The Rood and the Torc Read online

  So Fjorgest did know about Finnlaf, Kristinge thought, though he was unlikely to say so. Somehow, that knowledge helped him to relax slightly. But he knew his danger was not over. “And others? Are there any remaining who fought at Finnsburg? Any who might remember?”

  “There are some, though few in this village. Hunlaf, Oslaf, and Guthlaf are dead, but they still have kin among the Jutes. And there are others among the Hoclinges that could be incited to anger against your clan.”

  “They do not know who I am, then?”

  “I believe not. But if I was able to guess, they could as well. And if you stay long enough, somebody certainly will.”

  “Then I must go.”

  “That would be wise,” Fjorgest said. “For you must know there are other dangers as well; there are worse things among my people than being the son of Finn.”

  “The priests,” Kristinge breathed.

  “It is good that you have seen them. You do a worse job hiding your religion than you do hiding your relationship to Hildeburh. And your Christ-god does not settle well with the Danes. If you drain the bogs, you will find more than one body of your so-called bishop-missionaries.”

  Kristinge nodded, but now he was on more comfortable ground. “I made no effort to hide my faith. I would tell any who would listen.”

  “And so you have done, craftily well, young bard. Given a few years, you might even persuade me.”

  “I would that I could.”

  For the first time, Fjorgest’ face darkened. “I am not so easily turned from the gods of my people. Woden and Thunar are gods I can serve: warriors who lead their people in battle. I would rather hold Thunar’s hammer Mjöllnir than bear the cross of your Christ.”

  “Would you?” Kristinge said. He pressed his king, now, taking risks he had before reserved only for his songs. The prophet’s spirit was upon him. “You would follow Odin as well, the son of Woden? You would serve the great deceiver? Become yet another of his berserkers? Their ways are one, Woden and Odin. They use their servants, but give nothing in return. What have they ever provided for you, save war itself? Have you learned nothing yet of war’s futility? Where is Hengest, your brother? Or Finnlaf, my brother? Where are Hnaef and his thanes? Or Finn and his hearthwerod? Where is Hoc?

  Anger was building on Fjorgest’ face, but Kristinge did not stop. “I tell you where they are. It is not Valhalla. Their corpses lie rotting in their graves, eaten by worms, as they themselves eat the fruit of their lives. This is where your gods will take you. This Odin that you serve will take you to your death. For myself, I would chose rather a God who speaks the truth. I would serve a God who would die for me, rather than a god who would kill me. Do you call it freedom becoming one of Odin’s berserkers? Then I tell you that the servants of these gods, even you yourself, are in shackles. It is Christ alone who will set you free.”

  Kristinge fell silent. He could feel his heart pounding within him. Fjorgest was glaring at him. “Shackles?” he growled. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. “Do not speak to me of your Christ. I did not save you from the hand of the priests to hear about your god. I saved you for one reason only: you are a worthy bard and you served me.”

  Kristinge did not reply. His boldness had fled as it had come. Once again, he feared for his life. For a long time, he just stood there staring at the ground as Fjorgest stood glaring like Odin himself. A light breeze swirled around them. Then Fjorgest’s words sunk in. Saved me from the priests? He lifted his head. “Saved…?”

  “Even this day, they have sought your blood. And had you brought your gods to us in any manner other than song, your blood they would have sought much sooner. I have spared you for a time—a time, I say. It does not sit well with me to bow down to every demand of these priests, or they will think too highly of their own power. I am chieftain of my people, not their slave. I wear no shackles! But I tell you that they will no longer tolerate you in our midst. They will persist—they will not cease to trouble me—until I give in. Then you will be in their hands.” Fjorgest fell silent for a moment. His hand left his blade and his voice lowered. “I knew when I saw your shaven heads that you would be trouble. I should have run you through with my spear right then. Did you think we would not recognize two monks?” he spat the name. “That I would not know who you were simply because you wore no robes?” But despite his words, the anger in his voice had subsided. Kristinge knew the danger was passed. He breathed an audible sigh. He was surprised a moment later when Fjorgest laughed.

