The Rood and the Torc Page 23

  And ever as the days passed, Kristinge’s thoughts turned more and more toward Friesland, only now, mingled with his thoughts of Aewin, came more distant memories: memories of the burned village of Hwitstan, and thoughts more remote still of his joyous youth among the Frisians. He saw too the dying face of Ulestan, and heard again his final words. Even at night he dreamed of Luxeuil and Jouarre, and listened to the strange words of Walbert, and Petrica, and Telchild, and Osanne.

  A bright beacon in the darkness. A voice crying in the wilderness. A prophet? A bard?

  Was Danemark the wilderness of which Osanne spoke? Surely not. His heart told him no. Friesland was his wilderness. Kristinge realized again that he had been avoiding his homeland. He had skirted it. Leaving Luxeuil, he had traveled through Francia instead of the more direct route across Friesland. Walbert’s messages had been but a convenient excuse. For all his desire to leave Luxeuil, Kristinge had delayed his return to Friesland from the day he had set out. Even during his voyage along the coast, he had avoided contact. Why?

  He had needed to find his mother first. That was true. But what now—now that he had found her? Would he stay here forever, in Danemark? As the bard of Fjorgest? Was he scared of what would happen in Friesland? Or was he simply afraid because he had not yet answered Walbert’s question: Will you return as a monk or prince?

  Though the days slowly began to lengthen with the promise of spring, and the worst of the winter cold passed, Kristinge’s distress did not dissipate. Rather, his sense of uneasiness grew. And though he sought hard to ignore it, he could not. He could not even hide his unrest from his mother—though she gave him the freedom of silence: a freedom he gladly accepted. For after just a few weeks in her company, she already seemed to know him better than he knew himself. Is that what it meant to be mother and son? He wondered. At first, their time together had been full of conversation: of questions and answers and stories; of much to share, and little time to do so—or so Kristinge thought. But as the days passed, they felt less and less a need to talk. Kristinge would sit in the hut with Hildeburh, playing his harp and watching her struggle with Latin as he had long ago struggled under Willimond. Yet even then, in the moments of greatest contentment, his eyes were ever on the door.

  It was two conversations that came late in the winter that finally propelled Kristinge toward his doom. The days had grown noticeably longer—along with the hair on what had once been a young monk’s tonsured forehead. The river, which had frozen over during the dead of winter, was once again free of ice. Though the ground was still covered with snow, the daytime temperatures rose above the freezing mark. Fjorgest was already beginning to make preparations to depart for his coastal village, though the day of departure was still a few weeks away. “You will leave for Friesland soon,” Hildeburh said to Kristinge one afternoon, as they sat alone in Kristinge’s hut.

  The comment took Kristinge by surprise. Until that point, she had refrained from asking his plans. “I do not know,” he answered.

  Hildeburh sighed. “Though I have often tried in the time you have been here, I cannot even begin to express the joy I have felt getting to know you, my son. And my pride, too. God has worked wonders in you life.”

  Kristinge blushed.

  “And yet I could not hope to keep you here with me forever,” she went on. “I would not want to. You are still young, and there is much for you to do.”

  Kristinge wanted to protest, though he knew in his heart that she was right. But he didn’t have a chance. His mother didn’t pause. “You have spoken of Father Petrica, and Abbess Telchild, and of the prophetess Osanne: what they told you concerning your call. Do you believe their words?”

  “I do. I believe what I understand of them, anyway, though that seems little enough.”

  “You feel trapped.”

  Kristinge looked up in surprise. “Trapped?”

  “By me,” Hildeburh said solemnly. “You have found me. We have had our time together. Now you are ready to depart; your heart leads you on. Yet you do not want to leave me. You pity me.”

  “No,” Kristinge objected. “That is not the case. I have no desire to depart. I would spend twenty years as your child, if I could.”

  “You were always my child, even when you knew it not. And you always will be. I told you how I watched over you from afar. I have known you long before you knew me.”

