The Rood and the Torc Read online

  But no. He was not a king. He was no more a king than he was a true bard. And yet…

  An old song that Daelga used to sing sprang to Kristinge’s mind. Absently, instinctively, he fingers plucked a few strings of his harp. No, he thought, even as his fingers found the next few notes. This was not the right song for a mead hall full of warriors. It was something the seasoned bard had written for queen Hildeburh long ago, and sung to her at times when the gathering at Finnsburg was small and quiet. It was no war-song. No celebration of battle. It was a song of praise for the beauty of a queen.

  Kristinge could hear Daelga’s voice. Could remember the day the old bard had first begun to teach him the song. A fall day, but sunny. They’d been seated on a high hill overlooking the seas.

  I know not why I teach you this, Daelga had told Kristinge.It will not inspire warriors to battle nor will it win you gold rings from a chieftain. Yet of all the songs I have sung, not one has Hildeburh praised more. If it was she who was the treasure-giver, I would sing it more often!”

  As if it had been six hours ago when last he had heard it, and not six or more years that had passed, the words came back to the young monk. And with the words came something of a chanted melody, and a distant memory of his days in Hwitstan. It would be brash to sing it now, he thought. Impudent and foolish. Yet when he lifted his eyes and saw her sitting there, he threw away his caution. His fingers dampened the harp. He plucked the first few notes again, more clearly now. Then he began.

  A pearl of great price a prince to delight:

  Graced in wound gold she glitters so clear.

  I vow, though I voyage to vast empires grand,

  in price her peer no other will prove.

  So round and fine this radiant gem,

  so smooth and soft her sides did appear,

  that ever in judging gems that are fair

  I deemed as dear her only alone.

  His nerves calmed as he continued. Instinctively, his eyes were drawn to her. She sat a few feet away, watching him. A strange expression, as of some old memory, flitted across her face. Was this not the very song he had once sung to her so long ago, when both had been but children in Hwitstan? A brash thing even then. Yet now, as then, her eyes had captured him.

  But once did I see her. One time was I granted

  that marvelous sight; yet the memory stays

  forever with me when waking or sleeping.

  In a garden she stood, arrayed in bright glory

  by flowers with blossoms more bright than silver.

  Her hair like water fell from her head,

  her laughter the sound of the sweet cascade.

  While I from afar that vision did watch.

  And while I watched her, wondrous fair,

  she sang a song like sweet perfume

  that filled the air with fragrant scent,

  and bid the birds themselves to silence.

  The whistling wind, its wandering ceased

  and sat still to listen, light breath on her hair.

  The mountains behind, beneath their white manes

  of snow-capped stillness so great, stood poised.

  Then even the sun though high in the sky

  looked shining downward deeming her equal

  in beauty and grace; and no less bright.

  Enthralled, I at once then did to her

  my own heart bestow. Or was it stolen?

  For seeing her then in such splendor adorned

  by sun, wind, blossom, and mountain’s snow

  and voice like crystal, I had little choice.

  Desire then found me, flowed in my veins

  as longer she sang spinning enchantment

  that wrapped my soul in sweetest caress.

  I would from all cares to her company fly.

  Yet on that spot, though yearning to speak,

  still longer I remained unable to move.

  So strong was her spell like a statue of marble,

  my legs were bound in fetters of bronze.

  She danced then too, thus sealing my doom,

  in glistening white gown, that gentle maid,

  her bare feet floating free from the earth.

  Sailing, she rose in rhythm to her song,

  crossed glade of grass still glistening with dew.

  As light as the breath that filled her bosom,

  round the flowered glade she glided and spun.

  No trace of her touch tarried on the earth.

  What marvels there my mind did amaze.

  Such wealth I watched in wonderment glad.

  The great trees bowed, trembling at the sight,

  but dared not touch her with twig or branch.

  But I, great fool, then forward strode,

  moved from my trance. The trees’ restraint

  I no longer heeded, but longing to reach

  that unbounded beauty I broke the spell.

  My advance she saw yet did not cease

  her song or dance, but smile she gave,

  while with her hand she told me wait

  ‘til dance was done and then to come.

  And still she sang with sweetest voice

  that beckoned flowers bloom at the sound,

  and fruit to fall ripe at her feet.

  What mortal man that call could resist?

  I did not then know of the more powerful spell

  which in that meadow that fair maiden bound.

  Earnestly she warned that I must wait

  at edge of wood, not wander in,

  but too swiftly I strode. I could not hold still.

  My heart did not heed her solemn warning.

  Compelled by her beauty, the boundary I crossed,

  and she then vanished from my vision.

  O great delight! For the dear radiance

  cast ‘pon my brow by her blessed smile

  I would willingly wait one thousand winters

  beneath the bows of silvered birch.

  But in my mortal mind a madness had reigned

  my headlong haste me heedless bore

  one step too far on that fair grass;

  and I thus drove away the delight I sought.

  And with her parting all other beauty passed:

  the wind its heavy howling then resumed;

  the grass once green grew old and withered;

  and flower pedals bright fell stale and brown.

  The distant mountains rumbled their dreary moans

  while in the sky saddened the face of sun.

