The Rood and the Torc Read online

  Kristinge nodded. He was glad. If they had come with him, it would only have prolonged their farewell. Still, he was heavy of heart when it came time to say good-bye. He did not know if he would see either of them again. He guessed he would not. Willimond, perhaps on some hidden cue from his new wife, stepped out of the hut leaving Hildeburh and Kristinge alone. Kristinge never forgot their final words, but etched them in his poet’s memory. The last thing Hildeburh did was to remove from her neck a beautiful gold necklace. She held it in her hands for a moment for her son to see before she wrapped it around his neck. It was a two-sided coin. On one side was the familiar Friesland mark of a sea-bird on the trade winds. On the other was an owl.

  “This was made for me by the jeweler Deomaer for my wedding day,” she said through her tears. “A symbol of the union of the houses of Hoc and Folcwalda. I am part of a different union now. The coin is for you. Wear it well.” She paused and a smile came even in the tears. “Think also of our old friend, Ulestan, who served us all so faithfully. The wise and steady one. The owl stone.” Then she handed him also a smaller pouch of jewels and coins, the last remnant of her treasure from when she was the Queen of Friesland.

  Kristinge absently dropped the pouch into his own purse, and then strode from the hut before his tears became too great. He wiped his eyes as he emerged. Outside, he found Willimond waiting for him. “They are starting out now,” the older monk said, nodding toward a large band of rough warriors marching out the southwestern end of the village. A few children and wives straggled along, giving final hugs and farewells to husbands and fathers. It would not be a long separation for them; most of the families would follow the warriors to the coast within a few weeks. It was ritual for the warriors to go first.

  “I can catch up,” Kristinge replied. “They will not be traveling fast with so many.”

  “Fjorgest will not let them get too far without his bard,” Willimond added, struggling to smile.

  Kristinge did not smile, but shook his head worriedly. “Will I be safe among the Danes for another week? And how long will you and Hildeburh escape their priests?”

  “God will defend us. As for you, I believe He has work for you to do in Friesland.”

  “Another prophecy?”

  Willimond shook his head. “I am no prophet. Yet I do not doubt the words that have been spoken of you by others who did have the gift.”

  Others? Kristinge thought. Daelga, Petrica, Osanne. Too many. He chose not to think about it. “And you? Will He defend you as well? Danemark is far less safe for a Christian monk than Friesland is.”

  “‘The Lord stood with me and strengthened me,’” Willimond replied, quoting from the Apostle. “‘He delivered me from the Lion’s mouth, and will deliver me from every evil deed and bring me safely to His Heavenly kingdom.’”

  “To Him be the glory forever,” Kristinge added.

  The two monks embraced. Kristinge wanted to ask if Willimond would ever travel to Friesland—if they would ever meet again—but he was afraid of the answer. Lifting his bag over one shoulder and picking up his harp in his other hand, he turned and walked away.

  The journey to the coast was slow. Fjorgest, despite his words, was in no hurry. They traveled by a roundabout route, far less direct than the one taken inland by the traders the previous fall, walking but a few hours a day and stopping many times at various villages where Fjorgest benefited from the hospitality of other chieftains. Thrice during this time Kristinge was called upon to sing in a strange mead hall, which he did serviceably well though without his usual excitement. Nevertheless, the spring air felt pleasant, and he enjoyed the travel and did not grow anxious at the delay. During his waking hours he had ample time to ponder his return to Friesland. He was no longer fearful, though he did not know his plans. The thought of returning to the hall of Frotha came to his mind more than once. Only a few months had passed since he had sung there, and he was sure he would still be remembered, and even welcomed. It was there also that he had last seen Aewin. But he drove from his mind the thought of her, reminding himself again that it was his brother to whom she had been promised. By now she was likely wed to another, with little memory of Finn’s family. And none of Kristinge. Even if she did remember him, he was no longer the son of a king. In her eyes, he had never been one. He was only a traveling bard—or a monk, he was not sure—while she was close kin of a clan-chief. All these things he told himself in deciding against a return to Frotha’s hall, but it did not keep him from thinking of her. Had he truly thought he might find her there, he might yet have gone to Frotha. But she was not of Frotha’s clan. He had seen her there in passing. Where in Friesland she dwelt, he did not know.

