The Rood and the Torc Page 32

  You will build no church.

  He heard it as if she was still beside him, her strange wild eyes burning his forehead as she clutched his face with her vice-like grip.

  No church. No church. No church.

  Kristinge closed his eyes, as if it might drive the memory away. But it only made it stronger.

  … just a voice crying in the wilderness. You will build no church. Just a voice. In the wilderness. No church.

  Fleeing the voices of his past, Kristinge threw off his monk’s robe, donned his coat and trousers, and ran from his hut. Aelfin was still waiting outside, toying nervously with the large broadsword at his side. Yet despite his impatient expression, he said nothing about the delay. Perhaps he guessed something of Kristinge’s thoughts and did not yet want to press the young priest too far. Whatever was on the chieftain’s mind, as soon as his recently proclaimed foster-son stepped out of the small hut, he took him by the arm like a bear grabbing a cub and began to march around the village. As they walked, Aelfin spoke loudly about Ezinge and Friesland, and what it meant to be a chieftain. He spoke of their plans for when Kristinge was king, stopping now and then to talk to one or another of the villagers, and making known to all in Ezinge of his adoption of Kristinge as a foster son. Kristinge, in between his frequent hearty slaps on the back, alternately felt ashamed and proud of the display. He said hardly a word, however. Whatever he may have felt, he had little choice in the matter. Whenever there was a lull in Aelfin’s talk, the voices of Telchild, Balthild, and Osanne rang in his ears.

  Later in the morning, when the tour of Ezinge was complete, they returned to the hall and continued their discussions where they had left off on the previous day. As the day progressed, Aelfin began to move from his general strategies for making Kristinge king to the specific details of his plan: a plan, he confessed, that had been forming in his mind since the night he had met Kristinge at the watchtower on Hwitstanwic, and guessed him to be the son of Finn. To help himself forget about Osanne and her strange unnerving prophecies, Kristinge paid greater attention to the chieftain. He gave careful note when Aelfin began to list the names of other chieftains who might still be loyal to the family of Finn, or who might for some other reason follow Kristinge—any who might readily take Finn’s heir as their king, and who were known not to be following Aldgisl or Réadban. They would begin with these chieftains, and as their support grew along with the size of their war band, they would reach farther and farther into Friesland and take greater risks.

  “But will these chieftains follow any king?” Kristinge asked once. He was thinking not only of the Frisians, but of the Franks, Angles and Saxons as well. They were kindred races who prized freedom, and would not easily bow before anyone. Kristinge had learned enough of these peoples and their histories and he knew the chieftains were the proudest among them. Friesland had been many years with no real king, and would surely resist one now.

  “They followed Folcwalda,” Aelfin answered.

  “It took him many years to win Friesland’s torc. And he was a mighty warrior: a real chieftain.”

  “They will take a king out of fear.”

  “Fear of me?” Kristinge asked, incredulous at the idea that anybody would actually fear him, and even more appalled at what it would mean if it were true.

  Aelfin studied Kristinge’s face before he answered. “Fear of the Franks. I tell you again, if we are not soon united, then we will surely collapse.”

  “But me?”

  There was a look of worry on Aelfin’s face. “If it is not you, it will be somebody else—Aldgisl, or another of Réadban’s kin. Or Réadban himself, the betrayer of Finn.”

  Kristinge said no more; Aelfin’s final words struck him like the blow of a fist. Not altogether unwillingly, he let the chieftain continue with his plans. Aelfin was not one to be questioned too often. Within two days, messengers had been sent to a dozen Frisian chieftains, beginning with surviving kin of Finn and Aelfin and also the former thanes of Finn who were still alive.

  During these days, they also began a new aspect of Kristinge’s preparation: his training with a sword. It was Maccus and Ceolac who took this responsibility. The arrived at Kristinge’s door early in the morning, and nearly dragged him to a field a short distance from the village, out of sight of the working peasants. “I am a priest, not a warrior,” Kristinge protested, but Ceolac and Maccus ignored him.