  A swoon of longing then smote me there

  where that great beauty I once had seen.

  And piteously I cried ‘O pearl, beyond compare,

  to see thee once again I would all dangers face.’

  When the song ended, there was a low murmur of approval through the hall. Kristinge looked nervously at Frotha. When he saw the chieftain nodding his satisfaction, he breathed a sigh of relief. The singer bowed to the treasure-giver, then to the others in the hall, risking as he did the briefest glance in the direction of the woman for whom he had sung. Her face was glowing more than ever, and there was also a strange tilt to her eyebrows as if she, too, had been lost in a memory. She was watching Kristinge closely, almost admiringly—if it were possible for one so full of pride to admire—but also shyly. Kristinge turned away and smiled.

  “Sing another,” Frotha ordered, then added with a good-natured laugh, “this time, one for the warriors.”

  Kristinge nodded and bowed again. Suddenly his nervousness was gone. Like a slight breeze blowing away a morning haze, the singing of that first song had loosened his tongue. The barding mood was upon him now, and a host of old songs came flooding back across his memory. He latched onto the first one that came to mind—a song he knew well enough; one he would not have to think twice about; and one also that would please a chieftain and his warriors.

  A song I will share, will sing of a tale

  of a mighty thane who a thousand men slew.

 
; That man of old though mortal in body

  was tall and stout with the strength of ten.

  The fame of Friesland, his name was Friesc,

  no better retainer has a chieftain beheld.

  Kristinge strummed the harp and lifted his voice louder, filling the hall with the sound of his singing. And even as he sang the familiar song, his mind drifted back once more to Luxeuil and to the days that followed the death of Ulestan. He thought again of the events that had propelled him along the path to where he now stood, singing as a bard in the hall of a Frisian chieftain.

  Ulestan was buried the afternoon after his death. He was a scarred old warrior from a pagan land—one who had never learned Latin, and had never taken the vows of a monk. Yet the burial he received at Annegray was a Christian burial. He was a baptized man. And in those last six years of his life he had somehow captured the affection of many at Luxeuil. Perhaps in his sufferings he had come to understand Grace better than most ever do. For he who has been forgiven much, loves much, Petrica had once said of him. Even Abbot Walbert, from his prayer retreat deep in the woods, heard of his death and returned to pay him honor. At the command of the abbot, Ulestan was given a plot in Luxeuil’s small cemetery down in the vale, and Kristinge was allowed to dig the grave. Willimond dug beside him and later spoke a short eulogy. The abbot said the prayers. Then, as the community gathered around the grave to sing Compline at the end of the day, Ulestan’s two friends filled the deep hole into which the old warrior had been laid, marking the warrior’s final resting spot with a small Irish cross.

  However the work of Luxeuil did not stop after Ulestan’s death. The labor of translation and copying needed to continue. There was cultivated grain to be planted and wild seeds and roots to be harvested. Peasants came to be taught. And Compline was only one prayer in the continual singing: the Laus Perennis, that was one of the blessings made possible by the many voices at a such a large community. On the morning after the burial, the young monk was aroused as usual two hours before sunrise for Matins and the morning mass. At the peal of the bells, he rolled off his mat on which he had passed a second sleepless night, wearily donned his robe, and stumbled from his room. Though the ache in his arms reminded him as clearly as the ache in his heart that he had spent the previous day shoveling dirt onto a grave, there was nonetheless work to be done from which he was not excused. His body mechanically led him through the day: singing the chants, morning prayers, the communal reading of scripture, followed by private meditation and study. Then, shortly after sunrise, work in the fields. And to all of this Kristinge submitted. Luxeuil’s routine was so ingrained in him that to do otherwise would have required more work than to comply. But his mind was far from his chores, and even the discipline of the monastic life was unable to shake his thoughts free of the final words spoken by the old warrior.

  Willimond took the child… He named him Kristinge…Kristinge, the son of Finn. The Heir of Finn’s torc.

  Finn? Kristinge could scarcely believe what he had heard. His father? Images of the warrior king whom a much younger Kristinge had known only from a distance crowded their way into his already confused mind. He could still hear the authoritative sound of Finn’s voice. He could see his dark eyes and long black hair; the huge broad-sword draped over his back; the group of thanes and hearth companions surrounding him in his hall. He could see him, staff in hand, standing atop his tower at sunset looking out over Hwitstanwic toward the great North Sea. When Hildeburh the queen was at his side their presence there was a sign that all was well in Friesland.

  And Kristinge was his son? The heir of his torc? What did that mean? Why, six years later and hundreds of leagues distant from Hwitstan, did the knowledge bring him such turmoil? How had it invaded the peace of Luxeuil? Finn was dead. Finnlaf was dead. And what of Hildeburh? His mother! Images of her were more haunting still. A twelve year old Kristinge had more than once thought that her piercing gaze was focused on him alone. Perhaps it had been. Would not any mother have eagerly watched her child grow whether she could hold him or not? Or perhaps all the youth of the village had fancied the eyes of the queen upon them. It did not matter. It was a gaze that Kristinge still remembered. And as Luxeuil’s spring rolled into summer he thought of that gaze more and more often.