  In the end, Kristinge decided to return first to Ezinge. It was the village nearest to the ruins of Hwitstan. A village he had visited with Willimond on more than one occasion. There he would seek any survivors of the burning of Finnsburg, and also any believers who still remained from Willimond’s church. What else he would do, or how long he might stay, he had no idea. And pray though he did, God had given him no new wisdom when they finally reached the Hoclinges’ coastal village. Coming over a rise, Kristinge saw again the great sea: the swan road that would bring him back to Friesland. Little though he looked forward to more days in a boat, he understood once again why it inspired such mighty songs. A longing in his heart to stand upon his home soil was sparked.

  That day there was feasting at Fjorgest’s coastal hall. Food in plenty they had brought with them, and though good drink was lacking, the hunters who had gone ahead had brought in some of the season’s first waterfowl. Like the swiftly lengthening days, this was a sure sign that winter was over. The warriors and traders both had reason to celebrate. It was in good spirits that Kristinge sang that night, performing the duty of a bard before Fjorgest for the last time. He sang four songs, starting with Deor’s Lament—the very song that had earned him a place in Fjorgest’s hall—and ending with the tale of the God-Son and the wedding feast. Such was his power as he sang that night, and so great was the spell of his voice, that when he finished singing the chieftain and his gathered warriors swore that the water in their mugs had turned to good mead.

  Two days later, Kristinge purchased passage for Friesland with three south-bound trading ships. Fjorgest wished him well and gave him as a parting gift a gold brooch of Frankish craftsmanship. It was a miniature drinking horn. “If ever you return to Danemark, your harp will be welcome at Heort. A mead cup larger than this awaits you. May the gods be with you.” A moment later he added, “And your own god as well.”

  Kristinge nodded and bowed, but no words came to his lips. The ship slid off the beach as the sun rose behind them. He looked back only once, overcome by the longing to see Willimond and Hildeburh a last time. But he knew they were not there, and his heart told him he would not see them again in this life. Not for the last time, he wondered what would become of the one whom he had long ago called Father, and the one whom he had so recently learned to call Mother. The tears of sorrow upon his face as he sailed away from the land of the Hoclinges bit his cheek more deeply than did the cold spray of sea water.

  Nevertheless, he was glad to be traveling once again. Now that he was apart from his mother, he had no wish to linger among the Danes. His eyes were turned southward, and already thoughts of Friesland filled his head. For the first time since his departure from Luxeuil, he felt ready to return to Hwitstan. A strange sense of urgency was upon him. Fortunately, the shipmasters as well as the ships themselves—vessels akin to those which had brought Kristinge north in the fall, though a few feet longer—proved true to the Danish reputation for seamanship. With tail winds driving them, and seas less choppy than was the norm for that time of year, they traveled swiftly. The sailors, too, had been ice-bound for too long and were glad to be on the waters once again. Kristinge listened to their laughter and coarse talk, but he kept to himself. He made no effort to speak with the traders nor did he volunteer to entertain them with his h
arp, but instead occupied his time with thoughts of his return. The question posed months earlier by both abbot and abbess—the question for which he had felt no clear answer when it was asked—was once again fresh upon his mind: With what cloak would he return to his homeland?

  Now, however, at least part of the answer had become clear. He would keep secret his identity as the son of Finn. He would not return as a prince, but was content to remain a fosterling. The winter in Danemark had convinced him of that. The lives of the chieftains were the lives of warriors. He had heard enough of their tales. Woden had enough berserkers. As a monk or priest he might return. Even as a bard. But not as a warrior. Not as a chieftain.

  Yet even this decision did not set him at ease. He would have to do much better in Friesland than he had done in Danemark to prevent any from guessing who he was. He could not be careless. Other enemies his father had outside of Danemark. Kristinge had come to learn that. He had heard the tale of Réadban’s betrayal of Finn. The chieftains Aldgisl and Réadban both sought the rule of Friesland, and would view any son of Finn as a threat to their own ambitions. That Kristinge had no intent of pursuing the torc would not matter to those two. He had not forgotten the warnings of Abbess Telchild. His ancestry was threat enough to them. He would risk the danger of being a priest, but not that of being an aspiring prince.

