The Rood and the Torc Read online

  “Have they come in response to your message?” Kristinge asked.

  “That is my guess, though I know not what that response will be. Whatever the case, we will find out soon enough.”

  “But he is not against us?” Kristinge queried further.

  Aelfin did not answer directly. “I do not believe he has come out of fear of the Franks, as we hope others will. Dronrip is not yet threatened by Frankish invasion. It is not coastal, nor is it close to the Rhine. His clan has not yet encountered Frankish raiders or war bands. Besides, Eomaer is not one to do anything out of fear.”

  “Then why? He is too young to remember Finn.”

  “Yes. He was not yet born when Folcwalda died. He may have some memory of Finn, but he was too young to have fought beside him. Still, he would not have come if he were not interested. He may yet join our cause.”

  “Why?” Kristinge asked again, his curiosity as persistent as his doubts. He still had little faith in Aelfin’s vision. Little reason did he have to believe that anybody would take a monk from Luxeuil as king. If he really had believed he could one day be king of Friesland, he might have resisted Aelfin’s scheme more vigorously.

  As the riders crested the terp and approached from the other side of the village, Aelfin explained. “Eomaer’s father died at the hands of Aldgisl’s uncle. It was during a battle in Geatland when they were serving rival lords. There is a blood feud between them now. As the chieftain of a small tribe, Eomaer knows he has little chance to avenge his father’s death. He has no power to exact the weregild. His only hope to do so is in the service of a rival king of greater power.”

  Kristinge was not convinced. “But why me? Why would he serve a son of Finn?”

  “As I said, in you perhaps he will see that chance to avenge his father. We must count on that. Besides,” Aelfin added. “I have met him. He is ambitious. Do not forget that you are the grandson of one of Friesland’s greatest legends and the son of another. That is worth something. He may have come here just to meet you.”

  That made Kristinge thrice as nervous as before, but it was too late to do anything about it. A moment later, Eomaer reigned in his horse a few feet away. At his command, his warriors dismounted. They left the horses in the care of servants and followed Aelfin and Kristinge into the hall.

  Inside the mead hall, a feast was prepared for the whole company. Bread and salted fish were served along with ale and some smoked game. Then, while the war bands from Ezinge and Dronrip shared food and the mead cup, Aelfin and Eomaer talked together along with their few closest thanes and Kristinge. Though Kristinge said very little, he had the strange sense that he was being carefully watched—weighed on the scales and examined like a piece of merchandise. And he couldn’t help feeling that he was going to be found wanting. Yet when Dyflines had sung—a carefully chosen selections of songs in praise of Kristinge’s Frisian and Danish ancestors—and gifts had been given by Aelfin, Kristinge found Eomaer approaching him with his offer of allegiance and service. He had won another thane to his war band. A thane who commanded skilled horsemen. Aelfin’s plan was bearing fruit. As he had guessed, the young chieftain Eomaer was eager to oppose Aldgisl. The final decision was made when he heard that Kristinge’s war band had already grown to over a hundred well-armed warriors.

  As Eomaer knelt and offered his sword, Aelfin smiled and nodded to Kristinge who had already been instructed what to do when such occasions arose. He took the hilt in his hand as offered, reversed the blade, and handed it hilt first back to Eomaer thus accepting his offer of allegiance. What happened next, however, took even Aelfin by surprise. When Eomaer had risen to his feet, he spoke again. “My sword and my loyalty I offer you first. What I offer with it is of no lesser value.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke, as if to judge Kristinge by his response. “As a sign of my service, in my father’s stead I give you my sister to wife.”

  Kristinge’s jaw dropped. Wife? This cannot be. His moment of success had turned into catastrophe. He could not take a wife. He could less take a wife than lead a war band. He was a priest.

  Aelfin was taken by surprise also, and for an instant was speechless. But the chieftain of Ezinge recovered quickly. He embraced Eomaer in a great warrior’s hug. “You are truly rich to give such gifts.”

  “Then you accept?” Eomaer asked pointedly.

  No! Kristinge wanted to say. I cannot. I am a monk! But he couldn’t speak. For inside he knew he had another reason as well. His thoughts were still on Aewin.

