The Rood and the Torc Page 28

  If his first day in Ezinge had been busier than Kristinge expected, his second was more quiet. In answering Aelfin’s question, Kristinge had chosen a path, at least for the time. Not that of a monk, as he had told the chieftain. He had given up Luxeuil. Even his tonsure had vanished beneath the winter’s growth of new hair. Rather, Kristinge would follow the path of a priest—the call given to him by Willimond.

  There was, however, one barrier to this choice. Kristinge had never been a priest. He had not been trained as one. He was a Luxeuil monk. Skilled in the weeding of gardens. Perhaps even in the study of scripture. He was a student. Once a novice. Later a brother. For a short time a traveling bard. Never a priest. Where did he begin? Who was his model? During his last two years at Luxeuil, he had on occasion traveled with Father Petrica to visit peasant villages in the mountains surrounding the monastery. He had watched his elder minister to the people there. Yet those trips had been rare, and Kristinge remembered little of them other than the miles of silent walking at Petrica’s side. His thoughts took him back further, to the days of his childhood. Willimond also had come from a monastery. From Lindisfarne. He had trained as a monk. Yet he had become a true priest to the people of Hwitstan. He had been an apostle to all of Friesland. Had his years with Aidan trained him for such? Perhaps. But alas, Kristinge—as a youth of only fifteen summers—had given little thought to the possibility that he would one day be called to replace Willimond. He had immersed himself in the studies of scripture. In the learning of Latin, and the teachings of the saints. But he had paid little attention to the duties of priesthood. Would that Willimond or Petrica were with him now!

  “Let no one look down on your youthfulness,” the Apostle Paul had written to Timothy. “But in your speech, actions, charity, faith, and holiness show yourself an example.” Kristinge awoke from his night’s rest with those words on his heart. Example to whom? he wondered, when he had pondered the scriptures for a few moments. How could one be called a shepherd who had no flock? Yet the calm that had filled him that night before was still there. He would leave that question to God. For today, he chose not to worry. After a trip to the river to wash his face and hands, he returned to the chapel to spend the day in prayer and fasting.

  And so the second day passed in silence. And the second night was spent in the chapel. It was not until the coming of his third day in Ezinge that the new priest received his first visitor. He came during the hour that would have been Compline at Luxeuil. Kristinge was again on his knees in prayer at the front of the chapel when he became aware that he was being watched. It was nothing conscious. Perhaps the small room had darkened just slightly from a body filling the entryway. Or perhaps it was the barely perceptible sound of a person breathing. Or perhaps it was his sixth sense: an inexplicable feeling or instinct. At once both curious and a little afraid, he rose to his feet and turned to greet his guest.

  It was Aelfin. The chieftain’s large frame filled the entrance. Yet there was a hint of nervousness on the warrior’s face. He appeared uncomfortable to be so close to the inside of a Christian chapel. His arms were folded across his chest, and his legs were spread in a stern stance, as if he were fighting to appear intimidating rather than intimidated. “I have told you before that I already have a bard,” Aelfin said, starting the conversation abruptly.

  The comment took Kristinge even more by surprise than the presence of the chieftain at the door of his chapel. The greeting he had received from Aelfin two nights earlier had been warm enough, and he knew he had not failed at the harp. Was he no longer welcome? Why? “I have served as a bard in the North for these past many months,” Kristinge replied cautiously. “But I tell the truth that I came here as a priest, and not as a bard.”

  “I had not yet finished,” Aelfin continued, his voice softening slightly. “It was my thought to tell you that though I have already a bard and I have no desire to lose him, I would still welcome you to stay in Ezinge. You have no small talent, and it may be that I will call you to sing for me from time to time. As for a priest,” the chieftain went on, sweeping his right arm in a gesture to encompass the chapel and its few possessions, “I have no need for your new religion. The gods of our people have served us well enough in the past. But the chapel has been empty for many years now. The priest who built it was sent south some years ago—before I came to Ezinge.”

  Willimond! Kristinge almost spoke the name aloud, but he managed to hold his tongue.