  Kristinge smiled. “So then it’s my turn to watch you.”

  “Your eyes are southward turned. And I believe your heart is also.”

  There was a moment’s silence before Kristinge sighed and nodded. “That is true enough.”

  “Then it is only me that keeps you here.”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  Kristinge looked down at his feet. He mustered his courage before looking back in his mother’s eyes. “What you say is true enough, I suppose. I would never have come here were it not for you. And had I not found you, I would have left as soon as I could. Yet never have I felt trapped—save perhaps by the snow and ice!” Hildeburh’s eyes told him to go on. He did. “I am afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Of what I will find in Friesland.”

  She looked confused. “Do you fear enemies there? Rivals? Your father had few—”

  “No,” Kristinge interrupted. “I fear the unknown. Not the unknown of the land and culture—the Frisii are still my people; I have not been away so long I have forgotten my roots. Rather, I fear what I will be called there for. I fear the aloneness. I fear the decisions. I fear that everyone I will meet will know more about my life and fate than I do myself.” He looked down at his feet again. It was the first time he had said this aloud—the first time he had admitted it even to himself. For a long time, there was silence.

  “Did I ever tell you about my first trip to Friesland?”

  Kristinge looked up. The question caught him off-guard. “No.” Then, hesitantly, “Would you?”

  Hildeburh needed no urging. Her memories came forth as if the event had but recently passed. “It was late spring. Almost Summer’s Day. I was to be married on Summer’s Day. It was a strange time in my life. I was young then. Younger than you are now. A girl of sixteen summers. Only the year before I had met Finn. He was strong and brave. The kind of man a young Danish princess dreams about being wed to. Yet there was something even more to him.

  “Do you know what he did when he came to Hoc my father seeking a bride? He did what no other prince or king had ever done before nor has done since. All could have been arranged without my consent. Daughter of kings are given away like treasure to be used in bargaining. That is the way it is. I did not contest this. Yet Finn came to me. He walked with me, and talked with me, and asked me questions and answered those I asked him. He asked me if I would marry him. He did that before he spoke with my father. He treated me like a person. And I truly believe that if I had said ‘no’, he would never have bargained with Hoc for my hand—though my father certainly would have given me away with or without my consent.

  “And so there I was, preparing to travel south with my father and brother to be given in marriage to a man I actually loved. And I was terrified. Yes, I knew I was leaving behind all I had. Leaving behind my family and village, my home. My land. My language. The Frisian dialect sounded strange in my ears. I didn’t know if I would ever learn to understand the Frisian speech, or if I would ever make new friends. But that was not what terrified me. I was nervous, to be sure. But if anything, those challenges thrilled me. What terrified me was my love itself. I had no understanding of it. What did love mean? Why did I feel the way I did? What did it mean to give myself to a man? To Hoc and Hengest, my marriage was a treaty. They understood it all too well. But to me, it was a romance. A mystery. Something strange and foreboding. As terrifying as it was captivating. As the day approached, I think I nearly went mad with the excitement and fear that warred within me.”

  “And which won?” Kristinge asked. Something about
her story had touched a nerve. She did, indeed, know him well.

  Hildeburh laughed. Her emerald eyes sparkled in the light and her face beamed with an old memory. For a moment, Kristinge could see the sixteen year old princess inside her. “They both did. That’s what made it so fun!”

  CHAPTER 12:

  The Sacrament

  Kristinge did not see his mother again for two evenings. She disappeared for two days with Willimond and Jiorlic, who were traveling to a smaller river higher in the hills to the east. Kristinge was no longer bothered by the time Hildeburh spent with his former teacher; he had ceased to begrudge her those days, knowing that in many areas Willimond was better equipped to be her teacher. Also, her recent words were still fresh in his memory, giving him more than enough to think about while she was away. When the priests of Asgard appeared in the village the morning after Willimond’s return, walking alongside a cart pulled by a pair of oxen across the frozen ground, Kristinge gave it little thought. For weeks now, he had ceased to be troubled by the skald Sceaptung or his dark companions.

