The Rood and the Torc Read online

  Others threw in their words of agreement, and Aelfin joined Eomaer’s optimistic laughter. He called for more mead and commanded his bard Dyflines to liven the evening with songs. But Kristinge knew that the chieftain was worried. Perhaps it was that worry that he carried to bed that night, or perhaps it was thoughts of Luxeuil that brought the old voices once again back into his head. He did not know, but the nightmare he had that night left him shaken.

  He stood on a hillside, Finn’s torc glittering brightly on his neck. He was the king now. The chieftain of all Friesland. Behind him was his war band. Ahead lay the enemy. A vast sea of Frankish knights and warriors with Clovis at their head, a half-crazed grin on his face and his still unclad mistress in his arms. Kristinge drew the huge broadsword from his iron-bound sheath. He lifted it high over his head and gave the command to attack. His army surged forward.

  Down the long hill Kristinge charged. His hair, long now and bound in braids in the manner of Germanic chieftains, flopped against his neck. Behind him raced his war band. Ahead stood the waiting enemy. The warriors on both sides screamed with delight at the oncoming battle. The scream grew louder. It became a piercing wail. Still they rode on. The distance between the armies did not shrink. The sun beat down on them. Summer changed to autumn and then to winter. It was cold now. They were riding through the snow. The icy metal of Kristinge’s blade burned his hands, but he could not let go.

  Suddenly the gap narrowed. The armies came together. The waiting was over. Kristinge glanced over his shoulder to urge his men on. And to his horror, he found that they were gone. His war band had disappeared. Only Aelfin was still with him. The old chieftain’s hair was now white with age—as white as the snow around them. He, too, knew that they had been abandoned. Yet he did not stop. “It is too late,” Aelfin cried. “Too late.” He charged past Kristinge, flinging himself headlong into the vast Frankish army. “A king is a warrior,” he cried just before he was engulfed.

  Kristinge watched Aelfin fall. He tried to turn and flee, but he couldn’t. His legs would not move. A Frankish warrior rose in front of him, lifting his huge ax. He towered over Kristinge like a giant, only his face was the youthful face of the young Jutish raider whom Kristinge had killed in battle. He could see the boy’s eyes now, full of fear and hatred—just as they had been before. Terrified, Kristinge looked at his blade. Though he had not yet swung it, it was already dripping in blood. The blood poured down the blade, staining the snow beneath him. In horror, he looked back at the enemy. The youth had disappeared. In his place stood Willimond. Only Willimond was dead, slain by the sword in Kristinge’s hand.

  “No!” Kristinge cried.

  It was too late. Willimond had slumped to the ground. Kristinge lunged toward him.

  Though the hall was cold with the early morning air, Kristinge awoke in a sweat. He was still in Ezinge. It was early November. The fire on the hearth had burned down low. Around him, warriors were sleeping peacefully, untroubled in their dreams. Did killing no longer bother them?

  Kristinge sat upright on his bench and tried to shake off the effects of the nightmare, but he was still trembling. He could hear Aelfin’s voice. A king is a warrior… Your war band is now three hundred strong… It is too late.

  Too late? The words rung in his ears. Feeling the need to be alone, Kristinge arose and went outside. Perhaps the cool air would refresh him. He walked toward the bounds of the village. Though the dim gray of dawn was making itself known in the east, the sky was still bright with stars. Aurvandil was there among them. Earendil, as the Christian Saxons called it. He stared at the stars for a time, as he stood there at the edge of the terp, but it didn’t help. The dream had faded, only to be replaced by the memory of the Jutish raider now lying dead in a field. For the first time, Kristinge wondered about him. Where had he come from? Had he lived in the woods, wild and hungry? Or had he come from a distant village? Perhaps a family. A mother, or father, or even wife awaiting him in some distance place, hoping for food. Who would miss him?