  “Accept? We accept with great honor. Your sister shall be like a daughter to me, even as Kristinge has become my son. It is a great day for our clans. In your father’s place, you have done well for your people—and for your sister. They shall be wed this very winter, when Kristinge once more takes upon his neck the torc of Friesland.”

  They shall be wed? This winter? Kristinge almost fainted. Though he knew this was the way among the Frisians, he could not believe it was happening to him. He did not even know Eomaer, no less his sister. How could he be wed to a strange woman? How could he be wed to any woman? He was a priest. He had spent six years training to be a monk. Had he remained in Luxeuil but another year or two, he would have taken his vows. And monastic vows or not, he had devoted his life to the service of God. He could not wed. What would he do? What would he say?

  He barely heard the remainder of the conversation. Only that Eomaer promised to return within the fortnight with his sister, so they could seal the betrothal. All Kristinge’s own plans crumbled.

  CHAPTER 17:

  Battle

  Aelfin sat in his customary bench beside the fire, a horn of some warm beverage in his hand. “It is necessary,”he stated. “It is impossible!” Kristinge replied, angrily venting his frustration on Aelfin. Four weeks earlier, he would not have thought of speaking to a Frisian chieftain as he now was. But standing at the edge of the terp looking out over the river Hunze as it flowed unrepentantly to the sea, he was feeling the need more than ever to pull some shred of control back to his life. His years at Luxeuil and the discipline of monastic life still clung to him, despite all the turmoil that he had been thrown into and the months that now separated him from monastic life.

  “It is already done,” Aelfin. His voice was calm. “We have accepted—”

  “Change it. I cannot wed. I am a priest.”

  Aelfin’s voice took a sudden stern turn that make Kristinge question his own presumption. “You!” the chieftain said, pointing his finger like a spear at Kristinge’s chest. “You are a Frisian chieftain, the bearer of a torc, and soon to be the king. This wedding has been arranged. It will happen.” He paused to let the words sink in, then added in explanation, “It is necessary to secure your power.”

  Then I don’t want any power, Kristinge wanted to reply, but Aelfin’s stern glance warned him against such a comment. “I have never even met her,” he argued instead, changing his tactic since his foster-father thought little of priesthood and gave no heed to Kristinge’s training as a monk.

  “Have you learned nothing?” the chieftain replied in exasperation. “You are a chieftain now, not a peasant. What you think of her means nothing. A wedding is a treaty between tribes, not an act of sentiment. Your taking his sister to wife is your best guarantee that Eomaer will follow you loyally. And not just Eomaer. When others hear what has happened, when they see you gaining power and taking another chieftain’s sister to wife, they will join also. This is the best thing that could have happened. It is a stroke of luck beyond my foresight. I only wish I could claim it was my idea.”

  “Then why now? Why Eomaer? Why not wait?”

  “It is convenient,” Aelfin answered, grinding the last word between his teeth. Then a grin spread across his face, and he slapped Kristinge on the shoulder. “Are you afraid of a woman?”

  Kristinge blushed. “I don’t…” he stuttered. “I never…” Was he? “No,” he answered firmly. “But why Eomaer? He knows nothing of me. And I know nothing of her—of him.�
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  “Ah, Eomaer,” Aelfin said with a knowing look, apparently finding something in Kristinge’s questioning that he could understand. “He is a bold one. I confess that his proposal surprised even me at first, though were I in his shoes I might have done the same. He is not the most powerful chieftain in Friesland. His clan is small, as is his war band. Perhaps I could have done better and wed you to a powerful Danish princess, as Folcwalda did for Finn. Or even to the daughter of a rich Saxon chieftain. That would have been a treaty indeed. Yet I do not take Eomaer lightly. One day he may be your most worthy thane. And it is good that other chieftains see that those who follow you are not unrewarded. It will be a good marriage.”

  Kristinge could only shake his head. How could he make Aelfin understand? There were some things Kristinge could go along with. What harm did it do to sleep within the mead hall rather than alone in his hut? What harm was there even in carrying a sword? He had not used it on human flesh. And even if he had, tales of Irish monks proficient with the sword were not unheard of. But betrothal? It was not a matter of politics. He wasn’t waiting for Aelfin to find him the daughter of a more powerful chieftain. He could never touch a woman.