  This thought at least was firmly settled in Kristinge’s mind when, less than two weeks after his departure from the land of the Hoclinges, on a bright morning some time past the spring equinox but not yet summer’s solstice, he found himself sailing along the northeastern shore of Hwitstanwic. When they rounded a point of land and the broad bay with its familiar wics opened up before him, his heart leapt with recognition. A short time later, the traders pulled onto the beach about a mile northeastward along the coast from where the old tower Finnweard stood. They waited only long enough for Kristinge to step out of the ship with his belongings before poling back out into the offing.

  He had returned.

  Kristinge stood there alone on the shores of Friesland and watched the three ships sail out of sight. Then he turned his eyes inland. With a sigh, he heaved his sack over his shoulder and carefully lifted his harp. The portent of the moment did not evade him. This was why he had left Luxeuil so many months ago. It was also what he had been avoiding. He was home. There was no chance to turn back. The ship had left. What would he do?

  Standing on the beach, all of his thoughts of the past three weeks raced through Kristinge’s mind. He had chosen the village of Ezinge as his destination in part for its proximity to Hwitstan. Ezinge had, as he remembered, a small chapel and a few disciples of Christ. Four years before their departure from Friesland, a young Kristinge had watched Willimond build that chapel. Whether it still stood so many years later, he did not know. Their disturbing discovery in Dorestad—the peasants who had abandoned their faith in the Christian God to worship again the idols of their people—had left him in doubt. Yet of all the places he might go, Ezinge was most promising. Willimond had spent much time with the few believers there, and their faith had been strong. Furthermore, to get to Ezinge he had to pass nigh to Hwitstan and he hoped once more to see the ruins of what had been his home. His initial plan had been to rest there for the night as he and Willimond had done months earlier. Now that he was here, the thought of a night alone amidst the burned buildings in the deserted village unsettled him. Furthermore he had not counted on being let off the ship on the opposite side of the river. Unless the old bridge was still in place, it would take more than an hour to walk upstream far enough to cross the river even in low tide, and another hour to walk back to the village.

  No. Someday, he would return to Hwitstan, but not today. First, he must find shelter. And food. That meant finding a settlement. The quickest route to Ezinge from where he stood would be to travel along the north side of the Hwitstan river—the Hunze as it was known upstream further from the coast. If he remembered clearly, a long day’s march might suffice to complete the trip to Ezinge had he started at Hwitstan. But much of the morning had passed, so that he had little hope to reach Ezinge before sunset; if all went well, he might be there by the middle of the next day. Then, if any of the disciples had remained faithful to Christ, he might find lodging as a monk. Otherwise, he would sleep by the chapel—if it was still standing. If. If. If. He laughed aloud at how uncertain even the next day was. He took one more look back across the bay toward the small hill upon which the tower Finnweard had once stood. Then he started up the beach.

  Kristinge’s walk took him over the dunes and along a low hill. Cold sand filled his sandals, but it didn’t bother him. This was Frisian sand, the sand of Hwitstanwic. It felt right. Even the cool spring air coming off the sea behind him and blowing down his neck didn’t trouble him. It was good to be back. His mind was already racing ahead to what he would find when he reached his destination—to the thought of living again among the Frisians. To the hope of seeing Aewin. The hope that perhaps she remembered him. That her response to his song in Frotha’s hall had not been his imagination. He blushed at the memory of Frotha’s warning, but it did not stop a hundred questions leaping to mind as he breathed once more the air of his homeland, and memories uncounted flooded over him. What would the days and weeks to follow bring?

  Preoccupied with these thoughts, Kristinge did not at first notice the tower rising some distance ahead and to his left. Not until a loud gull’s cry turned his head in that direction. Then he saw it. Atop a low slope away from the water was a tall stone structure. He stopped and looked more closely, thinking perhaps that his eyes had deceived him. He did not remember any buildings there. There had been no other villages this close to Hwitstan. Moved by curiosity, he veered away from the shore line in that direction to pass the structure more closely, though it meant a little extra work.