  His own people had died, too, Kristinge reminded himself. The raiders had killed folk of Ezinge and stolen their cattle. They were outlaws. But the thought did not comfort him. He could not help but remember another day—a day many years past, but still fresh in his mind—when raiders from the mountains had come down upon Luxeuil. A young monk just tonsured, Kristinge had been at work in the fields outside the wall of Annegray that afternoon. It had been late in the day, but early in the planting season. Twilight was upon the field when he had heard the cries. Loud voices. War cries shouting in a strange tongue. An uncommon sound in a Benedictine monastery. He should have guessed at once what was happening. But it had been many years—since before his own time at Luxeuil—since raiders had last come to the monastery. Thus it was that their coming had taken the monks by surprise, and it was several seconds before Kristinge understood what was happening. A band of robbers, twenty or more, were charging from the woods on three sides. Armed with spears and bows, and some with swords, they were attacking the monastery. And the monks, unarmed, fled before them. But the those on the far edge of the field had not run fast enough. Before they were able to reach protected enclosure at Annegray, four of their number had fallen, one struck down by a spear through his belly before he had even turned to flee.

  On the attackers had rushed, their war cries soon mingled with the terror-filled shouts of the monks. But what had the monks found at the gates of the old Roman fort? Not a band waiting to defend them, but Abbot Walbert and Father Petrica. Unarmed. But they were not fleeing. Abbot Walbert had not even commanded the gates to be shut. His arms outstretched, he was going out to meet the raiders. “Stop,” came his voice as a dozen monks stumbled past him. Kristinge came to a halt at his side, but Walbert was looking out at the swiftly advancing marauders, hot on the tail of the last few monks. “Stop!” he said again. To Kristinge’s surprise, the raiders listened. So much authority was there in the abbot’s voice that even they had stopped a few paces away from him. Around in a circle they spread themselves enclosing the gate of Annegray, but as of yet none approached closer than ten feet.

  “What is it you want?” Petrica had asked them in their own tongue. “We have no treasure here.”

  “Food,” they had demanded. “Do not lie. We have heard you have a great store laid up for winter.”

  “Food we have, and will share, but you needn’t come at us with weapons,” Petrica replied. Even as he said this, some of the younger monks of Annegray had appeared behind him, wielding various farming implements which in desperation they had hoped to turn into weapons. Though poorly armed, with all the monastery gathered they outnumbered the raiders at least two to one. And Ulestan was among them, holding in his hands a long-handled hoe. Had it come to battle, the raiding party would certainly have gone home far smaller than they had come even if they won the battle. They would have to think twice before attacking, Kristinge had thought. Which was good, for ill could the folk of Luxeuil afford to give away their dwindling winter stores.

  But Walbert’s thoughts had been different. “Put these things away,” he had commanded his own monks. “Are you children to have to be told this? Put down your weapons and see to the fallen.” Without a further word to the monks, he had turned back to the raiders who at the sight of the weapons had begun to edge forward. He repeated what Petrica had told them. “Little enough food we have, and our folk eat but scanty portions. Yet what we have we will share with you. But put away your weapons.”

  Kristinge still remembered his thoughts at those words. Walbert had not lied. Little food they had, and it would be many weeks before the first spring crops would arrive. He had not thought he could survive on rations any smaller than those he already received. Yet a short time later, the monks were carrying a large portion of Annegray’s winter stores out to the raiders. Even as they did, the other monks returned from the field carrying their fallen companions. Three of the fallen were only superficially wounded. One, however, lay near deat
h with a spear protruding from his side. Brogus was his name. His face was pale as he lay moaning in his agony, and Kristinge had been sure he was about to die. At the sight of him, many of the raiders had lowered their heads. Walbert had cast one look of reproof at them, as a parent might to a wayward child, and then—to the amazement of the monks as well as the raiders—he had reached down, pulled the spear free, and pulled Brogus to his feet. And Brogus had just stood there. He pulled his hand from his belly, and found not only that the bleeding had stopped but where the spear wound had been was now only a scar. He was fully healed.

  Seeing the sight, many of the raiders had fled without even taking their food. “Demons!” they had cried. And “Witches.” Others had fallen on their knees as if Petrica and Walbert were gods themselves. Yet when Petrica preached to them of the true God, many came to Christ. Never again did any of them come back to rob Annegray or Luxeuil.

