The Rood and the Torc Read online

  “Wait,” Willimond whispered in his ears.

  At the sudden sight of Willimond appearing beside Kristinge, Hildeburh’s eyes had lit up even brighter. Seeing them together, she surely recognized her son. Yet a brief smile was all she allowed herself. “So she, too, must know the danger,” Willimond whispered.

  “What do I do?”

  “It is time. You must sing.”

  Kristinge nodded. For my mother. For a moment longer he stared at her, gathering strength. She was still beautiful, he thought. Her hair, bound in two braids and tossed over her shoulders, was still light and long and fair to look upon. From where he was sitting, Kristinge could see little of her features other than her face, but he guessed she was still slim and strong. When he saw the small circlet of gold on her neck—a gift from Finn made by Deomaer many years earlier—his heart leapt with joy. They still treated her like a queen! There was so much to ask her. So much to hear. And so much to tell her. But now was not the time. Fjorgest had called him. For the moment at least, Kristinge put aside his qualms. He rose to his feet with a strength and excitement that he had felt only once before, when he had sung for Aewin. He almost leapt to the stool by the hearth where the chieftain of the Hoclinges had made a place for him.

  And when he began to sing, harp in hand, he was once again a bard—a bard whom the Danish traders would not have recognized. Tales and poems—Danish songs that he had not heard since childhood when the poet Daelga sang them in Hwitstan—came rushing back to his mind. He nearly burst with them. Tales of Scyld Scefing, and Beow; of Niphad and Beaduhild; of Hrothgar and Beowulf. He sang them all. And he did not stop. Did not grow tired. For the emerald eyes of Hildeburh the Fair, his mother, were ever before him. At the end of each song, when the voices of the Danish warriors rose in loud applause, he only gained strength and continued on.

  It was the audience who lost strength before the bard. Some dropped to the floors beside their benches from too many cups of mead. Others, weary from their travels, lay to rest upon the benches. Finally, only a few remained awake. After a long version of Deor’s Lament, Kristinge fell silent. He sat down on his bench. When he turned to Fjorgest and saw the chieftain looking at him, he knew he had succeeded. He could read it in Fjorgest’s glance. Yet even without that glance, he would have known. He had felt the bard’s spirit upon him, and he had submitted to it. Tired from his exertion but exhilarated, he breathed deeply. He felt Hildeburh’s eyes upon him, but for the moment he could not return her glance. Was she proud of her son? he wondered.

  “You will stay here,” the chieftain said. As if to reinforce his point, he tossed a small gold finger ring on Kristinge’s lap.

  “For the winter,” Kristinge replied, opening his eyes and looking at Fjorgest.

  “We will see for how long,” Fjorgest said enigmatically. “There is a hut not far from here. It belonged to a warrior who passed on to Valhalla. You may sleep there. You will eat with me.”

  Kristinge nodded. “You are most generous,” he said. But his thoughts had taken a new twist. What did Fjorgest mean that he would ‘see for how long.’ Did he mean that Kristinge was not likely to last very long? Or that he might be required to stay even longer against his will? Had his skill made him a prisoner like Weland the Smith?

  “And you,” Fjorgest said, looking at Willimond and pointing.

  Willimond rose to his feet and bowed. “I am under your mercy.”

  “You may share the bard’s hut, but you will earn your keep. One bard is enough.”

  Willimond nodded. “That is good, for I am no bard. Do you have weirs?”

  “At the sea, but none here” the chieftain replied. “The rivers here do not lend themselves to weirs, or so I am told.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Willimond more closely. “Do you fish, then?”

  “I do,” Willimond replied, and Kristinge could see his eyes water with memories of his days in Hwitstan. And for men, too, the younger monk thought.

  “The river flows swift and is clear of ice much of the winter,” Fjorgest said. “There are fish to be found there.” Kristinge saw Willimond’s face rise at the prospect. But it fell again a moment later when the chieftain continued. “There is already one working the river with nets. Jiorlic, he is named. A chieftain’s son, he sits in this hall as my fosterling.”

  Instinctively, Kristinge glanced around, though he knew not whose face he sought.

  “He sleeps, already. Drunk,” Fjorgest replied, motioning indistinctly toward a bench across the hall. “The youngest of five sons and the smallest in stature, he is unlikely ever to wear a torc about his neck. Nonetheless, he is a chieftain’s son and in my care. He must be given first preference.”