  “You are a warrior now,” Maccus said. “As you have said yourself, it is the sword that makes the king.”

  “And Aelfin has commanded it,” Ceolac added.

  Reluctantly, Kristinge submitted to their instruction. In relative privacy on the far side of a grove of trees, away from the village, they had their young trainee doing nothing but repeatedly swinging a heavy stick against their shields which they held up to his blows. Ill-used to such exertion, Kristinge was drenched in sweat and gasping for breath within minutes. They did not let him rest, however, until more than an hour had passed. When he was so exhausted that he collapsed, they gave him a short break to drink some water. But they were not easy trainers. Soon they had him going again, this time holding the shield while the two of them battered it. “Strength and stamina make the warrior,” they repeated whenever he stopped. “The one who rests in battle during the day does not survive to see the mead hall in the evening.”

  Thus did Kristinge labor throughout that morning. And for many mornings after that as Aelfin’s most trusted thanes took the duty of turning the young foster-son into a warrior. Each morning it was the same. They pulled him from his hut early in the day, and took him away from the village to teach him what they knew. After a few days, they switched from heavy sticks to real weapons. They taught him the proper way to grip a sword for great two-handed strokes, and how to wield it with one hand when holding a shield as well. They taught him where to strike an enemy—how to levy a blow at an opponent’s arms or skull, or to cut at his legs—and also the defensive strategy of swinging his blade in wide circles to protect himself when tired or outnumbered. Others weapons in addition to the sword, they taught him too: the Danish spear, the heavy Frankish throwing ax, and the Swedish battle-ax. Both the uses of these weapons and the defenses against them they taught, each day driving Kristinge a little harder and longer until slowly he began to grow more comfortable with the weapon in his hands, and to gain some strength in his arms.

  “You are doing well,” Maccus said one day, after an especially grueling morning. “Those thin arms of yours are finally growing some muscle.”

  Though compliments from the two thanes were not easily won, Kristinge did not feel any satisfaction. His hands were covered with calluses, his arms and legs with bruises, and his body with sore muscles. He took little pleasure in his training, nor delight in the results. Had this tutelage under Maccus and Ceolac been the sole aspect of his preparation, he might have forsaken the torc after one day. But there were other aspects of Aelfin’s plan to make him king, and not all were so unpleasant.

  At the chieftain’s insistence, Kristinge had begun dwelling in the mead-hall with the thanes and warriors of his new hearthwerod. It was, as Aelfin pointed out, his duty as well as his privilege to sleep with his warriors beside the hearth. It was in the hall, at the side of Aelfin his foster-father, that Kristinge took his part in that intimate fellowship: the sharing of mead, and the giving of gifts. Gifts given in his own name. Given by the hand of Aelfin to win for Kristinge the loyalty of his thanes. Men who previously would not have deigned to speak with him were sharing his mead cup and receiving treasure from his hand. And it was not an unpleasant task. There was a hierarchy in the Frisian society, and a priest was near the bottom. But a warrior—one who slept in the mead hall—sat near the top, with the chieftain and his kin the highest among them. Wearing the torc of Finn, Kristinge received greater esteem than ever he could hope for in a monk’s robe. Christian priests, where they existed, were barely above slaves. Neither did bards, esteemed though a good one might be, hold t
he status of a warrior. Even the pagan priests, though they wielded power in the clan, were beneath the warriors. The honor of a priest was a distant and fearful respect. In Ezinge even more than in Danemark, the priests of Freyr and Woden were seldom seen. They were cruel dark men whose power came from fear. But now Kristinge had nothing to fear from them. Thus despite his initial misgivings, he was growing accustomed to his new role. As he had noticed in Danemark, there was in the fellowship of the mead hall something that he had missed since his departure from Willimond. It was only a shadow, perhaps, of the deeper fellowship at Luxeuil—as Luxeuil itself was only a shadow of something else. But for a short time a shadow is better than nothing.