  CHAPTER 18:

  East Winds

  The memory of Luxeuil brought Kristinge no comfort, and in the weeks that followed, his dream returned to him many times, though not always in the same form. Sometimes he saw himself standing at the bow of a warship, riding the waves onto the beaches where an enemy army awaited him. Other times he was astride his horse, waving his sword and shouting war cries in a strange language. Sometimes Eomaer was in his dreams also, crying out for vengeance, laying across Kristinge’s knees the ancestral sword of his father’s family and demanding retribution against Aldgisl. And the sword was already dripping with blood. Always the dreams ended with the face of the slain lad, and with Willimond, Petrica and Abbot Walbert looking with sorrow upon the scene.

  He told nobody about his nightmares. Whom would he tell? Yet the dreams disturbed him greatly, continuing to trouble him long after he woke. A heavy guilt began to weigh him down. Many weeks had passed, however, since Aelfin had placed the torc around his neck. In that time, he had grown accustomed to its feel. He had grown used to the idea of being king; to sleeping in the mead hall; to the giving of gifts and the fellowship around the hearth; to the voice of Dyflines. He could even see himself riding from village to village, wearing his torc, visiting his thanes and dispensing fair justice when necessary. He could see Aewin at his side…

  A king is a warrior, Aelfin’s voice kept repeating over and over again. With each dream, the blood on his sword thickened. Soon, it was running down his arm. But now Kristinge had begun to build up a defense. He thought of Balthild and all she had done for Telchild and the monasteries at Jouarre. And she was only a queen—a former Saxon slave-girl. Kristinge thought also of Clovis and his insanity, and the wickedness he had done as king. Then he thought of all the great things a Christian king could do for Francia or Friesland. He thought of all the thanes who might bow their knees before God if their king were to lead them. And so in his waking hours he put his dreams aside and devoted himself more diligently to Aelfin’s tutoring in the ways of a chieftain.

  He was glad when, a week after Eomaer’s visit, the young horse-chieftain returned with his sister Aewin. Two days earlier, another storm had brought the level of snow halfway to their knees, and a biting north wind was promising more harsh weather. The riders were cold when they arrived late in the evening after the sun had dipped below the edge of the horizon. Aewin was shivering uncontrollably, and though she did not complain, Kristinge could see she was in pain. He sat her by the fire, then disappeared to his hut where he grabbed his warmest blanket and returned at a run. He wrapped the blanket around her, and as he did so he let his hands rest on her shoulders for a moment, unsure if he had the right to do so. Their eyes met and held.

  “I told her not to come,” Eomaer was saying. “She would not listen. She is a stubborn one.”

  Kristinge took a seat beside his betrothed and turned to listen to Eomaer’s words, wondering what had brought him to Ezinge—though he was by no means unhappy about the result.

  “And her brother is not stubborn?” Aelfin replied with a smile. Eomaer growled. “What has brought you?” Aelfin went on with the questioning.

  “No good news.” Eomaer replied. Aelfin’s eyes narrowed. Kristinge leaned forward also, as he continued. “Traders came up the coast just a few days ago—”

  “By boat?” Maccus asked in surprise. It was well past the season for travel on the seas.

  “By foot and wagon. They were returning home, bringing with them rumors from the south. Rumors of the return of Finn’s son.”

  Aelfin let out a sharp breath. “Then word has reached the corners of Friesland.”

  “It would appear so.”

  They did not talk much more that evening. Eomaer’s war band was exhausted. Some had already collapsed, and others were coughing harshly. It had taken them two full days of travel to make the trip, much longer than usual because of the weather. And Kristinge could see that it had cost them. Yet it was not Eomaer’s message that troubled him most, but Aewin’s condition. He spent much of the evening seeking to take care of her, bringing hot stew and warm drink to help revive her, and making sure Aelfin’s servants kept the fire blazing. She barely moved, and her breathing was shallow. That night, she fell asleep with her head on Kristinge’s lap as he prayed fervently for her health.

