The Rood and the Torc Read online

  Some other works by Matthew Dickerson:

  Nonfiction

  Following Gandalf:

  Epic Battles and Moral Victory in The Lord of the Rings

  From Homer to Harry Potter:

  A Handbook on Myth and Fantasy

  Narnia and the Fields of Arbol:

  The Environmental Vision of C.S. Lewis

  Ents, Elves, and Eriador:

  The Environmental Vision of J.R.R. Tolkien

  A Hobbit Journey:

  Discovering the Enchantment of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth

  Novels

  The Finnsburg Encounter

  The Rood and Torc: The Song of Kristinge, Son of Finn

  © 2014 by Wings Press for Matthew T. Dickerson

  First Edition:

  Print Edition ISBN: 978-1-60940-298-3

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-60940-299-0

  Kindle ISBN: 978-1-60940-300-3

  Library PDF ISBN: 978-1-60940-301-0

  Wings Press

  627 E. Guenther

  San Antonio, Texas 78210

  Phone/fax: (210) 271-7805

  On-line catalogue and ordering:

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  All Wings Press titles are distributed to the trade by Independent Publishers Group

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Dickerson, Matthew T., 1963-

  The Rood and the Torc : the song of Kristinge, son of Finn / Matthew Dickerson. -- First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-60940-298-3 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-299-0 -- ISBN 978-1-60940-300-3 -- ISBN 978-1-60940-301-0

  1. Finn, King of the Frisians (Legendary character)--Fiction. 2. Fight at Finnesburg (Anglo-Saxon poem)--Adaptations. 3. Epic poetry, English (Old)--Adaptations. 4. Middle Ages--Fiction. 5. Beowulf--Adaptations. 6. Historical fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.I316R66 2013

  813’.54--dc23

  2013007838

  Except for fair use in reviews and/or scholarly considerations, no portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author or the publisher.

  The Tale

  Chapter 1: Ulestan’s Final Duty

  Chapter 2: A King’s Son

  Chapter 3: Daelga’s Harp

  Chapter 4: Monk and Bard

  Chapter 5: The Long-Haired King

  Chapter 6: The Prophet

  Chapter 7: The Wics of Friesland

  Chapter 8: The Hoclinges

  Chapter 9: Winter

  Chapter 10: Songs of Winter

  Chapter 11: Long Nights

  Chapter 12: The Sacrament

  Chapter 13: A Stranger

  Chapter 14: Aelfin, son of Aeltar

  Chapter 15: Heir of Finn’s Torc

  Chapter 16: War band

  Chapter 17: Battle

  Chapter 18: East Winds

  Chapter 19: Monk, Bard, Priest, King

  Chapter 20: Réadban

  Chapter 21: Revenge

  Chapter 22: Betrayal

  Chapter 23: Flames in Ezinge

  Historical and Literary Notes

  Glossary of Terms and Persons

  About the Author

  For my parents, Willard W. and Clara May Dickerson, who instilled in me early in life a love of books and of story. And for my parents-in-law, Robert and Judy Forrest, who prepared and shared with me an even greater love of my life.

  The Rood and the Torc:

  The Song of Kristinge,

  Son of Finn

  From Hwitstan he went, the wise thane Ulestan,

  from hearth, from home, from hall and from king.

  No foe drove him forth. No fear made him leave.

  He did not seek that sorrowful way.

  One command he received, one care from his ruler.

  To him was trusted the highest of tasks:

  this boy to keep, the king’s own blood.

