The Rood and the Torc Read online

  “Not yet,” Kristinge corrected.

  “Come,” Willimond said soberly. “Let us see if there are still any here of the Faith.”

  Putting his own concerns aside for the moment, Kristinge followed Willimond into the village in hopes of finding their fellow followers of Christ. That hope, however, was not to be fulfilled. Seven years was a long time. After two hours of searching for the metal smith, Willimond even began to doubt his memory. “There is no smith here,” they were told by three different people. Finally they met an old peasant who remembered the smith, and told Willimond he had died of illness during the winter four or five years past. The monks lowered their heads in sadness.

  They searched next for the peasant farmer. Though Willimond had forgotten his name, they eventually found him. He and his wife lived in a sunken hut on the far side of the main terp, near the village lands where they worked. Willimond found the two of them in the nearby woods collecting wild nuts and seeds to supplement the grain harvest which was now past. The reunion brought no joy. Neither the man nor women at first recognized the monks who were not wearing their robes. When Willimond reminded them who he was, they looked sheepish and acted eager to be rid of him. When Kristinge later walked past their hut he saw the reason why. Near their door were a pair of wooden stick idols of the fertility gods Njord and Nerthus, along with sacred wooden cow’s horns. Perhaps under pressure from the other villagers they had given up their Christian faith and returned to the idol worship. Kristinge had never seen Willimond so dejected as when he walked away from that house.

  Disheartened and with no other purpose in the village, they returned to the beach. “What fate have the other believers come to?” Willimond wondered aloud. “Have all my years here come to naught?”

  Kristinge did not know how to answer. He sat silently beside his old companion a few yards upriver from the pair of guards who stood watch over the ships. They were still sitting there some time later when Wyndlaf returned to the ship with the chieftain and a pair of his thanes. He watched absently as the trader ordered one of his men to unload a few items from the ship. The chieftain desired to look over some of the goods. As expected, there was some dickering. Kristinge had seen it several times before. In the end Wyndlaf traded three new Frankish-forged iron weapons for a large load of native Frisian cloth: the pallia Fresonica they would later sell in Danemark—if they made it that far—or the following spring at the fairs of St. Denis. When the barter was complete, the merchant fell into easy conversation with the chieftain. Kristinge, seated downwind, heard all but a few words which got lost here and there to the squawk of a gull or sudden gust of wind.

  Most of the conversation held little interest to the young monk. However, when the chieftain began updating the merchants on the present struggle for the Frisian torc, Kristinge began to pay closer attention. It was the first news of Friesland he had heard since word had reached Luxeuil of the battle of Finnsburg and the death of Finn.

  “Aldgisl is strong and well-liked,” the chieftain was saying. “And he has a good war band—a strong hearthwerod. He will be king soon, I think. I will follow him. But old Réadban, he is a real question. He is crafty and unpredictable, and just as ambitious as he was in his youth when he challenged Finn.”

  At the name of Finn, Kristinge’s heart started to beat faster and he sat upright. Finn? Somebody had challenged him? Who? Why? His dilemma came rushing back at him. Was he truly returning to Friesland as the son of Finn? The heir of the torc? Was this his own history he was hearing—the history of Finn?

  “You know Réadban is the chieftain at Dorestad now,” the chieftain continued. His voice was calm, giving little hint of emotion, as if the events were distant and impersonal. It was Kristinge whose emotions were beginning to rise. “It was his son, Radbod the Young, who overthrew Frotha’s kin in Dorestad many years ago. But Radbod is dead, and he was childless. Réadban has claimed Dorestad until Ultar’s son Rathbod is old enough to rule.”

  “Do the people follow him willingly?” Wyndlaf asked.

  “The peasants?” He shrugged. “They do not care. As long as they get something to eat. What matters is that Réadban has a loyal hearthwerod—a large war band and many thanes. Mercenaries, half of them, but it doesn’t matter much. It is a large enough band to back his ambitions. He claims Utrecht as well now. No one is strong enough to oppose him. I imagine old Frotha would try to claim Dorestad back were he a few years younger. And if he still ruled a large enough clan to have a real war band. He always hated Réadban even before he lost to him the rule over the southern villages. Frotha was loyal to Finn.”