  As he drew closer, Kristinge realized the structure was a watchtower, much like the older tower Finnweard that had stood between his village and the sea. It sat atop a hill, perhaps three stone throws from the shoreline. When he came to a point even with it, his curiosity overtook him completely. He turned left and started up the slope to investigate. His legs, sore from too many days cramped in a boat, protested at the climb but he persisted. A minute later, he found himself standing on a low hill surrounded by a few scattered trees. East, north, and west, the great sea was spread out before him like a blanket crusted with jewels. At present, however, he paid it little heed. He was looking up at a small stone tower, about twelve feet high. For a long moment he stared at it, wondering who had put it there. Then he remembered that Finn had built it years past to help guard Hwitstanwic. Slowly his memory came back. The tower Finnweard had been torn down after the battle, as he had already seen. But Finn had built five of these watchtowers: Finnweard, plus two others in each direction along the coast. This one—the middle one on the eastern side—still stood. More distant memories were now returning. Days playing upon the beaches, looking for sea-polished stone or chasing gulls along the sand. Watching the great ships set out to sea. Working the weirs in the river with Willimond and the other fishermen of the village.

  On a sudden urge, Kristinge set his bag and harp down near the base of the tower and looked for a way to climb. Spotting an old wooden ladder lying on the ground on the other side of the tower, he went over to investigate. Unfortunately, the ladder did not look promising. The rungs were old and rotted. Kristinge turned back to the tower. The intervening years had not greatly damaged the stonework as they had done to the wooden ladder, and the walls still looked solid. Tentatively, he put his foot in a hole and reached up for a handhold. The structure held his weight, and no stones loosened. Casting one final glance up the wall over twice his own height, he took a breath and began to climb.

  The climb was easier than Kristinge expected. The stone was as solid as it looked, and there were plenty of footholds and handholds. A minute later he swung his body over the low parapet and was standing atop the tower, in possessio
n of a commanding view of the long flat coastline around Hwitstanwic. To the northeast, beyond the bay where his eyes first fell, he could see another hill upon which stood the next tower—little more than a gray speck rising in the distance just above the level of the trees, but still standing. It was clear now why Finn had built these watchtowers. Except under cover of fog or darkness, no enemy could approach Hwitstan from the north by land or sea without being seen many miles away. Realizing this, Kristinge was surprised that the towers had been left standing, and had survived the sacking of Finnsburg. Hengest must have known of the towers. Had they been too far away and their destruction of Hwitstan so complete that they did trouble with them? He turned around. The ruins of Finnweard were just barely visible down the coast in the other direction. That was where his mother had stood with Daelga, watching the last battle of Finn.

  A tear came to Kristinge’s eye. He turned and looked westward out across the water. The bay was beautiful. The sun was already far enough to the west that it glittered brightly off the surface of the waves, causing Kristinge to squint as he scanned the far shores of Hwitstanwic. Only then did he become aware again of the sound of waves crashing on the shore below him, and the cries of the gulls screeching about him. One large dark gray gull flew over to land on the stone to his left, but veered off at the last minute when it realized that the tower was occupied.

  It was strange, Kristinge thought, how much life was here. And how little. The village had lain vacant since the battle. Nobody had even attempted to resettle. Pondering these things, the young monk stood alone atop the tower much longer than he intended, gazing out across the bay and listening to the sounds of the waters, and the birds, and the wind whistling across the stone. Once again a memory of Aewin rose to his mind, and he wondered where she was and if he would again see her. Perhaps even now the winds were taking the Danish trade-ship along the shores to the village where she dwelt. The same winds that had so often taken Finn far down the coast. And Folcwalda before him. How many times had his father and brother sailed along these shores? Kristinge could picture them now. Friesland’s last king, standing atop the hill overlooking the bay, perhaps with his arm on the shoulder of his elder son Finnlaf. Perhaps the two of them had even stood together atop the very tower upon which Kristinge now stood. Kristinge, the lost son. The forgotten son. The disclaimed son.