  “I understand,” Willimond acknowledged with disappointment. “I will seek other labor.”

  “Perhaps that is not necessary. The river is long. The hall will rejoice to see more fish in the winter—something other than the salted herring that does little for the stomach but give one an appetite for mead. If you are good enough at your trade, by which I mean if the gods are with you, then you will find fish elsewhere in the river where Jiorlic is not. And if not in the river, there is a nearby lake as well. It is an hour’s journey by foot. Longer in the snow. Yet there is a hut there, with a hearth. And if you have a line, you can bring in fish through the ice. If you bring fish to my hall, I will see that you are well provided for. Only yield to Jiorlic the spot he wants. If there is a dispute, know that I will side with him.”

  “You are gracious, Fjorgest,” Willimond replied. “I will see that Jiorlic has no cause for complaint. And we will see as well if the God is with me.” After thanking Fjorgest again, he returned to his seat.

  Kristinge smiled to see Willimond once more in the mead hall of a chieftain, and to see the manner with which he humbly replied to the proud warrior as he had done in the days when he served Finn so long ago. Yet he wondered where Willimond would get nets or a line, and whether he could survive as a fisherman. It had been six years since he had worked weirs, and those had been in tidal waters, not in a river. At the very least, a net could take many days to make and many more to master. As for a fishing line, Kristinge had only heard of such things. Rumor had reached Luxeuil of fishing families in the mountain lakes who had used lines for generations, but he had never seen one himself and he knew not how they were made. Yet despite the apparent obstacles—difficulties he was sure were already in Willimond’s mind—his old mentor did not refuse the opportunity. Even now, he was probably thanking God

  Kristinge himself was about to thank Fjorgest again and then depart to find his hut when a voice stopped him. He turned. While he had been talking with Fjorgest, Hildeburh had left her seat and walked over to his bench. She was so close he could have reached out to touch her.

  “My lord,” she said, bowing to Fjorgest. “Your hall, as always, is full of joy.”

  “Welcome, Hildeburh,” the chieftain replied in a softer voice than he had used all evening. “The joy is greater with your presence.”

  Hildeburh bowed again. Without taking her eyes off Fjorgest, she asked, “May I speak with this new bard?”

  Fjorgest smiled. “You honor me with the pretense of service, daughter of Hoc and Hnaef-sister. I do not doubt you would find a way to speak with this bard whether I permit it or not. Speak then, and may your beauty be enough to persuade him to stay with us.”

  Hildeburh bowed again, and turned toward Kristinge. Toward her son. Willimond made room for her on the bench, and she sat down now between the two newcomers. Kristinge’s hands trembled with longing to reach out and touch her. But what was she doing? Surely she knew who he was and the danger he would face were his name to be known—though almost he did not care. “Bard,” she said in a soft voice. A small tear had appeared in her eyes.

  “Bard?” Fjorgest interrupted with a loud laugh. Kristinge had to struggle to turn his eyes away from his mother and look back at the chieftain. “A good title indeed, but not a name. If you are to remain
with the Hoclinges, I must know your name.”

  “I am called Kristinge.”

  “Kristinge” Fjorgest repeated. “It is a strange name. As strange as the cut of your hair.” But he said no more.

  Kristinge turned back to Hildeburh. Now she could safely call him by his name. “Bard Kristinge.”

  “Yes, queen?”

  “Would you sing one more song for me?”

  “It would give me great pleasure to obey the queen.”

  “I understand you come from Francia?”

  “I do.”

  “I once lived among the Frisians.” A strange silence followed this announcement, and Kristinge was afraid to look around. “Could you sing for me a song from the Frisii—if my lord Fjorgest will permit it?”

  There was a long silence. At the mention of Friesland, more than one of Fjorgest’s warriors lifted their heads. Could it be that hatred still lingered? Were there any among them who had fought at the battle of Finnsburg? Kristinge caught the warning glance that Willimond shot him, but at the moment that fear was far from his mind. His hands trembled as he put them to the harp. He closed his eyes. Had he satisfied Fjorgest’s desire for things Danish? Could he sing now as a Christian? Or would his identity as a monk place him in as great a danger as his identity as the son of Finn?