  CHAPTER 1:

  Ulestan’s Final Duty

  Kristinge rose from his seat in the corner of the mead hall. He approached the fire, making his way past the haughty stares of battle-scarred warriors seated on heavy wooden benches. His eyes darted around the crowded room. It was smaller than the great walled burgs of the Franks where, not many days earlier, he had played his harp and sung before their ruler. Smaller and warmer. More comfortable. More like Finnsburg, the hall of the Frisian king Finn in the days of his glory—at least as far as that hall remained in Kristinge’s fading memory from his days as a child in the village of Hwitstan. Nonetheless, despite the familiarity of this scene, he felt ill at ease. The hall was full. Fifty men at least were gathered there that evening. The chieftain Frotha and his kin, along with a few of his loyal retainers, sat on the benches in the center of the hall, closest to the fire. The rest of his war band filled the benches further from the hearthstone. Most were still seated. Some had already slipped to the ground, succumbed to the food and strong drink. The traveling merchants and their retinues occupied the far wall, but in the smoky firelight Kristinge could not make out their faces.

  “Sing,” commanded Frotha in his hearty bellowing voice. As he motioned toward an open space by the hearth, his bare arms, thicker than the traveler’s thighs, gleamed with the gold of a half-dozen armbands. Around his neck was an even heavier wound-gold torc of a chieftain. “We are ready.”

  Kristinge approached. It had been many years since he had been in such a place, a true Frisian mead hall. How long since he had last been in Friesland? Six years, was it? Nearly a third of his life. He fidgeted with the pegs of his harp, making sure it was in tune while he dredged his small repertoire for some song or tale appropriate to the setting. Why was he afraid? This should have been far more comfortable than the cold palace on the Isle of the Parisii. It was no time for his memory to fail him.

  “Do you have a song, or must we wait all night?” the chieftain bellowed.

  Kristinge took a deep breath and nodded. Though Frotha was not a mighty chieftain, not even by the reckoning of the small clans of Friesland, he was nonetheless the lord of the hall and the giver of treasure. It would not do well to displease him. And so, still hoping desperately for some sudden inspiration, the young man lifted his harp. But then his eyes strayed once more to the graceful figure who sat on the far side of the hearth.

  Aewin. It was probable that she didn’t even recognize him. But he could make no mistake about her. He almost said her name aloud. Glowing in the enchanted light of an evening fire, her face was even more beautiful than when he had seen her among the Franks. Her dark hair—hair that had been hidden beneath a bronze helmet when last he saw her—hung free, braided and bound with golden pins as befitted one of her station. Emerald eyes, which in her distress a few days earlier had flashed with a dangerous vigor, now sparkled with light-hearted mischief as she spoke with one the young retainers seated at her side. Nor did Kristinge miss the smooth curves of her shoulders and hips, which by the warmth of the fire were no longer hidden beneath several layers of fur. He tried to turn away, to discipline his thoughts to the task at hand. After all, he knew what her station was. And he knew his own. For a lowly bard to think of a woman so close in kinship with a chieftain was brash and foolhardy. Just to look at her might well put his life in danger from her family. And for a monk there was an even greater danger—a danger to the soul as well as the body.

  For a bard or monk, yes. Yet what about for a king? Would he be judged so were he the wearer of a torc?

  A king? Absently he began plucking the strings of his harp as if to sing, but his thoughts were drifting backward to a spring day, several months earlier…

  It was the first warm day of the year, an
d the fragrant breeze had that particular distracting quality that comes with the season. Feeling its effects, the young monk struggled to prevent his thoughts from drifting too far from the task at hand. It was a struggle he was near to losing. The sun had long since burned off the early morning fog, and signs of new life were exploding from the barrenness of winter. The maples scattered among the pines on the far side of the pond were dotted with tiny red blossoms. Buds on the beeches were such a light green they appeared almost gold against the silvery bark. And on the distant hillsides the tall thick firs were darker and greener and more full of life than they had looked in the winter. Involuntarily, his eyes wandered from the scroll held in front of him upwards toward the treetops, then higher still to the Vosges mountains rising beyond. Even in the higher altitudes, the remnants of the winter’s snow were disappearing under the bright blue skies, while in the foothills and valleys around him it was already gone. In its place the first flowers of spring were already in full blossom, and buds were exploding from the trees with the promise of bursting into leaf any day. Even the birds were participating in the event; the woods and fields were filled with their sounds as they celebrated in song the onset of the season. Peas had long since been planted in the gardens at Luxeuil, the fields near Annegray were sown with wheat and barley, and beans would follow in a few weeks. Before long, the yellow gentian—the bitter root that was both food and medicine for the monks—would begin to blossom in the mountains, and the younger monks would be sent into the higher slopes to gather wild roots and seeds.