  “I would rather lose you to a southward-bound ship than to a downward-bound blade. If the wrong person were to guess whose son you were, they could demand vengeance.” He had dropped the issue of Kristinge’s God as though it were a hot coal. “Yes. You will depart from here. And I will grieve the loss of a good bard.”

  Kristinge bowed his head. “Then I am more indebted to you than I thought.”

  “And I to you,” Fjorgest said. But rather than explaining his answer, he turned and started back toward the village at full stride.

  When Kristinge returned to his hut, Willimond was still on his knees. Hildeburh was not to be seen. “Where has she gone?”

  Willimond rose slowly to his feet and turned to face Kristinge. The look on his face was both relieved and quizzical, but he asked no questions. “She has gone to Heort, hoping to plead your case before Fjorgest.”

  Kristinge sat down on his mat, still trying to digest all that had been said. “It is not yet necessary.”

  “Then she guessed wrong? The priests had not come for you?”

  “No. She was correct. Had I known how dangerous my situation was, I might have fled weeks ago.” He paused for a moment, but went on before Willimond was forced to question him further. “Fjorgest knows more than we had guessed.”

  Willimond stared hard at Kristinge for a moment. “He has guessed—”

  “That I am Hildeburh’s son.” Kristinge finished. “Yes.”

  “And you are still alive.”

  “I am.” Kristinge replied. He proceeded to tell Willimond some of the conversation—at least that part concerning his heritage. “I believe he even guesses that my brother Finnlaf was not responsible for Hnaef’s death. He is shrewder than we guessed.”

  “Then you are safe?”

  “From Fjorgest, yes. But he has suggested that there are others—relatives of the Jutes—who might yet press the issue of a blood feud if they learned who I was, and if it was to their advantage to do so. And he has also hinted that, if hard enough pressed, he might oblige them.”

  Willimond nodded his understanding. “Then he has done you a favor by telling you the truth, and giving you ample warning.”

  “He has. He has done me more favors than one.”

  “The priests?”

  “The priests. They came for me.”

  “The Abbess Telchild told you that among the Danes your crimes would be more than one.”

  “She was right. The priests, I think, hoped I would be their next sacrifice. Thanks to Fjorgest, they have been denied for the time. All his reasons for doing so, I do not understand. It seems in part he was simply protecting a well-liked bard.” Kristinge couldn’t help but smile as he said this. Then he went on. “There is also something of a power struggle—a chieftain unwilling to yield too many demands to powerful priests. But whatever the case, Fjorgest has hinted that his protection is temporary. From neither the enemies of my God, nor the enemies of my father, will he long guarantee my safety.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “When the trade routes open in the spring,” he replied, “we must depart. It is time to go to Friesland.”

  “From the day you left Luxeuil, your plan has been to return to Friesland. The search for your mother was only a detour.”

  “Yes, though it is also true that I have been afraid of that return. But now the time has come. It was Hildeburh herself who made that clear.”

  They were silent for a time before Willimond spoke. “Whe
n will you depart?”

  It was only then that Kristinge noticed that, throughout the conversation, Willimonds been saying ‘you’ rather than ‘we’. Was it an accident? “Fjorgest will be leaving with his war band in just a fortnight, traveling to his summer hall on the coast. He says that I ought to be able to find a southward-bound trade ship within another week after that. But why do you speak of what I will do and when I will depart? Surely we will be traveling together?”

  Never before did Kristinge remember being so surprised as when he saw Willimond hesitate, and then slowly shake his head. The young monk jumped to his feet. “No!? You joke with me. It is unkind.”

  “I do not jest. I will not be returning with you to Friesland. I may never return.”

  “Never?” Kristinge objected. “But the church—your church? And the believers there? What will become of them?”

  “The church I built was destroyed. Burned in the fire that consumed Finnsburg. You yourself have sat with me in its ashes.”