  Nevertheless the days passed, and the appointed time for Eomaer’s return approached all too quickly. Kristinge grew more afraid. Despite the warnings of Aelfin, he began to think of excuses he might give—any reason to escape the betrothal. Even on the day that Eomaer’s war band was spotted approaching up the Hunze river from the west, Kristinge continued to resist the plan, casting one argument after another on the chieftain’s deaf ears. When Aelfin did not listen, Kristinge grew desperate and considered fleeing Ezinge. His inclination to do so was strong. Only under stern warnings did he stay at Aelfin’s side—stern warnings and the realization that he could not escape even if he did flee, for there was nowhere for him to go.

  “This is not done to satisfy the lusts of a chieftain,” Aelfin reminded Kristinge. “If you want that satisfaction, as a king you will have power to claim it as often as you want. You need not lack women.” Kristinge stood gaping, appalled, as Aelfin went on. “But this woman—this marriage—is for your clan, for all the Frisian people.”

  Kristinge was unconvinced. He stood at the edge of the terp watching the war band from Dronrip approach—and sulking like a prisoner.

  “Return to your hut and put on your torc. And the sword as well.” Aelfin commanded. He looked Kristinge in the eye. Then, as if reading Kristinge’s thoughts, he turned to Maccus and Ceolac. “Go with him, and see that he returns quickly.”

  Kristinge obeyed under coercion, but he did not hurry. He trudged back to his hut. Under Ceolac’s watchful eyes he placed the torc around his neck, then strapped the huge broadsword across his back. Neither felt comfortable. I will not marry, he told himself. He had been foolish to follow the chieftain’s plan as far as he had. If Aelfin did not say something to Eomaer, Kristinge would. Even if it cost him Eomaer’s allegiance. Even if it cost him the torc—a torc which he had not pursued in the first place. Angrily, he followed the two thanes back to the edge of the terp.

  Eomaer’s company had arrived, covering the final distance across the western fields while Kristinge was at his hut. The war band was at the bottom of the terp now, making their way around the axwei to the cattle ramp at the southern end of the village.

  I will not… Kristinge started to say.

  The words never left his mouth. Looking down the steep slope, his eyes widened suddenly in recognition. For it was then that he saw her. He blinked and looked again. His eyes had not deceived him. She rode in the middle of the company, behind Eomaer and surrounded by two dozen warriors. She was the only woman among them, but she sat tall and straight, bearing herself with a warrior’s posture. Her black hair unfurled behind her like a banner as her horse moved along the edge of the terp into the gentle south breeze. In the warm afternoon air, the smooth white skin of her shoulders and arms was bare beneath the blue sky. And her gentle curves were visible even beneath her loose-fitting tunic.

  Kristinge’s jaw dropped in recognition. Could this be the one he was to… ? His heart began to pound within him, and his hands grew sweaty. Was he to be betrothed to her, the vision that had haunted him for so long? The girl he had known as a child. Had sung to by the side of the river so long ago, and again more recently in Frotha’s mead hall. The one whom he had seen in Paris. Hoped that he had in some way helped in a moment of her need. The one whom Hildeburh had many years earlier sought to have wed to Kristinge’s brother. She was older now, as was Kristinge. She must be nearly twenty years of age. Well beyond the age when the daughters of chieftains were wed. And yet she was not wed. Not wed? No. Not yet.

  “Look well upon her,” Aelfin said softly. “Aewin, sister of Eomaer. She is one of the most beautiful women in Friesland. Convenience treats you well, for you do not do poorly in this treaty. Were I younger…”

  Kristinge was no longer paying attention to Aelfin. Aewin, he breathed. Then it was true. His eyes had not deceived him. And at the realization of whom he was to wed, Kristinge’s resolve to escape dissolved. All his former arguments against marriage vanished. After all, had not Willimond wed Hildeburh? Kristinge had not thought that their marriage was wrong. Did not the monastic rules only apply to one under the authority of a ruling Abbot? Was the life of a monk the only way to serve God? The Apostle Peter had been married. He must have been, because the holy scriptures mentioned the mother of his wife. And Peter was the rock upon whom the church had been built: the apostle for whom Luxeuil was named.