  All of which was making it more difficult for the monk to concentrate.

  There was, however, work to be done. Brother Kristinge dropped his eyes from the hills and trees back to the immediate scene where his gaze traced a path around the gathered company. There were seven of them standing there beside the abbey pond on the edge of the monastic land. Father Petrica, garbed in his plain hooded robe, was the central figure in the Luxeuil retinue. He was shorter than Kristinge and slight of build, but his work-hardened hands, stern Roman jaw, and wiry muscles gave him a tough look that belied his small stature and gentle green eyes. In the identifying manner of Luxeuil monks, the front half of his head was shaven ear to ear and forward, leaving the back untouched. However his natural baldness—Petrica was now approaching his fortieth year—was creeping backward making the line of his tonsure indistinct. Kristinge on the other hand, only two years past his twentieth year, still retained a thick head of dark hair where it was unshaven in the back. Perhaps, he thought, that was why the younger monks were required to wear their hoods in the presence of their elders: to hide the blessings of their youth.

  Kristinge’s gaze continued around the circle. Facing Father Petrica and in sharp contrast to him was a Frankish nobleman richly garbed in a heavy sleeveless bear-skin cloak, a purple tunic, woolen trousers, and fur boots. His attire looked uncomfortably warm for the day, but left no question about his wealth or station. His tunic was fastened at the collar with a large silver brooch which must have cost him more than a few coins, as had his bear skin. Nor did Kristinge miss the elaborate jeweled and ornamented scabbard draped over the nobleman’s back. Though empty at present, it was made to hold a hefty blade.

  Standing at the nobleman’s sides were his two sons. The older of them, about fourteen years of age, bore a striking resemblance to the father, particularly in his heavy round face. He was even garbed in like manner, including a small empty scabbard. The younger son, however, wore only a heavy woolen robe that was cut for a man half again taller than him, and there was no indication that he had a weapon. He looked no more than nine years old, and his face was pale with either fear or illness. He was glancing back toward his mother and the rest of their large retinue who stood a short way off. There were about a dozen of them, family and servants both, taking care of the horses and guarding their master’s sword that had been removed in the presence of the monks.

  The nobleman, meanwhile, scratched his heavy beard and tugged on the sleeve of his tunic before continuing. “The land, alls of it from the muddy river to the hill by the old sheep brook,” he said, in his heavy Frankish tongue. “I gives it all to Father Petrica and I doesn’t never going to ask for it back.”

  Kristinge dipped his pen in the ink and prepared to write. On the ground in front of him, holding the scroll and the ink, knelt two untonsured novices. A few years younger than himself and new to Luxeuil, they were the final members of the monastic retinue. Though Kristinge had not yet learned their names, he could see they were from the mountains. They were nervous, as peasants were in the presence of nobles, and stared wide-eyed at the strangers. Kristinge hoped Father Petrica would not be too hard on them when the nobleman had left. Only a few years had passed since Kristinge had been in their place. Fortunately, Petrica was too busy to scold them now. “The land along the Doubs river from Annegray stream to the northwest ridge and its tributary stream,” Father Petrica repeated slowly. Kristinge wrote quickly and neatly on the sheepskin scroll held before him by the two novices. He would later translate the document into Latin back at the abbey. For now, the barbarian tongue would have to do. When the monk had finished scrawling, Petrica went on, “I hereby bequeath, free of cost to the monastery at Luxeuil, with no further hindrances of any kind.”

  “Further… hindrances… of any… kind,” Kristinge repeated under his breath. Then he looked up.