  Kristinge’s head was spinning now. Loyalty to Finn? Why had he not known this when he had sung in Frotha’s hall a few nights ago? Is that what Frotha had recognized in Kristinge? And who was this Réadban?

  “What of Aldgisl?” the trader pursued, his eyes narrowing hungrily at this rare morsel of information being doled out so freely. “Friesland is not as large as Francia. There can be no more than one king or one torc around a king’s neck. Réadban’s ambitions cannot be hidden from Aldgisl. Does Réadban seek the torc for himself? Does he oppose Aldgisl?”

  “Not now. Not openly. They are kin, after all—Aldgisl and Réadban. Distant kin, perhaps, but kin. No. Since the deaths of Radbod and Ultar—”

  “Ultar is dead?” Wyndlaf asked, surprised.

  “He was killed in a summer raid upon the Swedes,” the chieftain confirmed. “You had not heard? Ultar had gone to join his brother Radbod, and Réadban has been made childless. Thus he has pledged his sword to Aldgisl. Or so Aldgisl claims, and I do not doubt him. But Ultar left behind a son; Rathbod, he is called. An ill name, I think. Still, though he is just an infant, he is kin of Réadban. I wonder what will happen when Rathbod is old enough to rule. Will Réadban still support Aldgisl when one of his own is old enough for the torc? I wonder. If Aldgisl really covets the torc, he would do well to watch them both.”

  There was a pause as the chieftain gazed contemplatively out toward sea. “Réadban is raising a war band to drive the Franks out of Domburg,” he finally continued. “He is ambitious. He wants to raise eight hundred or more—a war band such as has not been seen in Friesland in a long time. If enough follow him, he promises even to cross the Rhine to regain territory to the south. Or so he claims is his purpose. Some think otherwise. If he really raises so many thanes, no chieftain in Friesland could equal him. And he is doing it all in the name of Rathbod, who is still suckling at his mother’s breast.”

  Kristinge heard breathing at his side and realized that Willimond was listening too.

  “What do you think?” Wyndlaf asked. Merchants were notorious for staying uninvolved and neutral in matters of Frisian political affairs, but equally notorious for knowing more of what was happening than anybody else, perhaps because their livelihood depended on being well-informed. “Will he succeed? Will he drive out the Franks? Can he raise such a large war band?”

  The chieftain thought for a moment. He was not likely to speak openly against Réadban. Nor against Aldgisl. That much Kristinge knew. Likely, this young chieftain had already pledged his sword to one or both of them. So Kristinge was not surprised when he deflected the question. “It was Réadban’s son Radbod who usurped Frotha’s torc and drove his family from Dorestad. There could be no love there, so don’t expect Frotha to follow him. Indeed, knowing Réadban, I am surprised Frotha still lives. Still, it is a popular campaign against the Franks, and Réadban is gaining support. The Frisians have feared the Franks for too long. We have been threatened too often, especially those of us close to the great river. The Franks have taken Domburg back since the time of Finn, and have crossed the Rhine in many places. But now their kings appear weak. Many among the Frisian clans think it is the time to attack them. I do not disagree. A number of chieftains have already pledged themselves to this battle—though not necessarily to Réadban himself. I think if Aldgisl takes up the cause, there will be a war with the Franks.”
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br />   He paused and looked out to sea for several moments before continuing. “If he does not, then I do not know. It could happen anyway. Réadban has somewhere acquired treasure, and with it he has attracted a large war band of his own. I hear it now numbers three hundred. If he wins a victory against the Franks without Aldgisl, then Aldgisl’s claim on the Frisian torc will be greatly weakened. With such victories, kings are made! If pressed, I think Réadban could already put up a good fight against Aldgisl. Though as I said, I do not think he will—at least not until Rathbod is older. And by that time, Réadban will be long in his grave, I think. He’s already lived longer than a warrior ought. Valhalla is not far away from that one. Valhalla or Hel, but for now he remains on this middan-gearth.”

  “And you?” the other younger merchant asked slyly, pressing the question yet a step further than Wyndlaf had taken it. “Who will you support for king if it comes to a contest between them?”