  Then Hildeburh appeared at the door of his hut, her face white with fear. “You must leave. At once!” she exclaimed before they even had a chance to welcome her. Her voice was full of panic.

  “Leave now?” Willimond replied, rising to his feet. It was the first rainy day of the year, and the snow on the ground outside was turning to white slush.

  Kristinge stood also and walked toward the door where his mother stood. “Leave?” He echoed nervously. “What is wrong?”

  “The priests. They have returned.”

  “The priests have been here before,” Kristinge answered. “I do not fear them.”

  “You do not understand. This time, they have brought their idols.”

  “I do not fear their idols any more than I fear them,” Kristinge said truthfully. But he sensed the distress in his mother’s voice. He stepped toward her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You need not fear that we will bow—”

  “That is the point,” Hildeburh interrupted. “They know that Christians will not bow before their gods. They have learned that well. That is how they have found Christians in the past. They bring their great statues of the goddess Nerthus in their wagon, and all in the village must make a sacrifice to her image. If you do not make the sacrifice, then you are put to death. You become the sacrifice. They take you to their grove and never…” She didn’t finish, but buried her face in Kristinge’s shoulder.

  Kristinge had not seen Hildeburh so distraught. He looked over at Willimond, but the older monk was pacing the floor. “Do not fear,” Kristinge repeated, hoping to comfort his mother. “Our God can protect us.”

  Hildeburh lifted her head. “Do you not hear? That is what the others said: the missionaries. Now they are dead.” She didn’t pause. “You see? You must leave. I know you will not make sacrifices to their gods. I do not ask you to. By don’t stay just to be killed.”

  Kristinge was at a loss. He had not expected this. He needed time to think. “But what of you?” he asked.

  “Fjorgest has protected me in the past. He will do so again. But he might not protect you. The priests have great power, even over chieftains.”

  “Willimond?” Kristinge asked, looking for guidance.

  The older monk was shaking his head slowly. “I will not leave. To run from their gods would be—would be as bad as sacrificing to them. If God takes my life—”

  “But my son!” she exclaimed, her eyes pleading with Willimond.

  Kristinge closed his eyes. Her son, he thought. Now he understood. She didn’t fear for herself. Only for him. Yet what would he say? What could he do? Was Willimond right? Would leaving now be an act of fear—of giving in to the wishes of the priests? Even if he had already planned on departing? And what of his mother? How could she bear if he, too…

  Kristinge was glad that he was never forced to decide: that he never had to make the choice of facing the altar for the sake of his God or fleeing for the sake of his mother. For Hildeburh, with her warning, had come too late.

  Even as Kristinge, Willimond, and Hildeburh stood there in the hut, each silently awaiting some response from the others, Fjorgest appeared at the door. “Kristinge,” the chieftain’s voice commanded. “We will speak!”

  Kristinge lifted his face. He looked at his companions. His mother was ashen and trembling. Willimond, though his expression was one of resolve, also showed fear in his eyes. “I will come with you,” the older monk said.

  “No,” Kristinge replied, though in his heart he desired his old mentor’s company more than anything. He was speaking softly, inside the hut, so that only Hildeburh and Willimond would hear. “Stay with my mother. I will go alone.”

  “Then we will stay and pray.”

  “May your prayers be heard,” Kristinge said, and stepped out of the hut without looking back.

  The chieftain stood waiting, a stone expression upon his face. “Come,” he said, as soon as Kristinge stepped out of the hut. Without another word, he began walking northward toward the near edge of the village. The monk followed meekly. That their path did not lead toward the mead hall as he had expected did nothing to alleviate his fears. Perhaps the priests already awaited them outside the village. If so… Kristinge blocked the thought from his mind as best he could.

  When they were well beyond the last hut in the village, Fjorgest spoke. “Winter is coming to a close. Will you stay at Heort as my bard?”