  Though no snow fell that night, the next day dawned windy and bitterly cold. It was the time of year when the distance to the North Sea was not great enough for the inhabitants of Ezinge. Icy blasts of sea air whistled through the village as if the terp were an island. Yet this morning Kristinge did not mind. After hours of care, he had finally fallen asleep with Aewin’s head upon his lap and for the first night in many days had slept with pleasant dreams. It was she who awakened him. He opened his eyes to find her standing above him—a heavy fur cloak on her back and a mischievous smile on her face—trying to pull him to his feet. “You’re bett—” he started to say in a loud and joyful voice, but before he could continue she put her hand over his mouth and silenced him. The warriors on both sides stirred at the sound, but remained asleep. Aewin’s eyes, meanwhile, were beckoning. Kristinge looked at her closely. A long warm night’s sleep behind her, she looked refreshed and full of energy. As far as he could tell, she had suffered no lasting ill effects from the cold that had afflicted her the previous day. He was overjoyed to see she had recovered. He glanced around the hall. The warriors of Ezinge and Dronrip still slept along with their chieftains.

  Come with me, Aewin silently mouthed, and pointed toward the door. Kristinge’s sleepiness fled at once, and he obeyed without question. He rose, grabbed his own cloak, and followed. Quietly so as not to wake any of the sleepers—though Kristinge had no idea where Aewin was leading him—the two of them stepped toward the door of the hall. Outside, the wind was howling, and they could feel its cold draft through the chinks in the door and wall. Aewin was unperturbed. Kristinge saw now that she had on heavy fur leggings and warm boots in addition to her cloak. She pulled her cloak tightly about her and stepped outside, Kristinge still following.

  “Where do we go?” Aewin asked, once they were outside.

  The question surprised Kristinge. He thought he was following her. He glanced around the village as he thought for a moment. Wherever it was, he didn’t want to be in the wind for very long. On an impulse, he reached out and took Aewin’s hand, again wondering as he did so whether it was presuming too much. Aewin did not resist. Despite the cold air around them, a rush of warm blood flooded through Kristinge’s veins at the feel of her hand in his. For a moment, all he was aware of was that touch—as if his entire body had slipped down into the fingers of his right hand. He led her across the village to the chapel. He had not been there for many days, but could think of no other place to go. Inside it was cold, but out of the wind. Aewin pulled her fingers from Kristinge’s grip and sat down. Suddenly, Kristinge felt awkward. This was the first time he had been alone with her. No, he remembered, not quite the first. Twice before he had talked with her alone. Beside the river near Finnsburg long before, when she had told him
of her promised betrothal to his brother. But that was long past. He doubted that she would remember that day as he did. Not knowing what to day, he sat down on the bench opposite her.

  Aewin looked shyly down at her feet, then up again, then again at her feet, before finally looking into Kristinge’s eyes. “That was you who saved my life in Paris,” she said.

  Once again, Kristinge was taken by surprise. She had seen him? And remembered? “I didn’t exactly save you,” he replied. I did nothing, he thought, but he did not want to confess this.

  “Queen Balthild said it was you.”

  “Me?” Kristinge stammered. Queen Balthild? he wondered.

  “Balthild is a gracious and generous queen,” Aewin went on. “She spoke with me again after your ship departed. At her invitation, I visited her palace. We talked long about many things. When I thanked her again for her help that morning, she said she came to my aid because of you—because she saw you step forward to help me, though you bore not a single weapon and did not even know me. She was inspired by your courage.”

  Kristinge did not know what to say. He had not felt much courage. Only fear.

  “You were dressed as a monk then,” Aewin added, looking sidelong at Kristinge as she did. Then she shivered and again pulled her cloak tightly about her shoulders, but Kristinge did not pick up on the hint. After a moment of his silence, she spoke again, once more astounding him. “And in Domburg you were there again. It was me to whom you sang that night, was it not?”

  Kristinge nodded in embarrassment. Had he been that obvious?

  “It was a beautiful song. Never before had I been so moved by a bard.” She paused. “Would you sing that song to me again?”

  Flattered by the request, Kristinge ran to his hut to find his harp. He returned at a run. Despite his fears, Aewin was still waiting for him. The harp, cold from the weather and suffering from disuse, took many minutes to tune. The time was magnified by Kristinge’s impatience. But finally the strings were ready. His voice cracking at first with nervousness, he sang to her the song one more time. When he was done, Aewin rose from her seat. She paced across the small chapel twice, then sat down—this time close by Kristinge’s side. She slipped her hand under his arm as he strummed gently on the harp, happy to have the instrument in his hands once again and happier yet to have Aewin at her side.