  “It can be rebuilt. And there are other villages. Other chapels. Other believers.”

  “My work in Friesland is done,” Willimond said softly. But he was still looking in Kristinge’s eyes. It was Kristinge who had to turn away.

  “Done?” he asked, astonished by what he was hearing. He rose to his feet and started pacing around the small hut. He tossed up his hands and said again, “Done?”

  “Done,” Willimond repeated.

  “But…” Kristinge began. He fell silent. He was dumbfounded. Taken by surprise. He had no more words.

  “I said that my work in Friesland is done,” Willimond went on after a pause. “But that does not mean that God’s work there is done, nor that He is done with me.”

  Kristinge turned back to face him, and their eyes met again as he spoke. “But you began the work. You preached the Gospel—brought the word to the people there. Will you abandon—”

  “Abandon what? What remains of what I began? Who knows. Little, it would seem. But it was God’s work from the start. Always. Not mine. And now I am growing old. Too old for more traveling. Too old to ride from village to village, week after week.” He held Kristinge’s eyes as he spoke, but still he only hinted at what was on his mind. “It is time for somebody younger.”

  “You want me to go,” Kristinge breathed, finally catching the look on Willimond’s face.

  Willimond sighed. “Yes. I would like to see you go. But alas, it is for God to send and not I.”

  “But where will you go,” Kristinge asked, returning to his original question. “Back to Luxeuil?”

  “No. I will not return there now. It was never my home, though I did grow to love the people there.”

  “Then where? Lindisfarne? Aidan is no longer—”

  Willimond shook his head. “Not Lindisfarne. Not now. Perhaps a visit some day.”

  “Iona?”

  Willimond just smiled and shook his head again.

  “You’re staying here?” Kristinge asked, with a sudden hint of insight. He looked around to make sure that nobody was listening and whispered, “Among the Danes?!” Had Willimond been serious when he had told him about growing to love the Danish people?

  “Your mother is still a beautiful woman,” Willimond said, without answering Kristinge’s question. “And not so old, either. You know she was very young when she married your father. Only fifteen. We have spent much time together over the past few weeks. She is lonely, but the joy of the One is still in her. She says there is much work to be done here. She would like to have a church built. There are already a few believers among the Danes.”

  Kristinge’s jaw had dropped as Willimond spoke. “You are remaining here!”

  “God has many surprises.”

  “To shepherd the flock…?”

  “To keep Hildeburh company,” Willimond answered. “To help in the labor that she has begun.”

  Kristinge shook his head, still slow to understand what Willimond was trying to tell him—slow to put together the pieces: the numerous references to his mother Hildeburh. “It will be hard,” he said. “The Danes are a stubborn, hard-hearted people.”

  Willimond smiled. “Hildeburh, your mother, is a Dane. And you yourself are half-Dane.”

  Kristinge blushed, embarrassed by his unintended judgment of his own mother.

  Willimond went on. “Four times God has called me from my home. Four times I have followed Him. He has always been faithful. Now, I believe, He is going to give me a new home. But home will have a different meaning now.”

  Still Kristinge did not understand what Willimond was saying.

  “Your mother and I are to wed,” the monk finally said. “I know we are old,” he went on, as Kristinge stared in astonishment. “But not so old. Ten or more years we might have together if God blesses…” he didn’t finish the sentence. A moment later, Kristinge had wrapped in his warm embrace Willimond, the father of his heart.

  Had Willimond been a young Danish chieftain, and Hildeburh still the daughter of a powerful king, their wedding day would have been a great celebration: a feast to mark an important time for the tribe. Years earlier, Hildeburh had enjoyed such a wedding. Dressed in fine many-colored garments, elaborate tunics, and jewelry of gold and bronze, she had been more than queen that day. With Dane and Frisian alike gathered for the occasion, the dancing, singing, eating and drinking had lasted many nights in the village of Hwitstan.

