The Rood and the Torc Page 36

  “Tell me who you are,” she said.

  The words were spoken so softly that Kristinge barely heard. When he realized what she had asked, he stopped his playing. It was a big question, and he was not sure how to answer. Who am I? He wondered.

  “When I saw you last autumn, you wore the cloak of a monk and were sailing away from me. When I saw you next, you were a gifted bard singing love songs to me. Now you wear the torc of a chieftain, and my hand has been promised to you in marriage. But I remember long ago a young man—a boy—in Hwitstan who entertained me with his singing while my father visited Finn. For a time after I saw you in Frotha’s hall, I mistrusted my memory and thought it could not have been the same. But now I know it was you, and I know also that you remember me.”

  Kristinge blushed again at how easily she read his mind, and even more at how long he had foolishly and hopelessly clung to the memory of her. Or had it been hopeless?

  “Who are you?” Aewin asked again.

  Kristinge began again to strum his harp softly as his mind sought for words to answer. Who indeed was he? The question Aewin had asked cut to the heart of what had plagued him for so long. It was the question that had driven him from Luxeuil. He had thought the question laid to rest, but now he understood that it was not. He wished that somebody else could answer her. What would Willimond say? Or Hildeburh? Or Petrica? Or even Telchild? But none of them were there. He was alone with the question. Could he answer Aewin any more than she herself had already said? Had she already told him who he was better than he could have told her?

  A long silence followed, through which Aewin sat patiently, watching Kristinge’s fingers move over his harp. In the end, all he could think of was to tell his story. “I am the son of Finn,” he began. “Though I lived most of my life without that knowledge.” In a voice more rhythmic and melodic than he intended—more like a bard telling a heroic epic than a man speaking of his own life—he told Aewin his story. Not merely the tale of how Aelfin had schemed to make him king, but the tale of his life. For he could think of naught else he could answer. No truth, except the story. Back to his earliest memories his thoughts stretched. To the days of Finn and Hildeburh whom he had known only from a distance, and to his childhood along the wics of Friesland. To his labors on the weirs with the fisherfolk of Hwitstan and his training in Latin at the side of his monk and foster-father Willimond. He told of his memories of Aewin herself, and how he had never forgotten her. And he told what he remembered of the death of his brother Finnlaf and that terrible battle, and what he had learned from Ulestan. And so his tale continued, and Aewin listened intently, as he spoke finally of his departure from Hwitstan and his six years at Luxeuil, of his voyage through Paris to Danemark and his reunion with Hildeburh, his mother, and of his journey back to Friesland. He blushed as he told how Aelfin had recognized him, and had contrived to return to his neck the torc of his father. Only when the tale came to Eomaer’s offer did he falter and fall silent.

  By that time, the sun had risen high in its winter arc across the southern horizon and the wind had grown more brisk. But no interruption came and not a word did Aewin speak until he was done, save to press more closely against his side. “I am sorry,” Kristinge apologized. “I did not mean to speak for so long.”

  But Aewin’s eyes glowed more brightly. “Never has any man so confided in me,” she said. “Not even my brother. And yet there is much still I would ask you.”

  Kristinge laughed. “Is there anything I have not already said?”

  “This place. Luxeuil you have named it. I have heard little before of these monasteries. Even the name sounds awkward to my ears. Queen Balthild spoke of one near Paris, but I could not fathom what she told me, so strange and foreign does it seem to me.” Again Kristinge laughed, and Aewin blushed. “You make fun of me for my lack of knowledge,” she complained

  “No,” Kristinge objected. “I laugh at the thought of a monastery. Though I spent six years of my life there, words do not come easy as I try to explain what a monk does. It sounds odd even to my ears. But I suppose there is one thing at the center of it all. We are there to learn the teachings of Jesus.”

  “Jesus,” Aewin repeated. “That name, too, I have heard from Balthild. From the time I first heard his name, I have wanted to know more of him.”

  Kristinge’s heart leapt, and as he went on to tell her more, he learned that her words had not been not empty—that she really was eager to learn more about the God whom he served. Nearly as eager as he was to tell her.