  The chieftain laughed and put his hand on the hilt of his blade. “I will protect my people. Keep them alive and well-fed. Any Frisian chieftain or king who can help me with that will have my support.” But then he looked around, and in a lower voice which Kristinge could only barely hear added, “And yet I tell you that I have no more love for Réadban than Frotha does. There are some who will never forget that it was Réadban who betrayed Finn at the end.”

  What? Kristinge’s heart lurched, and he almost shouted aloud. He would have leapt to his feet had it not been for Willimond’s hand on his shoulder restraining him. Betrayed Finn?! He felt his anger rising. It did not matter that he had barely known Finn—or that it had happened many years ago. Who was this chieftain Réadban?

  “Betrayed Finn?” Wyndlaf asked, in a surprised voice. “This is a new tale to me. News may travel slowly, but we have ears in my trade. What do you mean?”

  “Finn knew the Danes were coming to attack. It was not only Finn’s son who died in the first battle. The Danish king perished also, so there was a weregild to be paid. Finn knew that in the spring he would see battle, and he sent to his chieftains for aid, calling his war band to gather at Finnsburg. It was then he was betrayed—betrayed by those he had trusted.”

  “How—” the trader started to ask.

  “Some of the blame lay in Finn himself. At the death of his son Finnlaf—slain in his own hall upon his own hearthstone—many of Finn’s thanes lost confidence in their king. And in his self-pity, Finn did nothing to regain their trust. Yet even so, many remained loyal and would have come to his aid had it not been for Réadban. Réadban and his sons spoke evil words of the king, inciting others to abandon Finn as well. And where words did not suffice, they issued threats. For Réadban was already powerful enough that other chieftains were afraid of him. Or if not afraid, his words conveniently gave them excuses to follow their own petty ambitions.”

  Is this what I have inherited? Kristinge wondered. Do I claim this inheritance?

  The chieftain was not yet finished. “Despite Réadban’s threats, Frotha’s brother Froda answered Finn’s call. He took his band of twenty loyal warriors and fought to the death at Finn’s side. He was a brave warrior, Froda was, and loyal until the end. I have often heard Frotha wish he had been in his brother’s place. But alas, the line of Finn is now gone, and it is the likes of Réadban that lives on in his grandson Rathbod.”

  After that, his voice grew so hushed that Kristinge could no longer hear without stepping closer. Yet he had heard enough. In a sullen mood that matched Willimond’s, he walked with the older monk back down to the ship with the chieftain’s words ringing in his ears. Alas, the line of Finn is now gone…

  The next day, they encountered more hard northern winds mixed with a cold rain. Though it did not halt their voyage, they were not able to venture far out into the offing. Travel was slow and miserable. Not for the first time on the voyage, Kristinge was on the verge of seasickness in the long rolling swells inside the Frisian islands. The rain trailed off by noon, but the winds only grew colder. It was already approaching dusk when the boats turned into a large, sheltered bay. Further back in the ship, Kristinge overheard the steersman talking with Wyndlaf.

  “The Beowic terp is old and high. I could use a dry night. Besides, three of the sailors have families there.”

  “We will stop at Beowic on the return voyage,” Wyndlaf answered him, “but in the morning I would send a message to Ezinge. Let us stay at Hwitstanwic instead—near the old ruins of Finnsburg.”

  Finnsburg? The word hung frozen in the wind, and Kristinge’s heart began to pound with dread. Finnsburg. This was his home. It had been his home long ago. But now…? Now…?

  “Only if we must,” the younger trader was saying. “The place still stinks of death.”

  “You never saw it during its prime, in the days of Finn,” Wyndlaf replied, almost wistfully. “Though not like the Frankish palaces of Paris and St. Denis for grandness, it was a warm hall with a hearty fire and good beer. Finn was a generous lord.”

  “Well he’s dead now,” the other grumbled.

  Kristinge could not see Wyndlaf’s expression, but he could feel his own body tensing with emotions he could not even identify. He was caught between an urge to curse the young steersman who had spoken so callously, and a desire to turn the ship around and head back to Paris.

  “Think what you may,” Wyndlaf finally said. “The beaches there are good, and there is a high hill. You’ll be plenty dry. There are even a few abandoned huts that survived the fire. We’ll be able to sleep under a roof.”

