The Rood and the Torc Read online

  “Silence!” Clovis screamed at his advisor. He picked up his francisc and brandished it until Ebroin slunk back to his chair. Then the king turned and raised the ax toward Kristinge. “Take what I have given you, and leave.”

  Kristinge bowed his head slightly, then turned and strode from the hall, only barely resisting the urge to run. It was not until he was out the door and the full terror of the situation struck him that he realized how fortunate he was to be alive. His knees grew weak beneath him.

  Willimond reached out a hand and steadied him as he stumbled. In a soft voice he said, “I know not whether to berate you for your foolishness, or praise you for your faith. Had I known you would tell a tale from the Word—”

  “You would have recommended against the tales of Daniel?”

  “You could not have chosen a more risky tale. Nor one more appropriate. If God led you, so be it. We must obey and trust Him.” Then the older monk smiled slightly. “But next time, give me warning.”

  Kristinge didn’t answer, but he returned the smile. How much of the song had been God’s leading, he did not know. Nor was he ready to think about it. Not having made other plans, they now found their way back to the where they had left the queen and the abbess. When they arrived at the outer door to her suite of chambers, one of her own servants was waiting for them. “The queen will see you in the morning,” he told them. “She has instructed me to bring you to the guest chambers.”

  Whether it was God’s grace, the fact that his exhaustion outweighed the lingering terror, or the comfort of the softest bed he had ever slept on, Kristinge was asleep within moments. It was not until late the next morning, after they had been well fed, that he and Willimond were led back the queen.

  “My servants arose early and have found two Frisian trading ships,” Balthild explained at once. Kristinge’s heart leapt with anticipation as the queen continued. “They are northward bound on a last voyage to Danemark before the winter sets in, and have agreed to take two passengers, one in each ship. I have paid already for your passage. They will leave at midday.”

  Kristinge and Willimond thanked the queen many times. “It is little,” she finally replied. “I would do more if I knew how. Telchild tells me that God will do mighty things in your lives.”

  “The abbess said this?” Kristinge asked in amazement.

  “She did. Though not, perhaps, what you expect. And not without…” she cut herself short before she finished.

  Perplexed, Kristinge waited expectantly for her to finish. When she said no more, he asked, “What did she mean? Not without what? What is it I expect?”

  At this, however, the queen only shook her head. “It is best that I say no more. Perhaps I have already told you more than I should have. You must ask Telchild herself. She is visiting a small chapel on the island and desires to see you again before you depart. Come. I will go with you.”

  Followed by four guards and a pair of servants, the queen proceeded out of the palace and began walking northward through the busy streets of Paris. As they passed the shops of various artisans and tradesmen, she spoke to Kristinge. “I heard of your tale last night. It was boldly done. Though had I known what you proposed, I might have counseled you against it. What they say is true. Clovis is no longer sane. But that only makes him more deadly. And he is still strong. I have seen him kill men with his francisc, hurling it with enough force and vengeance to split skulls.” She shivered now, as if at a gruesome memory.

  “I was afraid,” Kristinge admitted for the first time. He didn’t want to think about split skulls and throwing axes.

  “But the Lord was with him,” Willimond added.

  “That I know beyond doubt,” Balthild replied with an enigmatic smile. A moment later they arrived at a small stone chapel where they found Abbess Telchild and Beatrice. They joined them in silent prayer until it was time for Willimond and Kristinge to depart. Then all of them walked the remaining distance down the river to where the two trading ships were waiting. Once there, Kristinge and Willimond knelt again before Telchild and received her blessing. When they rose, Balthild also came forward. She had taken a large bundle from one of her servants. “I have many questions for you, and I wish you had the time to stay with us longer,” she said. She smiled at Kristinge, who looked again at her dark brown hair and green eyes; at her soft, bare arms and her flesh that looked so warm even on a cool October day. He could see why Clovis had desired her. He wondered whether given the freedom to choose her own path, she would have followed the one she had been sent upon. And what path was he himself being given? Had he chosen it for himself?