  It was not until they were interrupted by Eomaer and Aelfin that Kristinge realized it was already past midday. They had spent the whole morning together talking. “We searched the whole village for you,” Aelfin said, but the tone of complaint in his voice could not hide his delight and finding Kristinge and Aewin together. If he had still been worried that Kristinge might carry out his threat and flee the village to avoid the marriage, his fears were now relieved. “Come,” he said. “It is time to return to the mead hall.” Kristinge nodded and rose. Stepping again into the cold wind that still ripped across the terp, he took Aewin’s hand and returned across the village to the warmth of a hall fire and the fellowship of the hearth.

  As Kristinge discovered upon entering the hall, most of the warriors of Dronrip had recovered from their ride. They sat around the fire, drinking from mead cups and eating dried fish while speaking with the warriors from Ezinge of weapons, and food, and family. Kristinge sighed, and released Aewin’s hand. He wished suddenly that Aelfin’s plan was completed, the torc firmly about his neck, and that they could be wed without delay. But she would soon be departing, he knew, and he doubted whether the torc would ever rest upon his neck.

  “How long will you stay with us?” Aelfin asked the younger chieftain. If he had been speaking to anybody else, Kristinge might have thought his foster-father was concerned about his winter stores and was anxious to be rid of a guest. But he knew that Aelfin liked Eomaer and was glad of his company. Like Kristinge, the older chieftain had grown to like the younger despite his impetuousness. “You would do well to rest here a time. The windstorm has not abated.”

  “No, it has not,” Eomaer agreed. “And not all of my men have recovered.” Even as he spoke, loud coughing erupted in one corner of the hall, followed by more coughing elsewhere. “Were it the raiding season, I would not like to be away from my people so long, leaving them unguarded. Half of our war band is with me. But I do not expect any raids upon the village now. I think they are safe. Perhaps we will stay until the winds die.”

  At those words, Kristinge’s heart leapt with joy. In his heart he had prayed that Aewin might stay for one more day. As it proved, his prayer was answered thrice over; Eomaer remained in Ezinge three more nights and days, and Aewin with him. They were joyous days for Kristinge. And for Aewin also. As often as they could, they would go together to the chapel and talk, just the two of them. And neither Eomaer nor Aelfin hindered it, save when they wanted Kristinge to join them in their counsels. For they were busy talking of war bands and weapons, and the treaty of marriage was a thing already agreed upon in their minds to which they needed give little more thought.

  Even less thought did Kristinge give to talk of war during that time, except when he was pressed hard by Aelfin to give some answer. Instead, his mind was occupied with the task of getting to know Aewin. Having already told her much about himself, it was his turn to question her about her past. At his prompting, Aewin told of the death of her mother in childbirth when she was still very young, and of the death of her father in a faraway battle; of being raised by an old aunt and taken care of by her own brother; and of being trained as a sword-maiden until recently when Eomaer had decided she should be wed to a chieftain. She told how she had rebelled against his command until she found out it was Kristinge.

  Kristinge laughed, and shared with her that he had responded the same way. But behind his laugh he wondered. Why? Why were you willing to marry me? You knew nothing abou
t me. Yet these questions he was afraid to pose, for fear that in pondering her answers Aewin might turn away from him. Eventually, Aewin’s questions led them back to conversations about Luxeuil and the God worshipped there: the God Kristinge preached. By the end of their three days, Aewin was ready to trust in Christ. Alas that Aewin and Eomaer departed the next day and Kristinge was once more alone with his thoughts.

  “Winter is upon is,” Aelfin said, continuing his pacing around the fire. In one hand he held a large drinking horn from which he was taking frequent swigs. In his other hand was his sword, a new one he had acquired from Frankish traders after giving his old battle-tested blade to Kristinge. He was tapping the sword on the benches beside him as he walked and spoke. “It is early in the year for this snow. Autumn has passed far too quickly.”

