The Rood and the Torc Page 16

  “Sceaptung, my skald, has a voice like a sore goat. And I have just lost the service of my former bard.”

  As Kristinge had earlier learned, it was not uncommon for a Danish village to have both a bard and skald. Their functions, though similar, were not the same. A bard was a singer of songs. He was a musician, a tale-teller, a writer of poems, and most importantly an entertainer. A skald on the other hand was an historian. He was the historian of the gods, remembering their tales that they could be passed from generation to generation. Consequently, a skald was an historian of his people as well. The fate of the folk, after all, was never far from the fate of their gods—Midgard and Asgard, the land of the people and the land of the gods. So the Danes believed. Of course the best skalds were often gifted bards as well, but it was not necessary for the vocation. As often as not, skalds were chosen for political or religious reasons rather than for any skill or talent. The priests had as much influences as the chieftain in appointing the skald. Thus it was that Kristinge was not bothered by the mention of a skald. “So you are without a bard?” he asked again, his hope rising.

  “My former bard did not serve me well,” Fjorgest replied, fingering his battle-ax. “He has gone where he will trouble no more chieftains.”

  This time, Kristinge did not miss the gesture. He swallowed hard, but thinking still of his mother he pressed his offer. “Then allow me to enter your service.”

  “That I will do,” Fjorgest replied. Now the chieftain smiled for the first time. “The gods have been good to me today. No sooner do I lose one bard to the misfortunes of the trade than another arrives to take his place. And on the very day I return to Heort from my coastal hall. We will feast tonight. And you will be our bard. Let the skald croak with the chickens.”

  Kristinge bowed low. “I am honored,” he said, but Fjorgest had disappeared into the hall.

  The short days and long nights of the northern winter were fast approaching. By the time they finished the conversation with Fjorgest, stars were shining in the sky and the warriors were already gathering in the hall. It would not be long before the celebration began. The monks walked to the edge of the village to spend a few moments in prayer together, then returned to the door. For all his boldness before Fjorgest, Kristinge had once again grown afraid and was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his offer. Perhaps there was another way he might find his mother. But Willimond did not allow a delay. “Let us see what the Lord brings us now,” he said quietly. “Perhaps we will find Hildeburh tonight. Only do not forget your caution. Be patient and allow the Lord to work.” Then, seeing Kristinge’s fear, Willimond put a hand on his younger companions shoulder. “God is with you. Do not be afraid.”

  Kristinge nodded. There was more at stake on this night than any other since their departure from Luxeuil. Yet at Willimond’s words, Kristinge sensed a strange peace settling over him. The nervousness that had been threatening him suddenly dwindled, or was at least held at bay for a time. With renewed resolve, he followed Willimond inside.

  At once, Kristinge was assailed with warm smoky air, the smell of hearty drink, and the sound of many voices. He turned to Willimond, but his friend was already weaving his way along one wall toward an empty bench on the far side of the fire. Kristinge followed him more slowly, looking around as he went. It took many minutes to sort through all he saw. Unlike the elder monk who at times past had been close to the counsels of Finn, Kristinge had not often been inside Finnsburg, and never to share mead with the warriors. The manors of Frankish nobles where he had performed along the journey to Paris were sterile by contrast. Heort was a true mead hall in the northern tradition—the center of life in the clan village. Only Frotha’s hall where he had sung for Aewin could compare. The chieftain Fjorgest was seated beside his hearth near the back center of the hall, still dressed as he had been a short time earlier. Filling the benches around him were forty or fifty of his warriors and thanes, talking with one another and laughing over loud stories and jokes. Though with the noise and the abundance of food and drink, Kristinge would not at first have thought of Luxeuil, in some ways the hall was more akin to his former monastery than to the palace and hall of Clovis. There was a warmth of fellowship and loyalty that was nearly palpable. These were men who had fought at each other’s sides. Men who more than once had saved each other’s lives. For a moment Kristinge almost forgot about Hildeburh as he wondered about their stories.