  Nor were these the only memories that returned to disturb Kristinge. Memories of the small chapel which Willimond had built. Memories of his training from the monk as well as from the bard Daelga. And memories of a young girl who had come to Hwitstan during his last summer there. It was just a face. He had forgotten even her name. Only the dark hair, and the sharp green eyes. She was three years younger than he; at the time, just a girl of a dozen summers. Too young for marriage, though old enough for her chieftain father to be making plans for her. And old enough already to be pretty. Old enough to catch the eye of a young Kristinge. She had been brought to Finnsburg to be offered in marriage to Finnlaf. Or so she had boasted. While her father was conversing with Finn in the mead hall, she had slipped out and come down to the river where Kristinge was working. They had talked. He had shown her the weirs, and brought her to the chapel. He even played for her on the harp. Then three days later she was gone. Kristinge had not seen her again. Why, six years later, had the memory come back to him?

  The Danes he defeated, he alone that day

  when fallen in fight were all his fellows.

  That man of old though mortal in body

  was tall and stout with the strength of ten.

  The fame of Friesland, his name was Friesc,

  no better retainer has a chieftain beheld.

  The song came to an end. The audience responded with a loud din of cheers. Several beer-laden warriors beat on their shields and benches. Frotha picked up his sword and hit his bench with the flat of it. The hall was warming to the performance. Distracted as Kristinge was by his memories of Luxeuil—even as at Luxeuil he had been distracted from his work by memories of his childhood in Friesland—he had still succeeded with the song. The chieftain ordered the bard’s mug filled with ale. Kristinge took a swig and sat down for a short rest while the board and mead were passed around the hall. A few of the nearby warriors shouted out words of praise to the him as their cups were filled. He barely heard. He was still lost in memories of his departure from Luxeuil.

  Many weeks had passed after the death of Ulestan. And difficult weeks they were. Kristinge had been given no chance to speak with anybody about what Ulestan had told him. Except for times of prayer and communal recitation of scripture, the Benedectine rule of silence governed life at Luxeuil. Still, even had he been free to speak, he might not have known what to say or even whom to tell. Other than Willimond, who else would have understood? To whom could he have spoken? Some novice whom he barely knew? Petrica? Abbot Walbert? What would they have said? What would they have advised? Would they have had any sympathy? Perhaps, had he been able to talk to somebody, Ulestan’s death and his parting words might not have so overwhelmed young Kristinge. Or perhaps it would not have mattered. But those were what-ifs. He had not spoken to anybody. And he had made his decision before the end of summer.

  “I hereby bequeath with no further hindrances…” the voice of Petrica recited while Kristinge scribbled. The occasion was similar to that on the day when Ulestan had died; another aristocrat was granting a small piece of land to the monastery. On this day Abbot Walbert himself was there with Petrica, while Kristinge with his steady hand transcribed the occasion. Under the rule of Walbert, Luxeuil had expanded considerably. Her reputation among both Franks and Gauls even as far as Rome had been established. It was a good time for the monastery. The passion of Columbanus and the Irishmen who had founded Luxeuil still infused the monastery with life, but the founding abbot’s hot temper and his propensity for making political enemies were now gone, replaced by the calm patience of its newest abbot. The day of this particular grant would be remembered by the cutting off of a lock of hair from the head of the nobleman’s daughter. The deed
was transacted, only this time it was the mother and not the child who cried. “Your beautiful hair! Your beautiful hair!”

  A few days later Kristinge stood in the chamber of Abbot Walbert, asking to leave Luxeuil and seeking the abbot’s blessing on his departure. He did not expect it to be easy. But when he found Willimond standing at the Abbot’s side, his heart sank. He feared his old mentor was there dissuade the abbot from granting him leave.

  “I still remember the excitement you first had when we arrived here,” Willimond said, after Kristinge had explained his request. “The thrill of learning the scriptures. Of studying here. Of the chance to leave the small village in the middle of a pagan land. What would lead you back there? What would make you give up this—this life of the Lord’s work?”

  Kristinge wasn’t sure how to answer. He wasn’t sure he knew. “I watched a servant eat a lock of his master’s daughter’s hair. He did it just so we could remember the day his master gave land to us.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not what I came here for.”

  Willimond shrugged. “No. Nor is weeding the garden, but it is work that must be done. And it has its place. You know as well as I that the Franks—even the rulers—cannot read or write. If cutting off a lock of hair or throwing a young boy into a pond will help them remember the covenant they have made with us and with God, then so be it. Did not God Himself instruct even Israel to make monuments that they might remember the days when he rescued them?”

  “It was a lock of hair, not a monument.”

  “A lock of hair or a pile of rocks. What is the difference? We are still in this world. Even on a monastery.”

  “But it is not—”

  “It is not what you came here for?” Willimond finished. He was growing agitated and the tension showed in his tightening voice. “And what did you come for?”

  “To learn. To study. To understand the Word of God.”

  “To do God’s work?” Willimond asked.

  Kristinge paused. “Yes,” he finally said.

  “And is this not what you are doing?”

  “I am,” Kristinge conceded.

  “And have you learned?”