The Rood and the Torc Read online

  “Is it a rider?” Treothrym asked. His eyes were not as good as his brother’s.

  “More like a war band,” Hyse answered. “It is spread out over some distance.”

  Wigmaer was troubled at that report. “Then it is good I have three more worthy warriors beside me tonight.”

  “Do you think they are raiders?” Tredswar asked.

  “I do not know,” the chieftain replied. “Who else at this time of year would be crossing the frozen ground with a war band?”

  “Franks!” Hyse said, alarmed.

  Treothrym shook his head. “We are too far north. If they had crossed this far into Friesland we would have heard word before this.”

  “Then who?” Hyse asked, still scanning the horizon. “Surely not Danes—not at this time of year and not on foot.”

  Nobody answered. The four of them waited in silence as the dark spot grew closer and larger. Soon, they could all see it with little trouble. “It is a war band, without doubt,” Wigmaer said.

  “And a large one by the look,” Treothrym added. “Our courage may be hard pressed on this evening.” All of a sudden, Treothrym and Wigmaer looked at one another as an intuitive realization dawned on them simultaneously. “Aldgisl!” Treothrym breathed.

  “Or Réadban,” Wigmaer answered. “One and the same.”

  “Tiwes’ curse. So they have heard.” He turned back to toward Hyse. “Brother. Can you see any markings?”

  “They are still a long distance off,” Hyse replied. He paused. “But yes, I can make out something. The lead rider is carrying a lance with a banner. It may just be the reflection of the sunset, but it appears red. It is much too far away to see the crest.”

  “How many are they?”

  Hyse scanned the approaching war band again. “It is difficult to count, but by my guess there are three hundred or more. They move slowly. Most are on foot. There are a few on horseback near the front.”

  “On foot,” the chieftain mumbled, half to himself. “Yes a band that large would have to be. That is our only hope.” He turned at once toward the three brothers on horseback, and in an urgent tone gave the command. “Leave at once. Bring word to my cousin Eomaer of what you have seen. Tell him all you know.”

  “Should we not wait and see?” Tredswar asked. “Count their numbers and determine who it is so we might know more to report?”

  But the oldest brother was already spinning his horse as he answered for Wigmaer. “If it is Aldgisl or Réadban, we must get word to Eomaer at once. We cannot afford to be waylaid.” Yet despite his words, he delayed a second longer, looking once more at the chieftain. “If he attacks you, our swords might be of service here. Shall we not stay and fight at your side instead? I can send Hyse with a message for Eomaer.”

  “We will fend for ourselves. If it is Aldgisl, I think he may not attack me. He will be interested in Ezinge only, and the rival who is seated in the mead hall there. That is why Eomaer must know of this. He will want to go to Ezinge himself. Tell him we will follow if we can and come up behind this army. Tell him also: if it comes to battle, we are with Finn’s son.”

  Treothrym nodded. He lifted his spear in salute. A moment later, he and his two brothers were galloping through the village toward the northern edge of the terp, on their way back to Dronrip, praying to the gods as they went that the moon would be bright that night. They had many leagues to travel, and though they were uncommonly good horsemen for Frisians, they knew they would be hard pressed.

  Sword strapped across his back, the chieftain stood by the door of the mead hall looking glumly out at the village of Ezinge as his foster son approached. Kristinge saw him standing there and swallowed hard. He had spent much of the morning in his hut wondering what he would say. When he had grown too cold there, he had wandered over to the chapel and spent time praying over the same question. Finally, late in the afternoon, he had stirred up his courage and risen to his feet. He approached the mead hall slowly, but directly. Aelfin nodded a silent greeting when Kristinge arrived, then motioned for him to step into the hall. Kristinge, also remaining silent, complied. He stepped inside. Once within, he took a quick instinctive glance around him. He was surprised to find the hall empty. Not even Ceolac or Maccus were there. Had Aelfin sent his thanes away? Why? Did he not want them to hear?