  The other’s grumbling reply, Kristinge did not hear. He was overwhelmed with trepidation, and for a long time was unaware even of the lash of wind on his neck or the icy spray against his face. Some time later, the two ships slid onto the sandy beaches of Hwitstanwic. Kristinge sat huddled, unmoving, for many long moments while the sailors around him stepped ashore. When he finally rose, he was trembling. Whether from the cold or from fear of what he might find, he did not know. He found Willimond waiting for him a few yards up the beach. Under the light of the rising moon, the older monk’s face looked pale. Neither spoke a word. They had not seen the village since its destruction, and Kristinge was afraid to face what he knew awaited him. In silence they climbed the hill past the ruins of what had once been the tower Finnweard, and descended down the back side into the rubble of Hwitstan.

  Tears were streaming down Kristinge’s face before he even reached the bottom. Despite all his foreknowledge of the loss that awaited him, the sight was still shocking. Most of the buildings had been torn apart or burned to the ground. Scarred human skeletons in grotesque death poses, their flesh long ago picked apart by birds, dotted the ground, some still clutching their makeshift weapons. Only a few of the sunken houses with turf walls had survived the flames. Miraculously, two or three of the huts still possessed remnants of their roofs, but even these turf skeletons only made the scene more depressing. Without the great mead hall, the village was forlorn. Yet where Finnsburg had once stood, proudly guarding its town, there now lay just a scattering of ash. Only the huge hearthstone and a few charred beams remained in the center of the village, buried in ash beneath the burnt ruins of the roof.

  Willimond did not stay long. After a passing glance at the remains of Finnsburg, he passed through the village and around the pond, walking slowly but steadily to the spot where his church had stood. Kristinge paused only a moment longer to look upon the ruins of the great hall of Finnsburg, and then ran to catch up with Willimond. As they expected, the church too had been burned. The Danes had spared little. Kristinge came up behind Willimond who stood over what had once been the door of his chapel. In the moonlight, Kristinge could see the tears on the older monk’s face. Putting his own confused thoughts aside for the moment, he placed his hand on Willimond’s shoulder, offering what comfort he could. He could see Willimond gaining strength before he stepped through the now imaginary doors. Somehow, though his pulpit had been destroyed, a few of the benches had survived the fire.
The monks sat for a long time just staring at the emptiness in front of them. Finally, Kristinge pulled his heavy blanket from his pack and stretched out on a bench. He fell asleep with Willimond still sitting up beside him.

  When Kristinge awoke in the morning, Willimond was gone. He arose, splashed water on his face, and then went in search of his friend. He found Willimond sitting down by the river looking out over the tidal water. “Our weirs,” Willimond said, pointing out into the river at a couple timbers that marked where they had once been. Since returning to Friesland, they had taken to speaking to one another in the Frisian tongue, in part for the practice but more than anything so that they would not be perceived as strangers. Now Kristinge’s native tongue was beginning to feel native again, and he was glad that Willimond continued the practice even when they were alone. Somehow, the speaking of Frisian felt more natural on that soil than did Latin. It was an honoring of their former home.

  “The tides have taken them now,” Willimond continued, “but once they supplied much of the village with fish.”

  Kristinge sat down beside his former mentor. As much as he grieved to see for the first time the ruins of his former home, he knew that Willimond was grieving the more.

  “Did I ever tell you of when I first came to Hwitstan?” Willimond asked. Kristinge shook his head and waited for the story. “My first friend here was a fisherman named Lopystre. The weir-tender. Do you remember him?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I arrived here late in the evening on a trading ship, just as we did last night, only then it was a Saxon ship that had come from the Isles. And once they let me off here, I was on my own. I was about the same age you are now.

  “Anyway, when I arose in the morning I had nothing to put on but my cold, wet cloak. Nonetheless, I went out in search of the king. And the first thing I did was trip and fall flat on my face in the mud and dung, covering myself with filthy stink that almost made me vomit. What do I see when I lift my head from the ground? Who was there looking at me but Ulestan and young Finnlaf. What a sight I was. Covered in filth, wet to the bone—not to mention my tonsure which was a new sight to these Germanic folk who honor the long hair. A fool I made of myself. I think God was teaching me some of the humility I would need for His work. It was a hard thing for me just to rise and face them then. But somehow I managed.”