  “I know only a little of this chapel’s history or of his, though there are some here who still remember him. You may stay here if you desire. My gods need feel no more threatened by your presence than does my bard.”

  Kristinge smiled inwardly. If Aelfin knew the truth! The God he served was a far greater threat to the gods of that place than Kristinge would ever be to Dyflines the bard. But he didn’t say so. There would be time enough for that to become apparent on its own. Nor did he mention that he had already planned on doing just what Aelfin suggested: remaining as a priest. For Kristinge knew from the histories of Aidan and Columbanus and many others that it was always best to receive the blessing and support of the local rulers. Of course he knew also from Columbanus’ story that even without the blessing of the king, the work of God would continue; God was greater than any earthly king. “Your offer is very generous,” Kristinge replied diplomatically. “This is what I had hoped for.”

  “So be it,” Aelfin said. “I will neither support nor hinder your work here.”

  He who is not for me is against me, Kristinge thought, but again he held his tongue. There was time. He knew that just for a pagan king to allow him to stay was no small thing. It was an important start. There would be time for God to change Aelfin’s heart. He thanked the chieftain again, and then waited for him to depart. But Aelfin did not leave. Surprising Kristinge for the third time that day, he stepped into the chapel. Kristinge knew enough about the Frisians and their gods to know that the people had a certain fear and respect for their holy places: the shrines and groves where the gods were served and where the rites were performed. There was something healthy about this respect, he thought. It brought the Frisians and Danes with their pagan gods closer to the truth than those like the Frankish king Clovis who had abandoned religion altogether and embraced instead his lusts. Again Kristinge’s thoughts drifted to the question of how to capture this sense of reverence and fear, how to capture the far-off beauty of their heroic ideals, and use it to tell of the true God and of the true Heroism of humility—the Heroism of the Christ on the Cross. As his memory drifted back over his days in Danemark and his attempts to tell the Gospel in the heroic verse and tradition of these Germanic people, he barely noticed that Aelfin had taken a seat on one of the two narrow benches in the chapel. Then the chieftain’s voice caught his attention again.

  “I have been in Ezinge only a small number of years. My people were driven from Domburg by the Franks four winters ago. We came eastward, looking for land away from the Rhine.” He spoke in a distant voice, like one of the Chroniclers. A wandering monologue much different from the voice and manner he had used in his hall. “Ezinge had gone through some suffering itself in those days: raids, disease, poor harvest. Many of its buildings were empty, though a few had been filled by refugees from Hwitstan after the fight at Finnsburg.” He paused for an instant and looked at Kristinge as he said this, then he continued. “It was mostly Saxons who lived here then. Descendants of the raiders who took the village generations earlier, though over the years they had mingled with the Frisian populace of Hwitstan.”

  At the second mention of Hwitstan, Kristinge sat down on the other bench and began to listen more intently. Though he was not yet sure what it was or why, there was something more than he had first thought to this visit from his new chieftain. He didn’t know whether to feel nervous or honored.

  “They had no chieftain,” Aelfin said, continuing his unasked-for explanation. He stared out the open door as he spoke, only now and then casting a sidelong g
lance in Kristinge’s direction. “When I came here from Domburg with my war band, leading the remnants of our people—those who had not stayed to live under Frankish rule—I was taken as the lord of Ezinge. There was no real war band here that could have opposed me then, but I would not have forcibly made myself chieftain as the Franks had done. The people took me by choice.” He paused. “I have known much sorrow these past years.”

  Kristinge narrowed his eyes and shook his head in amazement. Was this a chieftain speaking now? A war leader? What solace did he seek? And what solace could Kristinge offer? Had Aelfin come seeking a bard? Or a priest?

  “We lost our homes to the Franks,” Aelfin went on, unaware of Kristinge’s questions. “We fought at first, but too many of my people were lost and the enemy was too strong. In the days of Finn and Finnlaf, we might have held them off. Finn would have come to our aid, as his father had done before him. But their tale, too, is a tragic one. Now our land has no real king. No chieftain to bring us together. We have lost a great lord. And I? I have lost a great friend.”