  “Come join me,” the chieftain said aloud, once they were both inside. Without waiting for an answer, he stepped past Kristinge and started toward the hearth. Kristinge followed. They walked to their usual benches beside the fire, which burned brightly as if recently tended. “Sit,” the chieftain commanded. Again Kristinge obeyed. “Are you hungry?” Aelfin asked.

  The question took Kristinge off guard. He was prepared for a confrontation. He had expected Aelfin to waste no time in raising the issue of the previous night’s song, and of Kristinge taking again the role of bard against the chieftain’s wishes. In short, he expected to be chastised. He was glad for the reprieve. “Yes,” he mumbled in answer. He had not eaten all day.

  Aelfin produced a loaf of bread and handed it to him. Kristinge ripped off a small piece and with it broke his fast. He set the rest of the bread down on his lap and closed his eyes. The longer he waited, the harder it would be. He slowly he reached into the large purse at his side and removed his father’s torc. “I cannot wear this,” he said softly. He cringed. It wasn’t what he intended to say. At least not with those words. The truth was, he wasn’t sure what he wanted—what he could or could not do. But he needed to say something. He could not let Aelfin control the rest of his life. He needed some control. Even if it meant losing…

  No. He would not think of Aewin. He knew well enough what it would mean to forfeit the torc. And he loved her. But he could not possess her. He would not want to. And she? She would not be given to him if he did not wear the torc. Yet he could not wed her at that price.

  Aelfin did not answer at first. Nervous at the silence, Kristinge sat and fiddled with the torc for a moment, oddly sad at the thought of parting with it. The torc was all he had from his real father. But he held it out to Aelfin and repeated his statement. “This is not for me. I cannot wear the torc. I am no chieftain.”

  “You are no chieftain? Or you are no warrior?” Aelfin finally queried, challenging Kristinge’s comments. He made no motion to take the torc.

  “You have told me yourself many times that they are one and the same,” Kristinge answered, still holding out the gold band for the chieftain to take.

  “Not—” Aelfin started to answer, but then he fell silent. He tried a different tact. “It is your Christian religion. It has made you afraid.” He spoke with more than a hint of contempt in his voice.

  “Afraid?” Kristinge was surprised by this accusation. “Of what?”

  “You tell me.”

  It was a cunningly simple response, but it achieved its purpose. Kristinge’s jaw dropped as he tried to think. Afraid of what? He was now on the defensive. Was he truly afraid? Was it only fear that drove him away? Perhaps. For a moment he could not answer. He pulled his hand back, setting the torc upon his leg. What was he afraid of?

  “You have seen yourself that you cannot hide,” Aelfin went on. “Wherever you go, you will always be Finn’s son.”

  Kristinge nodded. Aelfin was right about this. His identity had found him at Ezinge. It had found him in Danemark. Even in Luxeuil it had found him. He turned the torc around in his hand, looking at the soft polished gold. He had already grown so used to it that his neck felt naked with it off. He almost put it back on. Then he thought again of Aelfin’s statement. It has made you afraid. Yes. He was afraid, but not of battle. He was not even afraid of death. He was afraid of throwing away everything he knew to be important in order to grasp what was only fleeting: the torc. His own forbidden fruit. Good to look upon, it would make him a chieftain among men with war bands to rule; it would make him like a god. It would win for him the hand of Aewin. “I will not be your warrior,” he said. His denial was stronger and his
voice harsher than he intended.

  Aelfin tensed as if accused. “Not my warrior?” he replied. “I do not ask for myself. I ask in the name of all Friesland. You will be our Chieftain.” His eyes flashed with a challenge. “You will be our David, our battle-leader. You will be a Gideon like the tales you have told us from old. Surely your god has honored these men.”