  Thus the days wore on toward winter as Aelfin and those who had joined his plot nervously awaited word from the chieftains to whom messages had been sent. With each day that passed, the danger grew. So did Kristinge’s doubts. Though the sword-training, as grueling as it was, gradually grew easier with his increased strength and conditioning, there were other costs which were harder to weigh. A few nights after Kristinge had begun to sleep in the mead hall, Dyflines took ill. Without consulting Aelfin, Kristinge retrieved his harp from the chapel and sang for the gathered company. It was the most enjoyment he had felt singing in many weeks. And it was a mistake. The songs went well enough. Kristinge could tell that. Yet though Aelfin said nothing about it that evening, he was clearly not pleased. The next night, Dyflines was still sick. Again Kristinge took out his harp and sang many songs for the gathered warriors. This time, Aelfin was even more sullen. The following morning they spoke.

  “It would be good to leave aside the harp for a time. Leave aside your barding.” Aelfin’s voice was not unkind, but it held an edge that was not quite gentle.

  Kristinge sensed it was a command more than a request. He tried to smile as he responded. “Has my voice lost its beauty? Or has my harp gone out of tune?”

  “Neither, my son,” Aelfin said, stressing the last word but failing to return the smile.

  “Then what? My choice of songs? Name what you would hear and tonight you will hear it.”

  Now Aelfin’s voice grew stern and his face red. “I will hear nothing from you this night.”

  Disregarding the chieftain’s stern response, Kristinge protested. “But Dyflines still lies in his hut. I spoke with him last night. He groans like a dying man—though he knows well enough that it is nothing serious: just a stomach ailment that will pass soon enough.”

  “One night without a bard will not destroy the fellowship of the hall. And there are reasons why it is best for you not to sing.”

  “I am listening,” Kristinge said, gesturing with his open hands to indicate he was ready for an explanation. Though he found it difficult to think of Aelfin as a father, since his being named as foster-son he had grown far more bold with the chieftain than he would have been as either a priest or a bard.

  “It is not fitting for a king—or future king—to entertain his warriors like a common bard or minstrel. It will ruin—” he began. Then he quieted himself for a moment, seeking some way to better explain, though Kristinge already guessed what the issue was. “How will your people follow you as king if they see you as a singer of songs. A king is to be served, not to serve. To be entertained, not to entertain. Warriors must follow you into battle. A king is a wielder of the sword, not the harp.”

  “Then I will make a poor king,” Kristinge replied softly. But he said nothing else about the subject. At Aelfin’s insistence, he laid aside his harp and played it no more. Yet it was only with sadness that he forsook altogether his role as bard.

  Still, his service as bard and poet he had given up by a conscious decision. His duties as priest were also soon enough forsaken, but this decision was not as clear. It was more that the duties were slowly and unwittingly pushed aside and forgotten than that he chose to abandon them. Yet as the year rolled onward, more and more of his time was spent at Aelfin’s side, and less was spent in the chapel or with his flock. The chieftain was forging ahead with his plans, and for the time Kristinge did not resist.

  Just eight days after the first messages had been sent by Aelfin, a band of twenty thanes and warriors were seen riding up the Hunze river from the west. Spears and Frankish-made swords glittered in the sunlight as they approached. While they were still some distance off, a warning reached Aelfin. The message quickly spread through Ezinge. It was a tense few moments then, for nobody knew who these warriors might be.

  “Raiders?” Ceolac asked as he rose beside Aelfin and donned his sword and shield.

  “Raiders we can fight. I fear more a Frisian war band of Aldgisl’s men. Then we would be hard-pressed. We are far from strong enough to face him if he has found out so early about our plans. I had counted on at least ten weeks, and hoped for the whole winter.”

  “What would he do?” Kristinge asked.