  Theoman and Wihtred were seated nearby, listening and nodding their heads in agreement. The first two clan-chieftains to cast their swords with Aelfin and accept Finn’s son as king, they now came to Ezinge frequently to plot with Aelfin how to secure the torc. With them were a half dozen of their trusted warriors along with Aelfin’s own thanes—Kristinge still did not think of them as his thanes—who preferred the companionship of the mead hall to their own cold huts. The young heir was seated near the fire between Maccus and Ceolac, trying to pay attention to the conversation, but feeling out of place. He was thinking more about Aewin than about plans for battle. He wished she were with him that evening. Though he had known her only briefly, he already missed her. In their short time together he had spoken more deeply with her than he ever had with Aelfin. He looked toward the closed door of the mead hall, half hoping that Eomaer and his company might arrive at any moment. But outside it was dark. A foot of snow lay on the ground and more was falling steadily. Winter had arrived, and Kristinge was not likely to see his betrothed soon.

  Aelfin came to a halt a step away from Kristinge. “Just two more weeks would have been enough,” he complained, angry at the weather for its uncaring interference. “But now—?” He lifted his sword and tapped the air, then took a big swig, draining the mead in his horn.

  But now? Kristinge lifted his head as the unfinished question died away into the stillness of the hall. What do you mean, but now? The way Aelfin asked that question—the suggestion that the plan was now in danger of failing—caught Kristinge’s attention, drawing his thoughts away from Aewin and back to the issue at hand. But now what? He wanted to ask, his heart suddenly beating faster. Are you saying we won’t be enough? Yet he dared not ask the question. Not in the mead hall. Aelfin would say little in front of his thanes. And even if he would, Kristinge was afraid of the answer. It didn’t take much to guess what the chieftain was worried about. As the weeks had passed, the former monk had learned much from his new foster father: the names of chieftains of the many clans in Friesland; the sizes of their war bands; the number of days of travel between their villages; which clans were at war with one another. All useful information, Kristinge thought, if he was one day to be king. But that possibility was doubtful now. For of greatest import, he had learned about his rivals Aldgisl and Réadban. “They will be swift to respond to any threat to their own power, real or perceived,” Aelfin had said. “Réadban especially. He is ruthless. He is as bad as the Franks. He will waste no time killing you if he perceives that you are a rival to his ambitions, or those of his family. And he is powerful.”

  He will waste no time killing you. Those words had not been missed by Kristinge, who from the start had understood Aelfin’s sense of urgency. It was not the urgency that bothered him. As long as the chieftain was confident, Kristinge had been able to keep his fears at bay. But now there was something more than mere urgency in the chieftain’s concerns. Aelfin was visibly worried. The overwhelming confidence he had shown even two weeks earlier was conspicuously absent as he paced around the mead hall. It was this that now made Kristinge afraid. Very afraid. All the anxiety that he had managed to suppress since his betrothal to Aewin came bubbling to the surface. Kristinge knew too clearly that he was caught up in Aelfin’s plan, whatever happened: no matter how little he had contributed to the planning; no matter how little he had wanted to be a part. His tension mounted as the chieftain paced around the fire spilling his doubts like bad mead. What if the plan failed? He wondered. What would happen? More than his betrothal to Aewin was at stake. It was his life that was in danger. And what part had he played? he asked himself. He had been dragged into the scheme with no warning, without his consent, even against his will. He fought down a sense of resentment against Aelfin, and remembered that he was betrothed to Aewin because of the torc about his neck. “What must we do?” he asked in as calm a voice as he could muster.

  Aelfin didn’t answer. He paced around the fire again. Then, ignoring Kristinge’s question, he turned in the direction of the other two chieftains. “We must assume Aldgisl and Réadban have heard of Kristinge’s presence by now.”

  Kristinge bit his lip. Once again Aelfin was addressing the other chieftains as if he weren’t present. He knew why. Kristinge had no experience in the gathering of war bands and the making of kings. There was little he could contribute to the conversation. He was merely a tool. Knowing this did not help. It made matters worse. He could feel his anxiety turning to anger as his sense of helplessness increased.