  A month earlier, perhaps, this argument might have swayed Kristinge. Indeed, he had used the argument on himself. He had thought all too often of David and Gideon; of Samson and Joshua, and a dozen other warriors and chieftains who had been chosen by God to lead Israel in battle. These men of God had done no wrong in being warriors, had they? Yet that was not the point. For Kristinge knew also that the argument did not hold in his case. Perhaps Friesland did need a great leader to defend them against the Franks: a single king who would unite the land and lead the Frisian people in battle. Kristinge did not doubt that. But what he now realized was that there were a hundred men more capable than he of accomplishing that task. Aelfin, Eomaer, Theoman, Wihtred, Isernfyst. Even Ceolac or Maccus. Any warrior in the mead-hall was more capable than Kristinge. Unless. Unless the hand of God was upon Kristinge to lead the people in war. But there was no indication that it was. And many indications that it was not. Moreover, the Frisians could not even be called God’s people. No more than the Danes or the Franks. That was the thought that kept returning to Kristinge. These were his people. But they had no special claim on God.

  “I am not a warrior,” Kristinge finally replied, with a heavy sigh. “I am a monk. Perhaps a priest, though at that of late I have failed. I am called to be a shepherd. To lead men to life, and not to death. I will neither be a berserker nor shall I make them. I will not wield a sword. I am not Gideon.”

  As he spoke, Kristinge could see Aelfin growing more tense. “Then tell me why not?” the chieftain shouted, angrily slamming his fist on the bench beside him.

  Kristinge did not expect Aelfin to understand, but he explained anyway. “A peasant named Dunnere lost his only goat.” As Aelfin stared at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending, Kristinge went on. “Dunnere, who faithfully came to the chapel and prayed for seven years, even when he was all alone. Dunnere who has been a more faithful and humble servant of God than I have been in the past few months. His goat died. His livelihood. His family. It died. It died, and I did not even notice for ten weeks.” It was clear from the look on Aelfin’s face that he had no idea what Kristinge was talking about. To him, a peasant was a peasant and a goat a goat. “There are more important things than leading a war band in battle,” Kristinge finally said, unable to think of any other way to explain. “There is more to being a servant of God. More to being a shepherd.”

  “And there is more to your decision than you could imagine,” Aelfin replied, rising to his feet. Kristinge looked up at him. The chieftain’s face was calm again. There was even a hint of a smile on his face. That worried Kristinge more than the anger. “Perhaps you don’t realize this,” he said, starting to pace around the fire. He whirled toward the young priest. “It is too late!”

  “Too late?” Kristinge echoed reflexively. He had heard that before.

  “Too late. Messages have been sent all over Friesland. You cannot withdraw. As surely as the spring follows the winter, you have declared a war on Aldgisl and Réadban. Do you think, once they hear of your presence in Friesland, that they will allow you to live? Perhaps—perhaps, I say, though not likely—they might have let you live if you had returned as a monk only. But you have taken your father’s torc. You have begun to raise a war band. When word reaches their ears, you will have but two choices: to raise a war band to lead against the Franks and then to stand against Aldgisl himself—to raise a greater war band than he has—or to stand and face your own death at his hands. There is no other option. It is too late.”

  Kristinge did not respond. He knew the truth of Aelfin’s words. Even Kristinge, who still knew so little about the world of Frisian chieftains and warriors, knew that this chieftain’s assessment could not be far wrong. It really was too late for him to turn back. In his many weeks of silent acquiescence, his weeks of blindly submitting to Aelfin’s plan, he had been digging himself deeper and deeper beneath the hard soil of Friesland. He was right where the chieftain wanted him, in a situation where he could not refuse. That was why Aelfin was smiling. Kristinge slumped forward on his bench. The torc was still in his hand. He put his other hand on his head. Did his own plans really mean nothing in the end? Though his eyes were shut, he could sense the chieftain walking back to the bench. He heard him filling a horn with wine. Then a second. Of course it was too late. He had known that. Why had he thought otherwise?

  “Drink,” Aelfin said, making the kindest offer he knew how. Kristinge looked up. He took the drinking horn from his foster father’s hand and took a sip. It was a strong batch of mead that curled his tongue in his mouth. He sipped more. “Do not speak again of your doubts,” Aelfin said softly, after Kristinge had drained the cup. They were again seated side by side. “Today I was able to empty the hall that we might speak alone. I might not be able to do so again. Even if you doubt, you must at least appear confident. Your thanes will not follow you if they sense that you are not leading. Even the most loyal will leave you if you waver for too long. That is why your father failed in the end. Why more did not rally to his call when the Danes brought the day of his doom. Because he doubted.”