  Aelfin only shook his head grimly as he walked out the door of the mead hall toward the western edge of the village. A group of his thanes followed, while runners were sent to gather the rest of the war band if necessary. By the time the chieftain’s company reached the edge of the village, the riders were nearly there as well. At the sight of so many horses and mounted warriors, the horse-fearing Saxons of the village grew nervous and afraid. Even the Saxon warriors appeared fearful. However Aelfin and some of his Frisian thanes could ride well enough that they were not daunted by the large number of horses. “Do not fear,” Aelfin said calmly, when he had seen the size of the approaching war band and counted that there were only twenty. “We have more than forty warriors in Ezinge, and some ten horses. If there is hostility, we can easily defend the terp even against twenty mounted warriors. Horses will not serve much purpose attacking up the side of a terp.”

  When the small war band arrived at the bottom of the village, Aelfin went to the edge of the terp to meet them, with Ceolac, Kristinge, and ten others warriors at his side. The rest of his war band continued gathering in the village.

  It was a proud-looking war band, fresh and well-armed, that faced Aelfin from the bottom of the terp. “I have come,” came a sharp voice from the lead rider, as if that pronouncement alone were the most important thing in the world at that time. It was a young warrior. He had a smooth, youthful face, with long blond hair braided down his back like the Germanic chieftains of old. His eager eyes scanned the top of the slope for somebody worthy of responding to him.

  “Welcome, Eomaer,” Aelfin replied. “It is a proud band of warriors that has followed you from afar. You bear the many leagues of travel as if they were but a few. There is strength in your youth.”

  Kristinge breathed a sigh of relief. Though he had not before seen Eomaer’s face, he recognized the name from earlier conversations. Eomaer was one of the chieftains to whom Aelfin had sent a message. He ruled a small clan of horsemen at Dronrip. He had lived only eighteen years—young for a Frisian chieftain—yet his confident manner showed no signs of the uncertainty of youth. In fact, Aelfin had told Kristinge much of Eomaer. He was already a formidable horseman, and that was unusual among the Frisians. For though there were a fair number of horses in Friesland, they were kept more for food than for transport. A horse worthy of bearing a rider was not common. Thus the gift of a horse from a chieftain to a thane was a worthy reward indeed, like the gift of a great broadsword. Most chieftains possessed only a small number of prized mounts for themselves and their thanes, and even those few were seldom if ever ridden in battle. Frisian clans like Eomaer’s that could send thirty mounted warriors into battle were almost non-existent: so rare that some claimed Eomaer was descended from the Huns.

  Of course Kristinge knew the stories of the Huns. He had heard of them not only from the bards of Friesland, but even in Luxeuil where the great histories were written and kept. Two hundred years earlier, Attila and his vast eastern hordes had swept across the continent eventually carrying their invasion over the Rhine and deep into Francia. It was their prowess on horseback along with their
strange dark faces that had struck the most fear into their Germanic enemies. Their equestrian feats had left behind not only a wide trail of devastation, but also an indelible mark among the white-skinned folk of the north. The Saxons, who had always feared horses, had come to hate them more. But a small number of their Frisian kin, Eomaer’s ancestors among them, had paid close heed to the battle skills of these ruthless invaders. Fanciful tales abounded, of course. Some claimed that a band of Huns had remained in the north, and that their blood ran in the veins of Eomaer’s ancestors. Other tales told of Frisian children who had been taken captive in raids, had grown up among the Huns at home on horseback, and had later escaped and returned to their own people. Whatever truth there was in these stories, Eomaer and his war band were esteemed for their riding skills. “Are we welcome then? Or must we spend all day staring up at you?” the young chieftain replied.

  “You are welcome in my mead hall. Come to the southern end of the village. There you will find the path more suitable to your horses.”

  While they waited for Eomaer to lead his war band into the village, Aelfin spoke softly to Kristinge. “Dronrip is not far from here, though I wager they spent more than two days in travel and came at a leisurely pace. They do not look like men who have ridden hard.”