The Rood and the Torc Read online

  Many days he spent alone in prayer and in the study of scripture. Other days were spent at Aelfin’s side answering questions, which to Kristinge’s discouragement were only infrequently about his God. But he did not lose patience. On the Sabbath he led his small flock in worship, preaching to them from the Word and leading them in the Holy Communion. When one or another was sick, he would visit them and pray for them, anointing them with oil as he had seen both Petrica and Willimond do on occasion. Often his thoughts turned to his former teacher, and to Hildeburh. Wondering how they were doing, or worrying about opposition from the priests of Freyr, he would pray for them. To Luxeuil his thoughts turned at times also, though rarely did he feel any regret at having departed or any longing to return. Then his thoughts would turn to Aewin, and for a time he would forget altogether about Danemark and Luxeuil both, and wonder whether he would see her again. More than once he considered asking Aelfin about her, but he could never think of a way to pose the question that would not arouse suspicion, and so he held his tongue. Thus it was that the days rolled by.

  It was not until midsummer that his worries began to arise. As days once again began to shorten and the fall harvest approached, Aelfin began to question Kristinge more and more about where he had come from. At first his questions were direct, and Kristinge, wary of them, was successful in avoiding them or in answering vaguely enough to satisfy the chieftain without lying or giving too much away. Later, however, the questions became more subtle, and Kristinge’s guard slipped more than once. Dyflines joined too, and he was even wilier. As the weeks passed, the priest was slowly backed into a corner regarding his identity, and he began to suspect that there were rumors spreading in the village. His greatest fear was caused by Dunnere. The old peasant remembered Kristinge from before, and he didn’t understand his priest’s exhortations to remain silent about the matter. Of course Dunnere tried to comply. And Kristinge thought he might be safe, since the poor shepherd had little contact with Aelfin and his thanes. But the village was too small. The danger he feared was not far away.

  Kristinge had been gone from Luxeuil for a year now. Nigh upon the autumnal equinox—the fall harvest celebration—he was again called upon to sing before Aelfin in his hall. He complied joyfully for he had recently composed a new song, the tale of Gideon, and was looking forward to the opportunity to perform it before the chieftain.

  The hall was fuller than Kristinge had ever seen it when he entered that evening with his harp. All of Aelfin’s thanes were present, and some other warriors as well, many of whom Kristinge did not recognize. This was a greater gathering than the hearthwerod of a local chieftain, though the significance of that observation did not strike him until later. Whatever the case was, the young priest-bard was not daunted by the size of the crowd.

  Not until he saw her.

  She sat across from Kristinge, one of three women in the hall that night, surrounded by a half dozen warriors from another village. Unlike the first time he had seen her the day he left Paris nearly a year earlier, she was now quiet and drew no attention to herself. Still, though shifting bodies obscured her from view, it took only one glance for Kristinge to recognize her: the hair as black as night—as black as her eyes—and the skin smooth and white. Her high, proud, forehead. The round shoulders and full lips.

  Aewin.

  How had she come here? Kristinge’s heart leapt at the possibility. Had she come because she had heard rumor of Kristinge’s presence in Ezinge? The thought was too much—too ridiculous—to hope for. But he could not help but wonder. Had she also guessed, as Frotha had, that it had been her for whom he had sung that night many months past when last he had seen her? Did she remember him from years earlier in Hwitstan? Suddenly, Kristinge began to sweat. He turned his eyes away quickly, hoping to avoid eye contact. But he couldn’t help wondering if she noticed him. If she was looking at him.

  It was a warm summer night and no fire was lit. For the bards, a small space had been left clear on the hearthstone. When he was called upon by Aelfin, Kristinge stood with his harp. Her presence had made him nervous. He thought about changing the song, about singing again what he had sung for her nearly a year ago in Frotha’s hall. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t even look at her. He performed the song he had planned. He sang of the mighty warrior-chieftain Gideon and his small band of thanes who won a great victory over the enemies of his clan. How the Creator-God and Lord of Gideon’s people whittled the chieftain’s war band down to only a small number of the greatest warriors, and then won the victory over a vastly larger foe so that the people would know it was the work of their God and not their own strength that had won them the victory. The song ended with Gideon attacking the enemy host from the surrounding hills.