  But he did not for long forsake his purpose. His eyes continued around the hall looking for some sign of her. There were women present there, though only a few. Some were the age of Telchild or Beatrice. A few were younger than himself, and for a moment Kristinge’s thoughts again turned to Aewin. Had she dwelt in the village, she too would have been present at the hall. Here were the wives and daughters of the chieftains and influential thanes. Fjorgest’s own wife was likely among them, and during the evening would speak to her husband’s hearthwerod on behalf of the treasure-giver. But Kristinge didn’t care about her now. He wondered only whether Hildeburh were among them. And whether he would recognize her if she were. His pulse was racing as he studied the faces of the women present. How much would she have changed in those six years?

  Across the hall Willimond had found an empty seat. Before Kristinge could reach him, a pair of young thanes filled the bench beside the older monk. Disappointed that he had not seen his mother, Kristinge sighed silently, then looked for a bench for himself. The only empty seat he saw was closer to the hearth than he cared to be. Yet even as he thought this, Fjorgest caught sight of him and motioned for him to sit. Kristinge acquiesced and took a seat not far from the fire, near to the chieftain’s right hand. He kept a tight grip on the harp in his lap, and thought about Aewin. He had not seen her since his departure from Frotha’s hall. Even if her ship had continued behind his along the Frisian coast, he had now left it far behind. He would have to put the thought of her from his mind. He looked again toward Fjorgest’s bench. Seated closest to the chieftain were two warriors, taller than the rest. Kristinge now saw that they also bore gold torcs about their necks and numerous rings on their arms. They must be chieftains of neighboring clans, though from the deference they showed to Fjorgest ie was clear they owed their allegiance to the Hoclinges’ overlord. The two of them were speaking quietly with Fjorgest as Kristinge watched. A moment later, the treasure-giver rose to speak. Those who saw him rise, fell silent in anticipation.

  “It is time for our hearts to be glad,” Fjorgest began in a booming voice that brought instant silence to the rest of the hall. “It is time for the spirits of the Spear-Danes to rejoice, for our voices to be glad. To us has been given the joy of earth, a stronghold to protect us, and folk from afar who pay us tribute. Our enemies are silenced. Victory has been given in battle. And now comes winter and the warrior is home again, the shield hangs above the door, the sword-bearer sleeps with his wife.” As the speech continued, Kristinge watched the chieftain closely, mesmerized by the authority in his voice. If Fjorgest was as mighty in battle as he was in voice, it was clear how he had become the ruler of the people.

  The speech lasted several more minutes, though to Kristinge it did not seem long. As was the custom of chieftains, Fjorgest spoke words of welcome to the gathered company, and promised with astounding verbosity a great celebration including treasure-giving and praise for worthy thanes. Several of his thanes who had won particular glory in battle through the raiding season were mentioned right then—though afterwards Kristinge could not remember any of their names. Then Fjorgest ended with words of welcome to the chieftains who sat beside him, praising their strength and skill and promising friendship between their tribes. Kristinge later learned that younger one, Aesher, was Fjorgest’s cousin and ruled over a coastal clan related to the Hoclinges. The other, Healfas, was a Jutish chieftain whose sister was married to Aesher and who paid tribute to the Hoclinges. Several of the warriors in the hall were thanes and retainers in the service of these other chieftains. When Fjorgest’s wel
coming speech was over, Aesher and Healfas spoke similar words to the gathered company though with greater brevity. They promised gifts to their own thanes, and also—as their treaty with Fjorgest demanded—gifts to the Hoclinges.

  Then, when all three chieftains had spoken, the feasting began in earnest. At a word from Fjorgest, servants appeared from the back of the hall carrying great jugs of mead and beer. An enthusiastic cheer resounded as mugs and mead-cups were filled with the strong drink. “Fjorgest,” the men shouted. And “Aesher”, “Healfas”, and “Love live the Gods.” Then, while the beverage was still being poured, more servants entered bearing more hearty fare: boards of bread, cheese, and roasted grains along with dried fruits and salted meats and fish. The men cheered again, and attacked the plates of food as if they were looting a Saxon village. The women, too, took part in the feasting equally ravenously.

