.”
*****
“...and heave!” Two servants strained under the weight of the chest they held between them. Behind them, Pihla stood, watching the process fretfully while anxiously tapping a finger against her left flank.. She had wanted to move this chest herself, filled as it was with samples of birds that she had dissected–the bones were quite fragile, it seemed. Zygmunt had gently reminded her that the chest was too heavy for him to lift, let alone her; and so the princess reluctantly permitted servants to move it only under her own close supervision.
Perhaps her anxiety was not just about this simple chest, Zygmunt reflected. She was leaving the only home that she had ever known. This was a wife’s lot, of course, but it could not have been easy. He felt a pang of sympathy for her; at this moment she looked like the girl that she had been not long before.
Zygmunt had not wished to leave either. At least, he had not wished to leave so quickly, before the king had fully recovered. However, the risk that the Kokemäenjoki might freeze over grew ever larger, and once that happened no one would be able to leave until spring. Thus the king had given his leave for Zygmunt and his household to return to Masuria.
Of course, they would not be gone from Ulvila forever, or even for a full year. Satajalka had named Zygmunt steward in place of the late Manvydas, and the council would return the following summer to see about the king’s business.
And if Risto’s plan works, Sviendorog will be dead soon enough and we’ll be on campaign again next spring. As soon as the king tendered his official surrender of Selpils to the Latgalian chief, Risto dispatched his cutthroats to Curonia. Just what they planned to do there, Zygmunt did not want to know. He would not mourn the rogue’s death, but the whole business turned his stomach.
Just then Mieletty arrived, there to escort them to the knarr. He pulled Zygmunt into a firm embrace and wished them both a safe voyage. Pihla mumbled a polite greeting to her older brother’s shoes, before returning to her concern over the chest. Mieletty’s mouth quirked at his little sister’s awkwardness, but he said nothing.
“Agne sends her apologies.
The bear cub is fierce this morning, Ziggy,” Mieletty said fondly. The bear cub was what he was calling his yet-unborn child. “The midwife says that it won’t be long now.”
“I wish we could stay until your son is born,” Zygmunt confessed, “but there is already ice in the Bothnian.”
“I understand,” Mieletty said good-naturedly. “You will see him next summer for sure, when we present him with Curonia as a name-day gift.”
As the train of heavily-laden servants awkwardly made its way through the castle, Zygmunt saw the king at last. Satajalka’s hair was shock with white now, and he leaned heavily on a walking stick, but he was out of his sickbed and stronger than he had once been. He would not escort them as far as the city docks, but Satajalka had pledged to bid them goodbye from the castle gates.
Satajalka gave his son-in-law a grave nod, but his warmest regards were for his daughter. The king asked her a question, softly, and soon Pihla was animatedly expounding upon a passage that she had just translated from Pliny’s
Natural History. This Pliny apparently had the notion that the Earth was a ball, suspended in space. Besides him, the translator Hasan was piping in to agree. Apparently the Arabs had measured the dimensions of the earth centuries before.
When the commons caught sight of their king, a cheer rang out. Satajalka had never been more beloved than he was now. Some were even calling him
Satajalka the Just, a name that inevitably made the king grimace. The king smiled at the crowd, and treated them with a beneficent wave, but his grip on the walking stick tensed. Plainly he was still wary of large crowds.
The king was spending most of his time with his spymaster, or so the court gossip went. His desire to find the conspirators who had attacked him was bordering on mania. Who knew where it would lead, how much blood would be shed as a result?
Zygmunt imagined the Earth as a ball, not fixed in space but plummeting into an abyss.
You will have war, whether you like it or not. He shivered and started walking faster. The sooner they were free of this city, the better.