  Petrica nodded for the nobleman to continue. At that moment, however, the ceremony came to a temporary halt. The nobleman had stopped speaking and was staring over the monks’ shoulders in the direction of the monastery. Petrica, noticing that their newest benefactor had been distracted, turned to see what it was. Instinctively, Kristinge turned as well.

  Another monk had appeared at the top of the hill, and was now approaching with a determined gait. His features were visible. He was about the same height as Petrica but a little plumper, and though his hair was gray it was still full in the places it was left unshaven. He wore a robe similar to that of the other monks, but his hood was down as he walked, revealing a different tonsure than the monks of St. Peter’s at Luxeuil—a curious detail that might have been lost on the guests yet was obvious to the other monks. Thus Kristinge recognized him quickly. He came to a stop next to Petrica, and put his hood up in respect as he sought to catch his breath.

  Petrica looked upon the newcomer with a sharp, penetrating glance that indicated some annoyance. It would not do to lose this gift of land because of a poorly timed interruption. With a slight nod of his head, he addressed him in a level voice. “Willimond?”

  “Father,” Willimond replied, addressing his monastic superior with a tone of reverence, despite the fact that Petrica was a few years younger.

  “Is your business so urgent?” Petrica asked, motioning with his hand in such as way as to indicate that he was busy. “Where is patience?”

  “I am sorry,” Willimond said. He gave a sidelong glance at Kristinge, then leaned forward and whispered into Petrica’s ear.

  Petrica’s eyes registered his surprise and concern, and he also glanced at Kristinge. The young monk’s curiosity was fully aroused now. Whatever had brought Willimond out there must have been important or he would not have risked interrupting such an occasion. What could it be? He looked at Petrica. For a moment Petrica said nothing as he pondered whatever news had been brought to him. Finally he turned around again to face the curious eyes of the nobleman and his two sons. “We will continue,” he said.

  Kristinge saw Willimond’s face and shoulders drop slightly, but the older monk stepped back out of the way in obedience and he said no more.

  The nobleman cleared his throat and continued. “Me, Lord Charlethax of Billenford, gives these lands that is my own to give.” Kristinge returned to his work, trying not to think about whatever urgent message had brought Willimond out there. He listened as Petrica interpreted the speech of Charlethax, still in the Frankish tongue but with words more fitting the more formal language of
such documents. Kristinge had helped with this task before, when other uneducated Frankish nobles had made gifts of land to the monks of Luxeuil. He knew what to expect.

  “This I do on the third day of May,” Petrica said. There was a pause as Kristinge finished transcribing. “And now,” Petrica said to the nobleman, “is there some way by which we shall remember this day before God and before men?”

  “There is,” Charlethax replied. “We can remember it as the day when my son John was thrown into the abbey pond by his brother Charleson.”

  “But father,” the younger son protested. “The ice has barely—” His sentence was cut short by a solid cuff to his head by his father.

  “Witnessed and hereafter remembered,” Petrica dictated, “as the day in which John son of Charlethax, Lord of Billenford, was thrown into the abbey pond.”

  “Sons,” the Lord of Billenford said. “It is time.”

  Charleson grinned wickedly at his younger brother as he grabbed him by the collar of his robe. John squirmed momentarily, trying to elude the grip, but once again a cuff to his head convinced him to stop resisting. He was dragged ten feet to the edge of the pond, where Charleson waited only long enough for him to disrobe before heaving him into the chilly water. The younger son sank beneath the surface and came up a moment later gasping and sputtering from the cold, his only consolation being that a moment later his older brother slipped on the spring mud, lost his balance, and with his arms and legs flailing plunged in to join him. When the two boys came dripping from the water, their mother was already running down to the shore to help dry them off.

  “Can you make a mark on the scroll?” Petrica asked of Charlethax, ignoring the scene at the water’s edge.

  “I can,” Charlethax answered, grinning in pride at his ability to hold a pen to make a mark for his name. The monk dipped the pen in ink and handed it to the nobleman, who scratched something illegible on the scroll held for him by the novices.