  Like so much of the morning, the question caught Kristinge off-guard. Will I stay? Had Fjorgest brought him here to ask this? What of the priests? Surely, they had spoken to the chieftain even that morning. Kristinge was not prepared for this question. He was not sure how to answer. Was this a game? A test? “You are a generous king and gift-giver,” he replied diplomatically. “But I had given thought of traveling southward.”

  “You will say good-bye to your mother, then?”

  His mind still on Sceaptung and the danger awaiting him with the priests, Kristinge did not catch Fjorgest’s trap. He answered without thinking. “I will say good-bye to her, though it will be hard. We have spoken—” He stopped suddenly, his face turning pale with the horror of what he had just inadvertently admitted. My mother. He turned his eyes from the road to face Fjorgest, even as his trembling legs prepared to flee. For now there were two crimes attached to him—not that he was the son of Hildeburh, but that he was the son of Finn, the heir of Finn’s torc, and therefore also the heir of his blood feuds. And he was not sure which was worse in their eyes, to be a follower of Christ, or a son of Finn. But what chance did he have to escape?

  Yet Fjorgest just stood there, his eyes fixed upon Kristinge with an almost humorous expression on his face. “Peace,” he said. His gruff persona that he used with his thanes, or when standing at the door of his hall, was gone. This was his more subtle counterpart: the sharp and crafty Fjorgest. “You need not fear me. If I had reason to seek your life for this, you would already be dead. Long ago, I guessed who you were.”

  Kristinge held still, but his heart was racing. “Was I that careless?”

  “You could have been more careful,” Fjorgest said with a sly grin. “But you would not have deceived me forever.”

  “Does everybody know—everybody in the village?”

  “No. I have not made my guesses known to any save you. In truth, there are not many left who would even care. Even I myself might not have guessed had I not years ago heard a rumor from Frisian traders that Finn and Hildeburh had a second son. But with that rumor in my mind, the guessing was not difficult. There were clues enough, anyway. You bear a striking resemblance to Hildeburh. And from your first day here, you reacted to each other in a way that would not be expected between a young foreign bard and a former queen. I have keen eyes for such things,” he explained, still grinning. “It is a helpful gift for a chieftain to have, if there are rivals plotting for power. Besides, there was the question of what brought you here in the first place; we are not
, as you may have noticed, on the middle of a trade route. So I was left with questions seeking answers.”

  “When did you get your answer?” Kristinge asked. Once again, somebody else knew too much about him. And if that was to be the case, he needed to get some information from Fjorgest. And what of the priests, he was still thinking.

  “That Hildeburh is your mother? As I said, I guessed early on. Of course it was not confirmed until just now. But I was in no rush. You were not going anyplace, and I enjoyed your services as my bard. As to the other questions, I do not yet have all the answers. Who Willimond is, other than a superb fisherman, I do not yet know.” He paused. “Yet his services, too, I have enjoyed.”

  Now Kristinge came to the question foremost in his mind. “Am I safe?”

  “You speak of the blood-feud? Of the battle of Finnsburg?”

  Kristinge nodded.

  “Safe from me? Yes. You have not wronged me, nor has your clan. If anybody was wronged that day, it was Hildeburh: Hildeburh who lost both brother and son. As to who killed our lord Hnaef, I have heard tell it was your brother Finnlaf. That is what the Danes say. But I have made other guesses myself.”

  Kristinge’s eyes lit up. “Then you know the truth. It was not my brother Finnlaf, but—”

  Fjorgest silenced him with a sudden stern hand gesture. “I said I made guesses, but none that I would speak among my people. It matters little to me. I am a chieftain, and I hope to stay one until the day I die. Blood-feuds are convenient excuses for ambitious thanes and kings who seek to increase their power. I have no desire to bring such a feud against myself. And neither do I want to raise one against another. As for me, I am content with my power as it is.”