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When Richardine’s screams died down and her head fell forwards onto her chest, the crowd around the stake erupted into cheers. People jeered and whistled, a car honked and somebody had even brought fireworks which he was lighting now. Their glittering sparkles rained down toward the fire-lit marketplace.
But Schwanhild knew her mother-in-law was still alive. You passed out due to the carbon monoxide before actually burning to death, she had heard that in one of the podcasts she had passed the time with during her endless mute hours knitting the shirts for her brothers.
Now she was standing here, pressing her newborn against her chest, her face illuminated by the flames devouring Richardine. Abelin’s heartbeat ticked like a little steady clock against her body. He was real, she did actually experience this moment.
A minstrel started improvising a melody on his flute over the booming bass coming from one of the cars of the spectators and a ragged girl danced. She danced well, and the first people turned away from the burning queen to watch her flying feet. By now, Richardine’s face was charred black and her whole body shrunk in itself; she had to be dead now.
Schwanhild was free. She held Abelin closer to her, never again would somebody try to take him from her – and looked for her older child. Instead, she spotted her husband, Gerald. He was staring with empty eyes at the burning stake, his hands in his pockets, looking weirdly smaller than he usually did. With sudden dread she realised he had just watched his mother burn to death. More than that, he had just ordered his mother burned to death.
With a couple of steps she was at his side. “My dear husband,” she addressed him. “Gerald!” His name was on her lips for the first time. Gerald’s gaze jumped towards her, clinging to her face as if he was drowning. She could do this for him, now. Schwanhild had saved her brothers, Gerald had saved her, now she could save him. She put Abelin in his arms and grabbed Alwin’s hesitating hand, strange now, but it would not remain this way. “Let’s go home.”
Once they were at home, they gave the servants the evening off and put the children to bed. Abelin fell asleep quickly after nursing, but Alwin was distraught and difficult to calm. His parents were two strangers to him, and as happy they were to have him back, it was a disturbing change for a toddler. Schwanhild had used to dream of putting their sons to bed while softly chatting with Gerald, now it was a struggle, even if a good one. Thousands upon thousands of times Schwanhild had urgently wanted to speak with Gerald, deep in her mind there was a list with hundreds of things she needed to tell him. But now she just talked soothingly to her unknown elder son. He was reacting a bit better to Gerald, the nanny had said Gerald’s picture had been shown to Alwin regularly.
Finally the children did sleep. Schwanhild followed Gerald outside to the roof terrace. Below them buzzed the familiar noise of the capital on a summer evening. Honking cars, the whooshing of brooms of boisterous young women racing through the air, the cooing pigeons and doves. All the sounds melted into a peaceful noise, spreading over them like a blanket. Schwanhild didn’t want to tear it with loud words. With hesitating, unpractised hands she signed, “He’s sleeping now.”
Gerald turned towards her with surprise. He looked at Schwanhild’s fingers, now moving slowly, very conscious of their movements, down to the balustrade. Gerald smiled. “I knew you could learn it,” he signed back, with more fluency than her.
Schwanhild thought back to the endless lessons at the beginning of their relationship. She had not spoken, so naturally Gerald had thought that she was unable to do so. And because he had fallen in love with her and desperately wanted to communicate with her, he had ordered a sign language teacher to the palace. Soon, Gerald had been able to sign words and simple sentences, but Schwanhild stayed stubbornly silent. She was not to, and she was not even able to tell him that she was not allowed. In the palace with its ever-present servants there was no keeping secrets, and soon enough the whole town was whispering not only about the king’s young wife's muteness, but about her stupidity.
“I am sorry,” she signed and then switched to spoken language. She had seen the signs often and tried to memorise them diligently, but she could feel how they weren’t coming completely right off her fingers because she was unpractised. “It was so frustrating. You tried so hard, and I was not allowed to respond. I don’t know how you didn’t think me too stupid to talk, too.”
“I was always sure of that,” Gerald said. “You were so determined and resolute. You wanted your flowers, and your needles, to make the shirts. That was completely clear, I just had to watch you. Somebody pursuing a goal with so much certainty cannot be stupid, even though I did not understand why you do it. That’s also the reason why …” His voice died, he sighed heavily.
“Why what?” Schwanhild asked. Even though Gerald had talked to her for years, finding his words seemed harder for him, too, now that he could talk with her.
“How I justified marrying you to myself. I was convinced that I would know if you did not want to. Just, somehow, that you would have just gone away.” He spoke hesitatingly, pausing a moment and then he did voice it. “Please tell me I didn’t force you.”
“No, you did not,” Schwanhild said. Without hesitation, but also without looking at him, her eyes set on the rising stars at the horizon. She knew what he would ask next.
“Schwanhild, my dear wife, do you love me?” He had told her so many times that he loved her. So many times he had asked her and she had not answered the question, but it had not been important, because she had not answered any question. Now she had to face up to the answer.
“Not at the beginning,” she said. She put her hand on top of his to soften the blow of the words. “I married you, because it was my best opportunity to save my brothers. I had already realised how difficult it would be to harvest and store enough starflowers each spring. But you are the king, with you I could have heated greenhouses and dehydrators. At your side, I finally had a realistic chance to save my brothers.” She almost made it. She had to be content, even though Bronno would remain disfigured. So far he didn’t seem to resent her for it.
A shiver ran through Gerald’s hand below her own. “So I was just a means to an end.” He said it demurely, ready to accept it, and if Schwanhild hadn’t known him so well and hadn’t felt the shaking of his fingers she wouldn’t have seen the pain in it. But he was her husband, even though they had had their first conversation only this very morning.
“I said not in the beginning,” she corrected him gently. “How could I not have fallen in love with you? You did not only help me, you also never believed that I was dumb and stupid. You always tried to understand me and you mostly succeeded, even though I was cursed to make it impossible even when I was accused of the most horrific thing. You are a wonderful father to our children, and a wonderful husband. Today, you chose me over your own mother.” Schwanhild turned her hand so she could properly grab his hand and turned towards him. “I love you.”
He pulled their interlaced fingers towards his mouth to kiss them, tried to say something but choked on the words. His grip on her fingers turned almost painful, he held onto her as if he was afraid of drifting away in the mild summer air. Schwanhild was hit with the realisation that he learned only today what she had known for years: that Queen Richardine was an evil woman. Gerald had lost his mother today.
Schwanhild pulled him against her, hugged his body close to her while he cried. Today, he would cry, and maybe tomorrow. The day after, they would sit down with her brothers and plan a war. They had a kingdom to reconquer.