  Kristinge nodded. “You are right. I must not waver.” But his response that followed made Aelfin’s jaw drop. “Though the cost be high, I must do what I have been called to do. I must follow my God where he leads, even though that be through the valley of the shadow of death. I cannot wear the torc of Friesland.”

  The two of them stared at one another a long moment, as if gauging the determination of the other. Then Aelfin rose to his feet, an incredulous look upon his face. “Are you a fool? Have you not listened?”

  “I have listened well,” Kristinge answered in a soft voice. “All that you say may be—it is certainly true. I knew that well before I came.”

  “Then you will throw away your life?”

  “He who follows the Lord Most High does not throw away his life,” Kristinge replied.

  “May the gods take you!” Aelfin cursed. “Do you think it is your life alone? Many brave and loyal warriors have given their allegiance to you. If you recant now, Aldgisl will kill them all. They knew that, but they placed their trust in you. Their only hope—your only hope and my only hope—is that you have a war band large enough that Aldgisl will not attack you.”

  Kristinge felt the full weight of the burden Aelfin was putting on him. He knew there was a danger to others as well. For a moment, he fought the urge to blame the whole situation on Aelfin, whose plan he had followed from the beginning. But he knew that he had willingly taken part. “I will take the responsibility upon myself alone. If there is a death to be paid, I will pay it.”

  Aelfin’s face grew as red as the fire. Kristinge could see hot rage rising within him. For the moment, he feared for his life as much from Aelfin as he did from Aldgisl. “You do not understand Aldgisl and Réadban—you do not understand any chieftain,” Aelfin began to fume. “Can you have been raised in Friesland and know so little of our ways?” He was shaking a fist at Kristinge. Kristinge began to feel defensive, wanting to give way to the urge to blame the chieftain. His caution left him, and he rose to his own feet to face Aelfin. Their faces were inches apart.

  Yet before either could say another word, there was a loud shout from the entrance of the hall. They both turned toward the door in time to see two men burst in. It was Ceolac and Maccus, Aelfin’s chief thanes. As they approached, the two combatants stepped back from one another and sat down.

  “My lord,” Maccus said, nearly out of breath.

  “Speak,” Aelfin said through his clenched teeth.

  “It is a war band,” Maccus panted. “A large one. Coming this way.”

  “How fa
r away?” Aelfin asked, jumping to his feet. He reached to see that his sword was still there.

  “I do not know,” Maccus answered, still trying to catch his breath. “Large enough… large enough to attack. And all of your war band is still gone. We are the only warriors in the village.”

  “Are the gods against my every move?” Aelfin asked. “How long ‘til they arrive?”

  “Moments. They were coming hard across the ground from the west. They approach like raiders, making straight for the terp. We did not stay to count them, but came here right away.”

  “And our war band?”

  “We do not know,” Ceolac spoke this time. “They have gone hunting the boar, as you commanded.”

  “Get them back,” Aelfin ordered.

  “It is too late. They will not be back on time. And if we leave now to find them, you will be alone.”

  “Yet what can four do against so many?” Aelfin asked. Never had Kristinge seen him appear so frantic.

  “More than two can,” Maccus answered, his eyes narrowing as he gripped his sword.

  “We will not leave your side,” Ceolac confirmed.

  Aelfin looked like he was about to object, but he caught himself. His warrior’s instinct began to take over. His chieftain’s calm returned. “So be it. Then let us go to meet our guests.” He grabbed his heavy cloak, unslung the sword from his back, and started toward the door. Maccus and Ceolac followed, with Kristinge at the end. “And why are you still here, if the rest of the war band has followed my orders and gone after the boar?” Aelfin asked as they walked.

  Ceolac shrugged. “We sensed we would be needed.”