  Alas, the questions proved irrelevant. For better or worse, the song rose within, unbidden. It was the bard’s spirit. It was still upon him, and it left little choice but to give voice to what was within.

  Lo, I shall sing of the sweetest of dreams,

  a vision for me in the middle of night

  when bearers of speech in their beds do stay.

  It seemed that I saw, soaring on high

  a wonderful wood cross all wound with light.

  A blazing beacon, the brightest of trees,

  it glittered with gold. Gems too, it had.

  Where wood met soil were four gems set.

  Upon the cross span, there stood five more.

  A great host of heaven this hallowed tree saw.

  Fair in their form, the Father-God’s angels,

  the band of spirits, beheld this same scene.

  While I with sin wounded, stained with wrongs,

  saw also this sight, the shining tree.

  And as I watched this wondrous cross,

  the Lord’s own tree, trouble overcame me.

  It began to bleed, that beacon of wood,

  in ancient agony adorned in pain.

  Dark blood flowed down drenched its right side.

  I lay a long while in silence looking

  at the Savior’s tree, troubled in soul,

  until I heard speak the Savior’s cross,

  heard it give voice, the holy wood:

  “Has long since past yet still I remember

  how I was hewn hacked from my stump.

  Fiercest of foes felled me that day,

  and seized me then to shape as they wished:

  a gallows, a cross, criminals to hang.

  Then I was born on the backs of men,

  fastened by foes firm on a hill.

  I saw then the King, the Lord of mankind,

  the Creator of man coming toward me.

  Willing he came; he desired to climb me.

  There I then stood, still and unmoving.

  I did not bend nor did I break

  against God’s own word, the will of the King.

  The ground did tremble while I, the great tree,

  could have felled all foes yet I firmly stood.

  The young holy Hero, who was God Himself,

  stout-hearted and strong, stripped for the fight.

  Girded for battle, He climbed the high gallows

  in sight of many, man’s race to redeem.

  When the Hero held me with hands, I trembled,

  yet dared not to fall; I had to stand fast.

  A rood I was reared: I raised up the King,

  Heaven’s mighty Lord. I dared not bow low.

  They pierced us with nails pounded through our flesh,

  made vicious wounds and visible scars.

  They mocked us both. I was drenched with blood

  that poured from His side when His spirit departed.

  I on that hill have thus experienced

  a cruel hostile fate; the God of hosts

  was dreadfully stretched. The strange darkness

  had covered with clouds the corpse of the Ruler,

  and his shining splendor. A thick black shadow

  covered the sky. All creation wept

  at Christ on the cross, bewailed the king’s death.

  Yet some then appeared; servants of the Prince,

  thanes from far off, fearful but willing

  to take back his body now cold without breath.

  All this I saw. Sore I was troubled.

  Yet with humble heart to their hands I bent.

  They took from my trunk that tormented body:

  the Almighty God who had given his life.

  Valiant men let me stand stained with his blood,

  and wounded with arrows. They, weary of limb,

  laid down their Lord and looked at his head,

  stood by his body and saw Heaven’s King.

  They sang their ballads. His body grew cold,

  His spirit’s fair dwelling, while I was felled down.

  An earth-cave they built, in bright stone carved

  the tomb for their leader the Lord of triumphs.

  Now I bid you beloved listener

  that you of this sight shall say to men,

  with words make plain that on this wondrous tree

  Almighty God suffered for the sins of men.

  For deeds done by Adam He tasted of death.

  Yet by his great might to give to mankind

  the Lord again rose from death back to life,

  and climbed to Heaven the Healer of man.

  But again He will come Hither to Man’s kind

  on the day of doom, to seek or destroy,

  The Lord Himself, Ruler of Heaven.

  Thus sang the rood, the wood in men’s words,

  this good tale he told of trouble and great joy.

  “Stranger still,” Fjorgest said, when Kristinge had finished the song. The chieftain’s voice was softer now, less abrasive, but his glance was penetrating. This was a different man than the gruff battle-hard warrior who had stood outside the hall earlier in the evening, or the proud clan-chieftain who had recently spoken to his people. “What manner of bard you are, I do not know. I believe there is more to you than meets the eye. I will look forward to the sound of your voice and harp to keep me sane during the long dark winter. But now it is sleep that will keep me sane. The last of my warriors has fallen into the darkness of rest and will not awake for some time. We have now only the light of Aurvandil, but the hope of dawn is still far off.”