  By contrast, the wedding of Hildeburh and Willimond was quiet. Though once a queen, Hildeburh was one no longer. Hoc and Hnaef, her father and brother, were long in their graves. And in the eyes of the Danes, Willimond was but a peasant. Yet the event was no less joyous for the participants. Fjorgest, in his typical gruff fashion, at first showed no interest in the matter. Hildeburh was no longer the daughter of an important chieftain to be given away as part of a treaty. If anything, the new chieftain of the Hoclinges was happy to rid himself of any remaining responsibility for her. But on the eve before the wedding—perhaps by coincidence—there was a small celebration at Heort. In the afternoon, Fjorgest’s warriors gathered at the small pond near the village for a rare series of games and contests. Some competed in a variety of skittles played upon the ice with bones, while others attempted racing upon the ice by strapping to their feet crude blades made of bone, and a few cast dice upon the ground wagering coins and fur. Later, there was a feast in the mead hall. With the spring approaching, Fjorgest was generous with the remaining winter supplies of cheese and grains, and thus the food was plentiful. Of course nothing was said about the wedding, but the chieftain took time to honor his fisherman Willimond and to pay him for his work with a handsome gift of furs. Though Willimond and Hildeburh appeared oblivious, Kristinge could not help but think that Fjorgest was honoring them with a wedding gift. His own gratitude for the chieftain increased.

  The wedding itself took place the following morning, on a holy day: the Sabbath. It was only ten days after Willimond’s announcement to his future son-in-law. The time had passed quickly. Kristinge performed the sacrament of marriage, joining his spiritual father Willimond and his natural mother Hildeburh, and administering to the two their first holy communion as husband and wife.

  CHAPTER 13:

  A Stranger

  When the wedding celebration of Willimond and Hildeburh was over, Kristinge plodded back to his hut alone. A strange mix of joy and sorrow washed over him. The joy of Willimond and Hildeburh—a joy obvious on both their faces as Kristinge led them in vows of marriage—this joy the young monk was able to share. Watching these two whom he loved come together was a wondrous thing. Yet he felt also a strange sense of grief, as if in some fundamental way he had lost them both. The implication of that loss struck him as soon as he arrived at his hut and saw that Willimond’s few belongings had been carried away to his new home with Hildeburh. Kristinge was alone now. Though the sun was still up and the day far from over, he laid himself down on his mat and closed his eyes. All that remained for him in Danemark wa
s to say farewell.

  As he expected, Willimond and Hildeburh were not seen frequently during the next two days, and the few times that they did show their faces he avoided them out of embarrassment. It was not until the third day after their wedding that the newly married pair sought out their son. Knowing that the time of his departure had come, they had interrupted their new life together to bless him and say what words were to be said. They found him in his hut where they shared a mid-day meal. Feeling awkward around them now, Kristinge was at first silent. But Hildeburh was persistent and broke through the silence, and over the rest of that day and through the days following the three of them gathered frequently. They walked together along the river and through the familiar surrounding countryside, sometimes in silence but more often speaking of what lay ahead. They spoke of Kristinge’s coming voyage to Friesland and what he would do there; of the work of Hildeburh and Willimond in Danemark among the Hoclinges; and of the Danish priests who were sure to oppose them. Somehow, though, Kristinge felt that he was now on the outside. When they asked him whether he would return to Friesland as a monk, bard, or prince, he answered only that he would return as a priest and seek to continue the ministry that Willimond had been driven from. He didn’t share with them all the doubts he felt about the decision, or the struggles he had gone through coming to it.

  The day of departure arrived a week after the wedding. It hadn’t rained in many days, and the ground was dry enough for travel. Fjorgest announced that on the following morning he would depart for the coast. Kristinge packed his few belongings in his satchel, and went to bed in his hut for the last time. In the morning, Hildeburh and Willimond joined him for a small morning meal to help strengthen Kristinge for the long voyage ahead.

  “You will not be traveling with me?” Kristinge asked once more. “As far as the coast?”

  “We will come later in the summer,” Hildeburh answered. “But not yet. Willimond said the fishing here is especially good now.”