  “What does Aldgisl know about him?” Theoman asked, nodding toward Kristinge.

  “He can only guess how big our war band is,” Aelfin answered. He still said nothing about the visit from Eomaer. Kristinge wondered if the other chieftains also felt manipulated by Aelfin, and if they guessed that Aelfin knew more than he was saying. But he held his tongue.

  “That is good,” Wihtred said. “Let him be in doubt.”

  “But he now knows of Kristinge?” Theoman pressed.

  “Yes,” Kristinge answered, but the three chieftains ignored him.

  Wihtred shrugged evasively. “We must assume that Aldgisl and Réadban know of Kristinge’s presence here. That they know or will soon know that he is the son of Finn, and that he now wears his father’s torc. They will know also that he has begun to gather a war band—that a son of Finn commands many warriors. They will know that Kristinge is a threat.”

  “Me?” Kristinge blurted out, unwilling to sit there any longer and be spoken of—to be used like a tool without any say. “Why am I the threat? It is you who have gathered the war band!”

  Aelfin spun so quickly that half the remaining contents of his drinking horn splashed onto the ground near the hearth. “WHAT?!” he shouted over the hissing of his drink on the hot stones. An angry grimace appeared on his face. “Are you saying this was all me. Is it my torc I seek to secure?”

  Kristinge did not answer. In his heart, he knew he had gone along with Aelfin’s plan from the beginning. He had offered little resistance. He had never said no. Yet he still felt that he had never really been given a choice. For a long moment, all were silent. Kristinge was aware of the curious expressions of the thanes scattered around the hall as they glanced back and forth between him and Aelfin. Aelfin, too, became aware of the audience. He looked around him at the gathered chieftains and warriors, then back at Kristinge. He relaxed again. What he said next was exactly what was on Kristinge’s mind.

  “You know as well as I that even if what you have said is true, it will matter nothing to Réadban or Aldgisl. A son of Finn is a threat to them even if you had no war band. But the fact is, the war band exists. And if Réadban and Aldgisl have not yet heard of it, they will soon.”

  Again, Kristinge did not reply. He could not deny the truth of what Aelfin had said. He was a threat to any who desired the rule of Friesland. This was no longer a game. He was trapped. Perhaps that was what angered him.

  “Even that is beside the point,” Aelfin went on, not giving Kristinge any more time to think about what had already been said. “You were raised in Hwitstan. You have lived among the Franks, and have met their king. You have even lived among the Danes. You know
that a chieftain is a warrior. It was not wealth that made me a chieftain. It was my strength.” He clenched his fist around his sword as he spoke, his voice still intense. “It was my sword. It was leading my people in battle. It was protecting them—finding new land and a new village when we were driven from Domburg by a stronger foe. The moment I cease to do these things, I cease to be a chieftain. And what is true of a clan chieftain is ten times true of any who would rule a whole kingdom. Why do you think the Frankish kings have lost their hold on Francia? Because Clovis is a weak—” He didn’t finish his sentence. “If you want to be king, you must be first and always a warrior!” Suddenly Aelfin’s face lifted. A new idea was working its way through the chieftain’s head: a new glimmer of hope. And Kristinge was almost afraid to hear what it was. “Ah,” Aelfin exclaimed, lifting his sword and drinking horn in the air. “More drink. Fill your horns. Yes. Let us celebrate again.”

  “My lord?” Maccus asked.

  “I have forgotten for a moment what this was about. Now I remember. And the memory tells me all we need.”

  “Tell us, that we may remember and rejoice with you,” Theoman replied.

  “Let us first share the mead cup,” Aelfin ordered.

  If nothing else, Kristinge had learned that Aelfin was skilled in raising the excitement of his followers. When the mead jug had been passed and all had taken a long draught, Aelfin sat down and began to speak. “Listen to me,” he said. “From the beginning it was the accursed Franks we have feared. We need to unite Friesland to drive them from our land, to push them over the Rhine—as far across the Rhine as our strength allows. The war leader who can do that will surely be king.”