  “Were it not for your safety,” the queen went on, “I wish you could sing for the king’s court every night. I would that you could return with us to Burgundy to our court there. It would be good for us to hear you. But alas, I think there are not many who would gladly listen.” She sighed, as one who has accepted the fate of living under constant sorrow. “I would know what drives you to Danemark, to that cold and hostile land. Or what sends you to Friesland. But I sense you carry within you, in addition to the future of which Telchild has spoken, a history best left unquestioned for a time.” She laughed. “Why is it that I can see that past so much more clearly than the future?”

  And I can see neither, Kristinge thought.

  “You are gracious, dear queen,” Willimond answered, when Kristinge could not. “We will remember your gentleness even as we remember the hospitality of your house.”

  With nothing else to say, she stepped forward with her bundle and handed half of it to Willimond and the other half to Kristinge. Standing on her toes, she pulled them forward and gave each a kiss on the forehead. Kristinge blushed, and to avoid her eyes he looked down at what she had given him. It was a pile of clothing, new and costly by the looks: a heavy fur cloak such as a wealthy nobleman might wear, along with a pair each of woolen trousers and tunics, and some soft leather shoes like those of the king. Knowing something of the value of such things, Kristinge realized that his whole bag of coins would not have sufficed to have purchased half of what he held. His eyes opened wide with surprise and gratitude, and he looked over at Willimond and saw that he, too, was holding up similar items.

  “We cannot accept this,” Willimond said at once, starting to hand the bundle back to the queen.

  Kristinge’s jaw dropped at Willimond’s words. Cannot accept? Why not? The garments were beautiful. He was glad that Balthild refused to take the bundles back. “It is a gift,” she replied. “Show me your love by accepting it

  “But—” Willimond started to object.

  “It would be better,” the queen said before Willimond could finish his objection, “if you did not arrive in Danemark in the cloak of a monk. It is still a pagan land, more so even than Friesland. Few missionaries have gone there, and those who have gone have not returned. The Danes are jealous for their gods, and quick to make martyrs of any who threaten them. This is for your own protection. If they are going to put you to death, at least let them hear what you have to say first.”

  “But—” Willimond tried again.

  “Do not turn down what God provides,” Abbess Telchild interrupted, taking the part of the queen. “You might well regret it later if you do. Would you find yourself cold and wet in the weeks to come, wondering why God has not provided for you, when it was you yourself who refused his provision when he did?”

  Kristinge watched Willimond ponder these words. Then the older monk bowed to Queen Balthild. “Your generosity is as abundant as your hospitality. I will not refuse what you have graciously given.” But then he turned back to Telchild. “Yet as for our robes, do you truly council that we hide them and show shame for our Lord?”

  “I council only that you heed the queen’s advice,” Telchild replied. “She is wise and her advice sound. Consider again your purpose in going to Danemark. When I asked that question of Kristinge yesterday, I did not ask it lightly. If your purpose is as Kristinge said, to find the one you seek, y
ou will be better able to accomplish it without the attire of a monk.”

  Kristinge’s thoughts flashed back to their conversation of the day before—the conversation of which the abbess was reminding them as clearly as she could without giving away Kristinge’s identity in the presence of others. Do you go as Hildeburh’s son? Or do you go as a Christian monk? She had asked.

  I go to seek my mother, was Kristinge’s response.

  “There is no cowardice in putting aside the robe for a time,” Telchild went on. “One may hide a robe without showing shame for the Lord. Even Paul the Apostle wore the cloak of a tentmaker when it suited him.” Then her voice lightened. “Of course unless your hair grows in quickly, you will ill be able to hide what you are.”

  Willimond bowed. “Again I am humbled.”

  The abbess shrugged. “‘As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.’ It is I who am humbled by your fearless zeal for the Lord’s glory. Nonetheless, in this you might better accomplish your work—the Lord’s work, it may be—without your robes.” She turned then to Kristinge. “And I will say a final time that it may also be well for you if all of your identities are hidden for the time. Among the Danes, there may be crimes even greater than following Jesus.”