  Kristinge, fearing his fingers would be hacked off if they got too close to the meat board, managed to stab a slab of cheese and some bread and sat silently chewing on them while the celebration raged around him. One thing about Fjorgest: he did not lack in generosity for his thanes. Though the food was not as tasty or extravagant as that served to the monks by Queen Balthild, at least Kristinge could see that there would be no shortage of it, nor of strong beverage nor treasure-giving. If he could earn the chieftain’s favor with his barding, he would not lack food during the winter. Nonetheless, as the evening progressed he began slipping into a strangely solemn and heavy mood—a mood darker than he remembered in many months. It was not fear. After Willimond’s assurance, he had entered the hall confident that night with a peace he was sure had come from God. Nor was it his failure to find his mother. Though he could not deny the initial disappointment, he was far from giving up hope. There was something more—more than his fatigue and the physical and emotional exhaustion of many days of travel. It was almost as if the celebration itself weighed upon him. It was a strange mix of fellowship, loyalty, and familiarity that Kristinge found seductively appealing, yet also appalling. It was a fellowship rooted in a warrior society where glory and status came from prowess in battle. From the ability to kill and not be killed. Here Kristinge was an outsider, excluded from the real celebration, desiring at once both to be accepted into it and to flee from it. More than once he thought to rise and find a seat at Willimond’s side, but something kept him from moving. Food was again passed in his direction, but he no longer felt hungry. He ate nothing but the cheese and bread, and sat instead listening for fragments of conversation in the midst of the loud din of their collective voices.

  Only when the feasting began to slow did Fjorgest’s skald Sceaptung finally stand to speak. He was an unimpressive man—pale of skin, thin-haired, half a head shorter than Kristinge and many pounds lighter. As the chieftain had said, he was not among those skalds who were also gifted as bards. He had a droning voice like bleating goat. He was easy to ignore as he rambled on about the history of the Hoclinges and their gods in a fashion that gave more of a sense of duty and obligation than of joy in the telling. As for the stories themselves, they were dark and distressing and did nothing to lift Kristinge’s mood. The young bard was left wondering how Sceaptung had avoided the same fate as Fjorgest’s previous bard. When he could tolerate no more of the droning voice and disturbing tales, he tried to block out the sound from his ears and think ahead to the songs he himself would soon sing. But he could not concentrate. He was glad when the skald finished and sat down on his bench. Now Kristinge readied himself. Perhaps singing would break the gloom and lift his spirits.

  when Fjorgest rose again, however, it was not to call upon his new bard but to give a speech of his own. “Bravest of warriors and mightiest of men,” he began. All fell silent. “Hoclinges and War-Scyldings, glory is yours—glory in battle, and glory in peace. Table-companions, mead-fellows, and shoulder-comrades, strength belongs to you. The pride of the Spear-Danes, and the honor of those blessed by Thunar. Over the great Swan Road we have traveled in our ring-prowed ships, and we have returned laden with wealth. Far-away tribes have paid us tribute, and nearby clans have trembled with fear at the rumor of our coming. The wind that drives our sails is the wind of Woden himself, and the star Aurvandil shines brightly to lead us home.”

  As Kristinge sat and listened, he was again surprised by the loftiness and eloquence of Fjorgest’s speech. This chieftain, whose physical stature was no more impressive than any of a dozen of the mightier warriors who surrounded him, spoke with the authority of a king and the voice of true bard. He put even his own skald to shame as he recounted, in a history fresh, potent, and poetic, the tales of their recent summer battles. He spoke in great detail of their plunder and warfare, of the strength and swiftness of his warriors as they slew their enemies, of the villages they had burned and raided, the treasure they had gained, and of his stout-hearted warriors who had been lost to Valhalla. And already he spoke of the glory that awaited them in the spring when the winter’s snow melted—of the Frankish coast ripe for plundering. And ever the Danish eyes looked northward as well, to the great isle where the Angles and Saxons, having driven out the Britons and thrown back the Scots and Picts, were already growing soft in their new land. Listening to him tell of the successful season of raids, Kristinge almost could believe he was listening to Caesar himself, returned from the conquest of Gaul to claim the entire empire as his own. It was clear from his speech how Fjorgest had become a chieftain. And for a time, Kristinge listened transfixed. Yet the high tone of the oratory only belied its dark violence, at once captivating him with the energy of the tales and repelling him with its savagery. As Fjorgest continued, Kristinge could feel his own mood darken even further. Unwanted images began to form in his mind. He saw himself once again in the ship sailing along the Frisian coast, icy spray splashing on his face and dripping down his back. Only now it was not a trade ship; it was a war ship. Women and children ran from him screaming. Halls went up in flames. Halls like Finnsburg.