  Finn and Finnlaf. The rest of the family that Kristinge had never known. And now never would. Their names stung like secret darts. Was it his own history that Kristinge had returned to Friesland to face? He was not sure. His own unresolved questions came bubbling to the surface like a salty spring, causing him for a moment to forget all about Aelfin’s troubles.

  A moment later, the tone of Aelfin’s voice changed slightly, as if he were remembering some temporarily forgotten hope. His gaze turned back on Kristinge. “Yet all is not lost. I live. And Dyflines brings back some joy to my hall. Not all joy was vanquished with the losses of Hwitstan and Domburg. There is laughter in that Irish bard, and that is what a good bard should do, is it not? Yes. He is brash, and young, and full of life. Like I was, long ago.” He sighed.

  “You knew Finn?” Kristinge asked, barely hearing the comments about Dyflines.

  “Indeed, I knew him. My father Aeltar was one of his thanes. And I was a thane of Finnlaf. A thane? Yes. A thane and a friend also, if I can be so bold as to call myself such. Finnlaf was a great prince. The day my father Aeltar died was made doubly sad because I had to leave Finnlaf’s side and return to Domburg to be its chieftain. Alas! If I had been in Hwitstan to fight by his side at the end, gladly I would have died for him.”

  Kristinge found his eyes growing moist. In his youth he had felt nothing but joy at the prospect of journeying with Willimond to far-off Luxeuil, a center of learning and of pursuing the call of God, so he imagined it. And so it was, in a way. Yet though Kristinge had not known at the time, he too had been driven from his home, sent away like an exiled prince. Now he had to face that. His thoughts drifted back to the day he had ridden southward from Hwitstan, and for the moment the strangeness of his present situation—of an unknown chieftain speaking to him in such a way, confiding in him as one might confide in a priest or friend—drifted from his mind.

  “But the Danes,” Aelfin was saying. “They are not the real enemies now. It is the Franks. Every month, more of them are crossing the Rhine. If we don’t stop them soon, Friesland itself will fall. We need a new king. If our chieftains do not agree on a Frisian king, they will get a Frankish one.” All of a sudden, Aelfin stopped. He glanced sidelong at Kristinge with a strange look in his eyes. “The Franks, yes. And here I am talking to one!”

  Kristinge fought down his thoughts of his lost father and brother, and brought himself back to the present. Aelfin was abruptly rising to leave. “No,” Kristinge protested. “I am no Frank, nor do I desire a Frankish rule over us. I have met king Clovis, and would not be ruled by him.”

  At the mention of Clovis, Aelfin’s eyes widened in surprise. “But you come from Francia, do you not? Are you not a monk of Luxeuil?”

  “I am,” Kristinge admitted, “but there are many monks at Luxeuil, and only a few are Frankish.”

  “Then where are you from?” Aelfin asked, a sly look in his eyes.

  “I have lived in many places,” Kristinge stammered out. “I have mixed blood.”

  “What mix, I wonder,” the chieftain said, but he didn’t wait for an answer. A moment later, he had stepped out the door and was gone. Kristinge did not follow him.

  The weeks that followed as spring progressed toward summer were good ones for Kristinge. He settled into Ezinge. Not wanting to live in the chapel, preferring to preserve it for purposes more holy, he built for himself a small hut on the edge of the terp not far away. Between the wealth he had brought from Balthild, what his mother Hildeburh had given him, and what he received now and then from Aelfin in reward for his occasional singing, he was able to keep clothed and fed. He enjoyed his role as part time bard, and soon developed a good relationship with Dyflines who visited him frequently to exchange songs and practice new compositions.