  “High on the hill-tops, lamps hidden beneath jars,

  there three hundred stood. They knew no fear.

  With Gideon they waited, watching below

  the feared Midianites, the foreign murderers;

  The valley they filled, that vast hateful foe,

  like locusts swarming swallowing the land.

  But Gideon, he followed the God of his folk.

  He lifted his torch. Trumpet he blew.

  The great God he called to guide his war band.

  Then warriors shouted, shields raised on high,

  held up their swords, and sounded their horns.

  Gave a great cry, called with their voices,

  their jars they smashed, shields then they clashed.

  ‘Our swords for God, for Gideon,’ they shouted.

  Led by their chieftain, they charged down the hill.

  Then the Lord Himself, the Chieftain on high,

  down in their midst the mighty God came.

  The Midianites heard a horrible sound.

  The camp was confused. They cried out in fear.

  And taken by terror, each other they slew;

  Those cowards killed their own companions.

  That foe then fled Gideon’s fierce attack.

  Whelmed over in fright, in fear ran away.

  And Gideon won, his war band conquered,

  By God’s own strength stood ‘gainst his foe.”

  The song went well, and Kristinge was pleased when he was done. Yet the mood in the hall was tense that night, and the response was less than he expected. Feeling that he had failed, for a moment he forgot about Aewin. Almost at once, Dyflines was called upon to sing. Kristinge returned to his seat and tried to listen as the other bard with his lyre stood on the hearth and began.

  The first song that Dyflines sang was no surprise. It was Deor’s Lament. Dyflines had sung it three or four times since first hearing it from Kristinge. And Kristinge had to admit that Dyflines now sang it better than he did. The Irish bard knew the rules and patterns of the poet’s trade well, and he practiced far more than Kristinge. He was quick at learning songs, and just as adept at composing his own. He had already added five of his own verses to the lament.

  No. That he sang this song tonight was not the surprise. Nor was it a surprise that he had composed yet further verses. It was the subject of this final verse that caught Kristinge’s attention.

  The flower of Finn, the fair Hildeburh,

  queen of all Friesland, her fate was too great.

  Her strong eldest son struck down in his youth,

  The life of Finnlaf whom she had loved.

  And bound too by blood, her brother Hnaef,

  In the same battle fell on Friesland’s own soil.

  Yet more great her grief did grow still when

  in Hwistan was hewn her own husband Finn.

  That has passed over; so also will this.

  Applause did not follow this song. Dyflines’s singing had been too powerful for that. Battle-hardened warriors sat with their mead cups, glassy-eyed and silent, staring at the empty hearth. Not a single one was left unmoved. The bard himself remained silent for a time, lowering his lyre and sitting on the bench across from Aelfin.


  But Kristinge could hardly appreciate the genius with which Dyflines had composed and performed the lament. He had been struck too hard. Not by grief. He knew his mother had suffered great loss, but he knew also that she now knew great joy. He knew better than any there how true Dyfline’s words were. Hildeburh’s grief had passed over.

  Which was precisely what frightened Kristinge. How did Dyflines know? Deor’s lament told of great heroes who had passed through tragedy and sorrow into joy and redemption. That was the pattern of the song. But for those sitting in Ezinge who knew about the tales of the fights at Finnsburg and Hwitstanwic, there was only grief. No joy. Hildeburh’s son had died. Her brother had died. Her husband had died. Had Dyflines changed the pattern of the song? Or did he know something more?

  Her strong eldest son struck down in his youth, The life of Finnlaf whom she had loved.

  Then finally it struck Kristinge. Her eldest son?