  The realization struck Kristinge full-force. It was raids such as the ones of which Fjorgest now spoke that had killed Finn and burned Finnsburg to the ground. Only a few days earlier, Kristinge had visited the ashes of Hwitstan and seen the work of these Vikings. It was this that repelled him, not the fellowship of the hall. This was what Fjorgest was glorifying: the honor of his warriors, and the blessings of their gods in giving them so many victories. Their gods? Gods of violence and destruction. Songs fled from Kristinge’s mind. He could sense it now, like a palpable presence. A dark spirit of oppression that hovered over the place. Even in the midst of the celebration, it was gnawing on him, stealing his courage. He could not resist it. The image of Finnsburg’s ashes would not go away. And now Kristinge was to sing to these folk? He was to entertain them—the slayers of his kin? How could he?

  As Fjorgest concluded, he turned toward Sceaptung who now sat near the hearth. “Let not the skalds forget our deeds, the victories won by our hands and given us by the gods, the conquests of our spears. Nor let the skalds forget the mighty warriors fallen in battle, and sent to Valhalla in the funeral pyre. Let the skalds take note of these things, that our deeds may be remembered to the children of our children when they carry their own spears to victory or lift again the battle-tested blades of their grandfathers. When fate sweeps us away, chieftain and thane alike at the end of the days given, let the histories speak of our deeds.”

  “O noble lord and giver of treasure,” the skald replied in a voice that by comparison with Fjorgest’s sounded even drier than before, “your deeds shall not be forgotten.”

  With that assurance, Fjorgest sat down. He had finished. It was time for the bard. “Let us have song,” the chieftain called out. “Let us hear the new bard who comes to us from far away.” He was looking at Kristinge, motioning for him to rise. But Kristinge could not move. A winter night had fallen upon the young monk. Thoughts of Hildeburh fled from his mind. He could no longer remember even his first song. His harp turned cold in his hands. How
could he sing here? To the murderers of his own father and brother. In a flash, he saw himself as a betrayer of his own people. The betrayer of his own God. He wanted to grab Willimond. To rush from the hall. But he couldn’t. He was a prisoner. He had already failed once before the Danes. If he failed again, Fjorgest would cut him to pieces as he had done to his last bard.

  He could not even rise.

  This time, it was not the sight of Aewin that saved him. It was something else.

  Love.

  It was a single thought, flashing across his mind like lightning, erasing for a moment the ashes of his old home. Driving away the oppressing darkness.

  Love? Even my enemies? Even those who persecute me? Those who killed?

  He struggled against the fear and darkness. I cannot. Love even them?

  Perfect love casts out fear.

  Not now. Not here. Kristinge was losing the battle, moving toward panic. Love.

  Something caught his attention, made his head turn and his heart jump. Somebody had entered. Somebody he had not before noticed. In the far corner of the hall, across the glowing flames of the hearth-fire—a pair of eyes beneath a high smooth forehead. Even in the red firelight, he could see their emerald sparkle, just beginning to fade with age to a green-gray. And they were looking at him.

  More than half a decade had not erased his memory. Fifty years could not have erased this memory. Kristinge recognized them in an instant. It was Hildeburh. She had come. She was alive. Not only alive, but alive and here. He had seen those eyes a thousand times before, yet only now did he look upon them as a child looks upon his mother. And she was looking at him too. Did she recognize him? Did she see her son? Or only a strange bard?

  Kristinge could hardly contain his emotions. He wanted to jump from his seat and leap into her arms. But before he could move a strong hand clamped on his leg, startling him. He turned to see Willimond beside him. The older monk had somehow found his way across the hall and taken an empty seat vacated earlier by one of Fjorgest’s thanes.