  Kristinge’s head continued to whirl. There must be some reason he ought still to resist. Striding across the village to meet the guests at the other end, he tried half-heartedly to remember all the arguments he had so recently given Aelfin. Yet he could think only of Willimond and Hildeburh, standing before him as man and wife. It was the thought of Willimond more than the Apostle Peter that swayed him. And so when Aewin reached the top of the terp, and her eyes searched for and found Kristinge, his feet turned to clay and his heart melted within him. How could he have known it was her? Shifting the sword on his back, Kristinge tried to stand tall next to Maccus and Ceolac who flanked him on either side. He was glad for all the work he had done building his muscles these many days. Though Aewin’s black eyes were still proud, he could see that her glance was admiring as she gazed upon him and saw the torc around his neck. Did she recognize him? Did she see him as a the heir to the torc? Or as a bard who had once sung for her? As a monk in Paris, eager to help but too weak and afraid? Or would she see him still as the young boy from Hwitstan? For the first time, Kristinge was truly glad to be wearing his father’s torc. The celebration in the mead hall that evening might prove more joyful than he had expected.

  Greetings were given on the open terp at the edge of Ezinge. Kristinge stood speechless as Aelfin welcomed Eomaer, his sister Aewin, and the proud warriors of Dronrip with them. The two companies then made their way to the mead hall where their greetings were exchanged again, more formally. Aelfin gave a more proper speech, but Kristinge heard not a word of it—not until Eomaer stood forward and presented Aewin, first to Aelfin and then Kristinge. “When the winter snows have melted, they shall be wed. Then our clans will be brought together as one.”

  For the first time in Kristinge’s brief memory of her, Aewin blushed. She approached the chieftain’s bench and lowered her head in deference. “It is my honor,” she said. “The fame of your mead hall, and of your generosity in giving gifts is known far and wide, as are the name of the children of Folcwalda,” she added, turning to Kristinge.

  The young chieftain Eomaer presented Kristinge with a gold-brooch which he placed on a chain around Kristinge’s neck. “This is a token of the coming betrothal. Wear it well and know the value of the greater gift you will receive in the spring.”

  In the spring? Kristinge groaned inwardly. It is too long to wait. He trembled as he bowed his head in return, still unable to speak.

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bsp; Aelfin in return gave to Aewin a silver crown of Danish design, to be worn now as a token of the betrothal. And then the feast began. It was a feast that surpassed any the hall had seen in the months since Kristinge’s arrival—perhaps the greatest feast in Ezinge in many years. Even the feast in which he had been given the torc and named as a foster son of Aelfin did not equal this. Gifts were given that night in plenty. From Aelfin’s hand and in Kristinge’s name, many young thanes in Eomaer’s war band received gold and battle-tested weapons of great worth, as did Aelfin’s own thanes. Eomaer, too, though it was not his hall and he had less wealth, gave gifts in his manner. Many thanes were richer when they left that hall than when they came. But Kristinge was oblivious to it all. For Aewin was seated on the bench beside him, her body lightly touching his so that he felt the warmth of her side and could think of little other than that touch.

  When a little later she quietly placed her hand upon his, the last of his fears fled away along with his resolve against marriage. And that was the last he remembered clearly of the evening.

  “My Lord!” came the urgent voice.

  Kristinge opened his eyes and looked around. It was morning. The hall was crowded with sleeping warriors. He looked for his betrothed, but Aewin was nowhere in sight. He remembered now. Later in the evening, after Daelga’s singing, she had left the mead hall to spend the night with the women of Ezinge.

  “My Lord,” the words were repeated more loudly. The unfamiliar voice was coming from nearby. Kristinge rolled over. Behind him, a young peasant of no more than ten summers was shaking Aelfin. The chieftain groaned. When he opened his eyes and saw who it was that had interrupted his sleep, he reached for his sword as if to strike him. The boy jumped away, terrified. “Raiders! Raiders!” he shouted quickly. “They have taken the cattle and killed my cousins.”

  Kristinge saw now that the boy had cuts across his hands and was bleeding from his left shoulder as well. He turned back to Aelfin. The chieftain was already on his feet. His anger at having been woken by a peasant was gone, replaced by a different passion and urgency. “Speak to me!” he growled. “When did they come?”