  CHAPTER 15:

  Heir of Finn’s Torc

  Dyflines was a good bard. Perhaps even a great bard. He was too wise and crafty to use words lightly. Kristinge knew that. Yet the implications of the song were all too clear. To mention Hildeburh in the context of Deor’s Lament—to refer to her eldest son—these things spoke a message a clear as daylight. Dyflines might as well have come right out and said, Hildeburh had more than one child. It was the eldest son who died. The youngest lives. Now her sorrow has been turned back to joy; this too has passed.

  This could not be coincidence. Could everybody in the hall be blind? Kristinge risked a single glance in Dyflines’ direction. The bard was not looking back. He gave no indication that he was even aware of Kristinge’s presence, no indication that the song was sung for anyone in particular. A minute later he rose and began to sing again, lifting the mood of the company with an heroic tale of Friesc, a Frisian chieftain and mighty warrior of old. He sang loudly and energetically, strumming his lyre so forcefully that the strings appeared on the verge of breaking. Kristinge, however, was too shaken by the first song. He was not able to pay attention to the bard’s singing for the rest of that evening. He had forgotten even about Aewin. Long before Dyflines had finished singing that evening, while mead still flowed and stew still stood warm by the fire, the young priest left the hall and wandered back to his hut alone. That night, he slept very little.

  Despite all Kristinge’s fears, however, the following morning dawned clear and bright, and the life of the village continued on as normal. Nothing had changed. Kristinge walked through the day’s activities ready to bolt at any moment, like a deer walking past a den of wolves. But Aelfin did not appear at Kristinge’s door confronting him with his identity and challenging him as a rival. In fact, nobody treated the young priest any differently than before. The song Dyflines had sung—his version of Deor’s lament with the mysterious new verse about Hildeburh—was not even mentioned. Everything about the day was routine, except for Kristinge’s jumpiness. And so by the middle of the afternoon he was beginning to wonder whether his fears had been unfounded, if the singing about Hildeburh had been a mere coincidence with a significance magnified only by Kristinge’s imagination. By the end of the day, he was once again thinking about Aewin. And though he dared not venture into the mead hall, he spent the last two hours of the day wandering about the village hoping to catch sight of her.

  Thus it happened that when Ceolac found Kristinge near the chapel late in the afternoon and told him that he was again requested by Aelfin in the hall that evening, the young priest could not resist accepting the invitation despite his persistent sense of waiting danger. The possibility of Aewin’s presence alone was enough to draw him. When evening came, he retrieved his harp from his hut and went to the hall. And when the mead had been served and Aelfin called on him, he sang his two songs. The gathered company was large again that night with more faces Kristinge did not recognize. Unfortunately, the mysterious Aewin was not one of them. He still did not know from whence she came. Nevertheless, Kristinge sang energetically. Though he felt more nervous and self-conscious than usual, this night his songs were well received. He finished and sat down with a satisfied sigh, setting his harp beside the bench and readying himself to listen to the other bard. And when Dyflines started to sing—and there was yet no indication that anything was out of the ordinary—Kristinge became more convinced that he had been worrying for nothing. Though his sense of uneasiness had not left him, he tried to relax and listen.

  The Irish bard began with another heroic lay about Friesc, which he followed with one about the great Danish hero, Beow of Old. Whether it was that the company was livelier than usual, or the crowd larger, or the mead stronger, Kristinge did not know, but the response to the Bard’s first two songs was loud and energetic. The mood in the hall was festive and the spirit was catchy. By Dyflines’ third song, a new tale about Weland the Smith, Kristinge was finally relaxing.

  For his fourth song, Dyflines chose the Lay of Folcwalda. Though Kristinge had not heard it sung in many years, and though it had changed somewhat over the course of time and with a different poet, he recognized it at once as one of the old bard Daelga’s poems. He started to grow nervous again to hear this particular song, especially after the previous night’s song about Hildeburh. But a heroic song about Folcwalda was normal from a bard in Friesland. He knew that. And he liked the piece; it held more meaning for him now than it ever had before, for he knew now that Folcwalda was his own kin: his father’s father. He forced himself to relax again.