  Kristinge nodded. Though her allusion was veiled, he knew of what the abbess spoke. He was not only the heir of Finn’s torc, but in Germanic eyes he was the heir of Finn’s blood feuds. If the Danes still sought the weregild for the death of their nobles, then six years would not be a long wait for them. For the time, he would heed her advice to keep his secret. Yet he wondered if the secrecy were necessary in front of the Frankish queen. Balthild could certainly be trusted, he thought. He risked another glance in her direction, but she was staring down the river as if trying not to listen. He wondered whether she had not already guessed who he was, and he wondered how much longer he would be wondering what others did and did not know about him.

  Soon it was time for the ships to depart. Kristinge could see the merchants standing beside their ships a few paces away, waiting impatiently for the monks. Though too wise to risk rushing a ruling queen, their frequent looks showed their displeasure at the delay. Finally, Telchild and Beatrice turned to leave and the queen’s servant notified the traders that their passengers were now ready to depart. Willimond was ushered to the center of the front ship where, with rowers fore and aft of him, he was given a small space surrounded by the cargo. The traders had not been generous with room. Kristinge looked nervously at the other ship, and the small space he would be allotted for the duration of the voyage. For how many days? Yet his hope of what lay at the end of the voyage was enough to endure anything.

  “God’s blessings,” Queen Balthild said again.

  “His blessings upon you as well,” Kristinge replied. Then, under orders from the merchant, he prepared to step down upon the keel board.

  Yet there was to be one last delay. Not far behind them, rising over the steady din of haggling merchants, came an angry voice shouting in the distinctive Frisian dialect. The sound of his native tongue caught Kristinge’s attention, and he turned to look. What he saw took him by surprise. A few dozen yards upriver, a single Frisian trading ship had come ashore to unload its goods. The ship’s sailors, however, were being accosted by a pair of Frankish soldiers. One had seized some of the merchandise, a bundle of woolen cloth, as if to confiscate it. Such a scuffle over customs fees between guards and merchants was not uncommon. What was surprising was that the merchant facing the soldiers was a woman—a fiery young Frisian woman, clad in a rich but well-worn sleeveless woolen cloak and dark trousers. At least Kristinge guessed she was the owner of the goods. But he knew that women merchants were as rare among the Frisians as were monks. And she didn’t look like a merchant, but more like a princess or the proud daughter of some great warrior. Her hair, bound below a bronze war helmet, was long and black, contrasting sharply with the smooth white skin of her bare forearms. And though she was not large, her arms looked strong and finely tuned.

  And her face. Her eyes! Kristinge’s own eyes opened wide. Could it be? He took an involuntary step forward. He had seen that face before. Those emerald eyes. They had haunted his memory for many years.

  Not intimidated, the young Frisian woman stood toe-to-toe with the soldiers, demanding that they return her goods. But the soldiers, over a head taller than her and well armed, only grinned at her fiercely. Suddenly the one holding her merchandise dropped the goods and grabbed her shoulder. Before she could pull away, he reached toward her breasts with his other hand.

  What happened next caught everyone off guard, especially the soldier. Rather than trying to escape his grip, the woman’s knee came up hard into the soldier’s groin faster than he could pull away. With his eyes wide open in surprise and pain, he fell doubled over into a heap on the ground, while the woman quickly reached over and picked up her goods. And the mischievous expression that flashed across her face erased many of the doubts remaining in Kristinge’s mind about her identity. Could this be anyone by her? Aewin? The young girl he had met so long before in Hwitstan—the one who had been promised in betrothal to his brother before…

  But she was no longer a young girl. Her beauty was astonishing. What was she doing here? Where was her chieftain father? Kristinge took another step forward. His concern was no longer merely for a fellow Frisian in trouble. Yet what was he to do? He could only watch.

  With one guard still bent over clutching his groin, the woman stepped back toward her boat. Unfortunately, there were two soldiers. The other one drew his sword. He was no longer smiling as he stepped toward her. Seeing him approach with blood in his eyes, the woman’s look of triumph vanished. The seriousness of the situation struck her. She took another step backwards, looking around for help. But most of the sailors in her ship were unarmed and not eager to come to her aid. A few had drawn swords but they had yet to disembark. They saw as clearly as she did: a few dozen paces away, a much larger group of Frankish soldiers was watching the scene closely, ready to enter the fray if any of the Frisians attempted to interfere. A battle would not go well for the woman’s company, and her people knew it.