  Kristinge looked around. Fjorgest had spoken truly. The hall had begun to empty of guests, and the thanes and warriors who remained within had set down their ale-mugs and were sprawled out on benches to sleep—lulled there, the new bard hoped, not by his singing but by the strong mead and their own fatigue. Yet though the night was well advanced, Kristinge’s excitement had not yet given way to his exhaustion. He looked around a final time, avoiding for the moment the temptation to gaze at Hildeburh. As his glance brushed past a dark corner of the hall, two red glints of reflected firelight caught his notice. The eyes of Sceaptung glared back at him from the darkness. The occasional flickers of light illuminated a chilling scowl upon the skald’s face. And for just an instant, Kristinge thought he saw something else there: a spirit far darker than Sceaptung’s brooding visage. Kristinge drew back like one caught too near a fire when it flares up or spits a shower of sparks. This was more than a scowl. More than a jealous response to a potential new rival. There was a tangible presence of animosity in the skald’s glare: an evil as palpable as that in Clovis throne-room, only more focused and alert. Kri
stinge could almost see a darker presence behind or within Sceaptung. This was what he had been sensing all evening. Yet he resisted his impulse to turn away. Buoyed by a strange strength, he probed Sceaptung’s eyes deeper, locking gazes with the skald as if in battle. What he saw there—or felt, rather, with some extra sense—nearly took his breath away. There could be no mistaking the hostility. The last song had caught Sceaptung’s attention, and Kristinge realized with startling clarity that in singing that song he had made himself an adversary. And with the eyes of prophecy he foresaw also that the conflict between them would not end peacefully.

  Then the flames dimmed. The skald’s face vanished into the darkness of shadow. As quickly as it had come, Kristinge’s feeling of strength passed, and the strange foreboding started to return. He shivered and turned away. Perhaps it was time to depart. He looked back toward Fjorgest. “Then I will leave and find my hut.”

  “Your hut will be cold. There is room on my benches, and this fire will burn for some time still. Take your rest, bard. You have earned it.”

  Kristinge received the offer with gratitude. He turned around hoping to risk a few more words with Hildeburh, but found that she was even then slipping silently from the hall. Swallowing his disappointment, he resisted the urge to run after her. For the time it was safer to wait. He and Willimond gathered their belongings, then made themselves as comfortable as they could on low benches near the wall. Despite the fire on the hearth, the hall had grown cool and the monks were glad of the gifts of queen Balthild. It wasn’t many days before Kristinge realized just how long and cold winter in Danemark was going to be. At the moment, however, winter was far from his thoughts. The memory of Hildeburh’s gray-green eyes staring at him from across the hall was still with him as he drifted into sleep.

  CHAPTER 9:

  Winter

  They were pleasant dreams that filled Kristinge’s sleep that night, though like most dreams, strange and fleeting. He was playing the harp for Hildeburh, but as he sang he realized that he did not know the meaning of the words coming from his mouth. Only Hildeburh knew their meaning, but she was unable to speak or explain them. This part of the dream lasted the longest. Then slowly Hildeburh grew larger until Kristinge was again a small infant in her arms. The harp faded. His fingers reached to retrieve it but found only handfuls of his mother’s hair. Then Hildeburh changed again, becoming once more a young queen sitting in Finnsburg as Daelga played harp. Then it was no longer Daelga, but Hildeburh herself playing the harp and singing songs to Kristinge—a mother not so much Hildeburh as it was all of the women Kristinge had met over the long voyage from Luxeuil to the Danemark, yet always with Hildeburh’s eyes. Telchild and Balthild were there among them, blending into one image as they laid their hands upon Kristinge and placed him in a great ship, covering him with warm furs and setting him to drift into the quiet center of Luxeuil’s pond. The mysterious Aewin, proud eyes flaring, became the wild-haired prophetess Osanne. Even Gundomer’s wife appeared, in the dream nearly as wide as she was tall. She stood beside her two daughters bending over to wake Kristinge who found himself in a wide meadow surrounded by bleating sheep—the women themselves having become the sheep, their woolen coats nearly smothering Kristinge with warm embraces…