Let’s start with the title, shall we? It’s the first thing everyone gets wrong. They called me ‘Jadwiga Król’. ‘King Jadwiga’. Not Queen, you understand. King. A bold fashion statement for a ten-year-old, I’m sure you’ll agree. Imagine it. One minute you’re in Hungary, perfecting your curtsy and trying not to get jam on your best gown, the next you’re being shipped off to Poland to be the absolute monarch. The crown was dreadfully heavy. It kept slipping over my ears.
The coronation was a whole palaver. All these formidable lords with beards you could lose a small badger in, kneeling before a child who was mostly concerned about whether they’d serve plum tarts at the feast. They’d debate matters of state for hours, and I’d just be there, thinking, 'When will these werido's shut up'.
Being Queen (or King) wasn’t so much about wielding ultimate power as it was about learning to look incredibly thoughtful while, in reality, you were deciding which pony to ride later.
Then came the marriage to my darling, lumbering, pagan Lithuanian. History frames it as a grand union, a masterstroke of diplomacy that joined the crowns of Poland and Lithuania. And yes, it was. But let me tell you, from my perspective, it felt less like a fairy-tale romance.
Our first conversations were a riot. He spoke Lithuanian, and a smattering of Ruthenian. I spoke Polish, Hungarian, Latin, and a decent amount of French. It was the United Nations in a single bedchamber. We communicated mostly through pointing, exaggerated gestures, and the helpful translation of a monk who looked permanently terrified.
Lovely man, Jagiello. A bit rough around the edges, but he had a good heart. And he did bring Lithuania to the party, which was quite the coup. I just had to spend the next few years teaching him not to wipe his boots on the curtains.
The Saint Jadwiga thing was a terrible misunderstanding, blown out of all proportion.
Take the ‘miracle of the shoe’, for instance. The story goes I gave a poor artisan my velvet slipper so he’d have something of value to pawn. He carved its likeness into stone, it was declared a relic, and voilà, one step towards sainthood. The reality? It was a perfectly good shoe! It’s hardly turning water into wine, is it? It’s basic footwear redistribution.
Then there’s the black cross on the church wall. I apparently prayed before it so fervently that it embedded itself into the stone. Medieval stonework was notoriously shoddy, damp and porous but i did help people by founding hospitals, giving to the poor, restoring the university. But not because I was aiming for a halo. It just seemed polite. You see a kingdom that needs a bit of a boost, a university that’s seen better days, you roll up your sleeves and get on with it. It's common decency, not a fast track to celestial acclaim.
My death wasn't my finest hour, I’ll admit. After all the political intrigue, the royal mergers, I went the way so many women did back then, through childbirth.
Our daughter, Bonifacia. A beautiful little thing but she was, to put it mildly, a stubborn arrival. She took her time, and in the process, did a rather significant number on my internal arrangements. It was all a bit undignified, I can tell you. A far cry from the majesty one is supposed to cultivate. I was 25. Far too young to be handing in my notice.
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