  The role of priest on the other hand was much newer to him than that of bard. Nor was Kristinge merely a priest, but a lone priest in a pagan village. It was a task very unlike being a young monk in a large monastery. Yet on his very first Sabbath day in Ezinge, the lone priest discovered who it was that had kept the chapel clean during those many years since he and Willimond had last been in Ezinge. He had his second visitor. It was a poor peasant farmer named Dunnere. A short thin man with scraggly limbs and just a few puffs of gray hair, he nearly disappeared beneath his heavy roughly-stitched cloak that looked more substantial than its owner. Dunnere had no family. His only possession was an old goat he kept for milk and treated like a child. And he was lucky to have that. He had no family farm land. He tended his chieftain’s cattle on the lands surrounding the terp, and also worked in the few flax fields the village kept. Like most peasants, he could count no higher than twelve—the largest number of cows he had ever watched—and so he wasn’t sure exactly how many years he had lived. It was long for a peasant, he knew. But to Kristinge, it wouldn’t have mattered if Dunnere was ten or a hundred. The new priest was overjoyed to find that he did have a flock in Ezinge, small though it may have been.

  In the days following, Kristinge discovered more about the old peasant. Dunnere still professed a Christian faith some six years after Willimond’s departure, but it was a faith full of superstition, heavily influenced by the Germanic culture that surrounded him. He had little understanding of the tenets which defined Christianity. His belief in God was based on one thing: he claimed to have been miraculously healed of a stomach illness when Willimond had laid hands on him in the name of Christ. This happened just a few months before the old priest had left for Luxeuil. Dunnere had not forgotten him. Nor had he forgotten ‘young Kristinge’, though Kristinge had no memory of him. Now Dunnere was determined to serve the God who had healed him. Though in Ezinge he was all alone in his faith, he had come to the chapel every seventh day—except for the few weeks when he was too busy with the flax harvest, for which he apologized—and cleaned it and recited the Lord’s prayer. He claimed that God had promised him in a dream that a real priest would one day return to Ezinge, during Dunnere’s lifetime, and had asked him to keep things in ready. And now he took Kristinge to be the fulfillment of God’s promise.

  Another prophecy? Kristinge wondered wryly. More people knew more about him than he knew about himself. But it no longer troubled him, and he soon grew to love the old peasant as he sought to build up his knowledge of the God he served.

  Kristinge also grew in friendship with the thanes Maccus and Ceolac. Though some of the warriors disdained his company, speaking of him only as “the Christian priest” and accusing him of slandering the “true Frisians gods”, as a bard Kristinge earned the appreciation of many thanes including Maccus and Ceolac. Kristinge also soon learned that Dunnere was not the only believer in Ezinge. There were a few others, all peasants, whom Willimond had led to the Lord. Without a priest, they had drifted away from their faith, but when they saw the chapel once again holding masses they were quick to return. Of course as long as the chieftain resisted Christianity, Kristinge knew there would
be few additional converts—probably none among the warriors. But he also knew that God rejoiced for every lost sheep who was found, whether chieftain, warrior, or peasant. He remembered how in Luxeuil all labored together: peasant, merchant, and king. There were no nationalities. No classes. So he served the few as joyfully as he would have served the many.

  Aelfin also spoke frequently with the new priest and part-time bard. Though it had been a comment made in passing, the Chieftain remembered Kristinge’s claim to have met Clovis. Now he was interested in hearing more about the Frankish king and his armies. He did not hide his disappointment that Kristinge knew so little about Frankish battle strategies, or the size of their war bands. “What do you expect from a monk,” he muttered. But his comment was made without malice, and it did not stop him from continuing his questioning. And the young monk-turned-bard-turned-priest soon realized that he knew more than he thought. In particular, his news of the present turmoil over the Frankish throne and his description of Clovis’ illness excited the chieftain’s hope. Aelfin kept returning again and again to the threat of Frankish invasion, and to the need for a united Friesland and a Frisian king.

  “Maybe now,” he said, referring to the instability in Francia, “Maybe now is the time for us to attack and drive them back from the Rhine. If we act swiftly, and if they remain divided, we may win. You say the new High King, Chlotar son of Clovis, is just a child?”

  In this way, spring passed and Summer’s Day arrived. There was a small celebration in Ezinge. Kristinge was called upon to join Dyflines in singing throughout the day as the villagers feasted on domesticated and wild pork, fish, and the remnants of the previous year’s barley and flax. There was also plenty to drink. Kristinge followed the pattern he had set as a bard in Danemark, singing a mix of both common Frisian songs and his Germanic Gospel.