  The remaining Frankish soldier came toward the woman. She stepped back again, and found herself ankle-deep in the river. “Come here,” the soldier said in his own Frankish dialect, beckoning with his hand. The woman looked around once more for help. There was no aid. She reached into her belt and pulled a short knife. It was no match for the soldier’s sword. Even had she a weapon equal to his, he was twice her weight.

  No! Kristinge thought. In his mind it was a shout, but afterward he did not know if any words had even come forth from his mouth. He was terrified. Still, he took another step. The woman had now turned in his direction. For an instant their eyes met, and he could read in her glance the silent plea for help. A vision flashed across his mind of her as a younger girl sitting beside him on the banks of the Hwitstan, listening as he played the harp. He had to do something. He started forward. Then a hand came firmly upon his shoulders. It was the merchant in whose ship he was to sail—a fellow Frisian. Kristinge tried vainly to pull away, but the grip was firm. “Unwise to involve yourself,” the merchant said. “Nothing you can do here.”

  “She’s one of our people,” Kristinge argued, but the merchant only shook his head. Kristinge looked back upon the scene. The soldier was advancing now. He stood at the edge of the water. The woman, still holding her knife, took another step back. Two of her people near the front of the ship had leapt into the water, but then stopped when ten or more Frankish guards took several threatening steps forward. The young woman looked at her people with scorn, then turned back toward the advancing soldier. She was up to her knees now. Behind her, the river dropped off steeply. She could retreat no farther. The soldier lowered his blade until its point was just below her neck. Kristinge’s heart was pounding.

  “Stop!” another voice rang out.

  Kristinge looked to his side. Queen Balthi
ld had stepped forward. “Stop!” she shouted again, in a voice not as loud as the Frisian woman’s but full of authority. The soldier stopped and looked. His comrade had now regained his feet and turned toward the queen also. His anger and hatred were written clearly on his face, but he recognized who it was who spoke and bowed. Moved perhaps by sympathy for her kindred sex, Balthild spoke. “Leave the Frisian woman alone. Let her unload her merchandise.”

  “She has not paid—”

  “Leave her,” The queen commanded sternly. “I know what custom fees you loot, and I know how little of it makes it to the throne. This one you will not accost.” As she spoke, her personal guards from the palace took a step toward the two soldiers who still stood menacingly over the Frisian woman. It was, however, unnecessary. Balthild was queen. The soldiers reluctantly obeyed, and backed away from the young woman.

  The Frisian woman did not leave the water until the soldiers had disappeared. When they were gone, she stepped up on the bank and resheathed her knife. Then she turned and looked at Balthild, bowing her head slightly in acknowledgment of the favor done her. No words were exchanged between them. None were necessary. When she had silently thanked the queen, her eyes scanned again the company of her rescuer. Kristinge could only watch. She had grown beautiful since he had last seen her, from a sparkling young girl to a woman full grown. Her face—forehead high and proud, eyes black and flashing, and full lips tightly pursed—was stunning. Enamored by her beauty, he could not look away. When her gaze finally met his, they stopped as if in a glimmer of recognition. Yet she held him captive for only an instant. Then she dismissed him and turned upon her own servants. With words even more fiery than her gaze, she proceeded to scold them for their cowardly faithlessness.

  But Kristinge still stood staring at her, unable to forget her face or beauty. Queen Balthild looked back at Kristinge, then at the woman, then at Kristinge again. The monk saw the queen’s smile but did not comprehend it. Only the heavy hand still resting upon his shoulder turned his eyes away. The scene had played itself out and the merchant was ready to depart. With a final farewell to the queen and another look back at the Frisian woman, Kristinge stepped into the boat. Within a few moments, he had started down the Seine toward the North Sea doubting he would ever see Luxeuil or Jouarre again. But he was not thinking about Jouarre. He was thinking about his old acquaintance. Would he see her again? Was she now betrothed to another? Would she think differently of him if she knew that he, too, was a son of Finn?