  Dyflines sang the long song in its entirety, ending with Folcwalda’s death at the hands of the Franks after the Battle of Domburg Isles.

  “Now gone is our lord, laid on the byre.

  Felled by his foes, Folcwalda was.

  One final voyage, one farewell too many;

  our king traveled south, sent help when called.

  He sailed from these shores; a ship bore him off

  to far off Domburg, to his doom freely went,

  to gather Friesland: one folk, one king.

  Departed is our king, cold now in death.

  Felled by his foes, Folcwalda was.

  But Friesland he united for Finn his son,

  the victory he won; wise was our king

  though never to hall or hearth did return.

  Great is our grief! A good ruler we lost.

  For Hwitstan, Alas! Long shall we mourn.”

  Though Kristinge had never known his grandfather Folcwalda, he had heard the tale of that last voyage many times during his days in Hwitstan. He was fighting back tears by the time Dyflines finished. He could hear some of the old poet Daelga in the voice of this young Irish bard, and he imagined Daelga’s gray hair and ageless slate eyes hovering over a hearth fire singing of his former lord. But even more, Kristinge could see his own father Finn, and his brother Finnlaf, all of whom had died warriors’ deaths.

  When the song was over, Dyflines paused briefly. He turned toward Kristinge and gave a quick sly discomforting glance that made the young priest squirm in his seat—made him sense that something really was going to happen despite all the time he had spent assuring himself to the contrary—and then he began his next song. It was a song Kristinge had never before heard, but one he would not forget. For short though it was, it was a song that would change his life.

  From Hwitstan he went, the wise thane Ulestan,

  from hearth, from home, from hall and from king.

  A weary wanderer, but he walks not alone.

  He went with God’s man, the good monk Willimond.

  No foe drove him forth. No fear made him leave.

  He did not seek that sorrowful way.

  One command he received, one care from his ruler.

  To him was trusted the highest of tasks:

  this boy to keep, the king’s own blood.

  Thus Ulestan did take, traveling so far,

  the sad road south with snow close behind.

  They promised to protect the prince between them.

>   And by God’s grace, by the good One’s mercy,

  to joy and to peace their path may still lead.

  And hope is held high the third may come home.

  A king to Friesland, Finn’s son, Kristinge.

  When the final words of the song had been sung, Dyflines stepped back from the cold hearthstone. With a satisfied grin on his face, he again looked over at Kristinge. He was not the only one to do so. In the stillness following the song, every eye in the hall had turned toward the youngest son of Finn who sat there in his monk’s robe holding a harp and wondering what to do.

  Kristinge breathed sharply and audibly into the silence, blinking back at the unblinking eyes. He was stunned. Trembling. Heat from an imaginary fire swelled around him, nearly causing him to faint. He swayed in his seat. A dozen thoughts flashed across his mind in rapid succession. It had happened to him in Danemark with Fjorgest.

  He should have guessed it would happen here. He should have known he could not keep his heritage a secret forever. But how had Dyflines guessed? Had the Irish bard sung this of his own initiative? Or had Aelfin put him up to it? Was this the reason for the large crowd gathered there that evening? Had they all known already? Did everybody know more about Kristinge than he knew about himself?

  But the foremost of all his thoughts were the questions: What now? What would happen to him?

  Still watching Kristinge with an enigmatic grin, Dyflines lowered his lyre and sat back down on his bench. Throughout the hall everybody sat perfectly still, watching and waiting. Everybody but Aelfin. The chieftain had risen from his bench even as the bard had returned to his. He stepped deliberately and directly toward the young priest now. There was a stern set to his shoulders. The muscles on his bare arms glistened with sweat and bulged in anticipation of motion. The eyes of those present in the hall were now irresistibly drawn from Kristinge to this towering warrior figure. Though there was no fire in the hall, Kristinge could see a red gleam in the chieftain’s eyes as he approached. The tension in the hall was as heavy as the coastal spring fogs. The gathered warriors were frozen to their mead-benches by the drama in front of them.