The Rood and the Torc Read online

  “I have learned more than I had ever hoped. I did not know that in all the world so many books existed to be read.”

  “And you have read it all?”

  The question embarrassed Kristinge. “No,” he replied.

  “Then what?” Willimond asked, holding Kristinge’s gaze in his own.

  Kristinge lowered his eyes. “I don’t belong here.”

  “Because you are the son of a king?”

  Kristinge blinked and looked around. Though that was indeed the issue at heart, still he cringed to hear Willimond say it so openly. Yet Abbot Walbert did not even lift his eyebrow. Was it possible that he already knew?

  Willimond’s voice took on a new passion as he continued. “Kristinge look around you. Who did you see in the field this morning working together? Do you see Chlotair? He is the son of Charibert II, who ruled Aquitaine. A Frankish king!”

  “An illegitimate son,” Kristinge replied without thinking.

  He wished he hadn’t. Willimond’s voice was stern when he answered. “Do you pass judgment? He was knit together in his mother’s womb by the same God who knit you together. And he has given his life to the Lord.”

  “But he had no claim on the throne—the king’s torc.”

  “The throne and torc? Is that what this is all about? Kristinge do you really desire your father’s torc? Have you learned nothing about the Frankish kings? Nothing from their treachery? Their short-lived reigns? And what of your own people? Do you desire such tragedy—”

  “No,” Kristinge answered. “I have no desire for the torc. I desire only to know who I am. Who my father and brother and mother were.”

  “What is it that you do not know?” Willimond asked.

  Kristinge never had the opportunity to answer. Abruptly, Abbot Walbert brought the conversation to an end. In a voice much gentler than Kristinge expected, he asked, “When will you leave?”

  The question was blunt and unexpected. “I… I… I don’t know, Father,” Kristinge answered. “I had hoped… I had hoped to depart as soon as possible.”

  “Sit down.” There was another small wooden stool. Kristinge took it. Petrica, who had also entered the room, stood behind him. There were four of them in the small office now—not the private council with the abbot Kristinge had sought. “Autumn has already begun,” Walbert continued. “In the north, it will not be long before snows come. Do you know how far you will travel this year, and by what route?”

  Kristinge looked at Walbert, then back at Willimond, then at the abbot again. “Then you do not object to my leaving?”

  “We hold none here against their will,” Walbert answered.

  “But you knew I wanted to leave even before I asked?”

  It was Petrica who, at a nod from Walbert, answered the question. “We have watched all summer the trouble in your eyes. Could anybody have failed to see your distraction? It was evident in your every thought and deed. As for the reason, it was not difficult to guess.”

  “Then you know what Ulestan told me?”

  “Willimond told us many weeks ago of Ulestan’s dying words,” Petrica acknowledged.

  “But…” Kristinge wanted to object. Oddly enough, he wanted them to object. He needed them to argue against his departure. He needed to defend himself. He preferred Willimond’s questions to Walbert’s placid acceptance. Suddenly the young monk was not sure he wanted to depart.

  “We do not counsel you against leaving,” Walbert said, as if he read Kristinge’s mind. “God leads us on many different paths. Few have ever left here in bitterness, but many have gone on. Columbanus himself did not die at Luxeuil. If he had, then the monastery at Bobbio would never have been founded.”

  “But how do I know God wants me to go?” Kristinge finally asked.

  Petrica and Walbert both laughed. Even Willimond chuckled. “A well-phrased question, brother Kristinge,” Walbert answered. “And if I guess rightly, one that you had expected us to ask you.” Kristinge nodded, and the abbot continued. “The answers are many. His Word is our final guide, but there is much that it does not say. With some it is visions. With others it is their hearts.” He raised his hand as if to forestall any objection, though Kristinge had not formulated any. “Truly, the heart of man is wicked, and yet God will use it if you let him; he will incline even the human heart to his will.” Walbert paused. “What does your heart tell you, my son?”

  “It urges me on,” Kristinge answered. “But it is not because I do not love this—”

  Again Walbert put up his hand to stop him. “You need say no more. We know your love. Yet if God called you on and you could not leave this behind, you would be greatly diminished. I will tell you this, for I am not one who believes in secrets. We have known for some time that you would one day leave. The Spirit has been making this clear in our hearts even from the day you came. Nor was your heritage unknown to us. Willimond is a wise one. He is too wise to keep such knowledge hidden. I think perhaps he hoped you would find a home here—the home that he never had.” Kristinge closed his eyes to hold in a tear as Walbert looked over at the older monk and continued. “But a deeper hope that we all share is that your true home will be in the Lord, wherever he leads you.”

  “You have a gift, son,” Petrica added. “We have seen it in your Spirit, though perhaps this place gave you little chance to us it.”

  “A gift?” Kristinge asked. His pulse was racing faster now. They could not be speaking of his work as a scribe—his labors copying the old manuscripts. His hand was steady and clear, but it was not beautiful. He had once gone back to one of his copies, and seen in the margins notes written by other monks ridiculing the plainness of his script. Not that he didn’t enjoy the work. He especially loved copying the ancient Greek works. He loved myths and stories about gods of Olympus. Pagan gods, they were, yet they were also wonderful stories which so often had glimmers of truth about the one real God and his ways of mercy and justice. Pointers to the truth such as the Apostle Paul himself might have used when he preached by the temple of Athena. If Kristinge could tell such stories, he would be glad. But no, they could not be speaking of his work as a scribe. What, then? What was this gift of which they spoke?

  “You will be a prophet,” Walbert said. “A poet. Or are the two one and the same?”

  “Had you lived among the pagans,” Petrica explained, “you would be a great bard—a scop in the tongue of your people. It is written in you, somewhere, and it will come out.”

  “But how do you know these things?” Kristinge questioned them. He felt dumbfounded. Why did everybody else know more about him than he himself did? Another question that would continue to plague him.

  “Willimond saw it in you,” Petrica answered. “And he has known you longer than any.”

  Kristinge turned toward Willimond in surprise.

  “Thank Daelga, not me,” the older monk said. His voice was no longer challenging. “He told me when you were still young that you could be a great bard. This he told me even before he heard you sing! I think he read it in your eyes, your fingers. His opinion only grew stronger as you became older. If I had watched you less closely, I think he might have stolen you away as his own disciple. When Daelga was later baptized, he prophesied about you again. All that he said then, I have forgotten. Perhaps I did not listen as carefully as I ought to have.”

  Kristinge wanted to question Willimond more, but he did not have a chance. Everything was happening too quickly now. Walbert was already querying him again. “How far will you go this winter?”

  Kristinge was embarrassed that he had given the question so little thought. Up until then, the decision to leave had occupied him, rather than the particulars of how. “To Friesland, at least,” he said, giving the first answer that came to his head. “Perhaps to Danemark. If my mother is still alive—”

  “Then you should leave tomorrow. Travel will soon grow difficult. And Danemark is far. Snow comes early there.”

  “We can be ready tomorrow,” Willimo
nd said.

  It took a moment for the import of Willimond’s comment to reach Kristinge. “We?” he asked, almost falling off of his stool. All of Willimond’s laments of his many uprootings rushed into his mind. “You are going too?”

  “I am.”

  “But Willimond,” he objected. It was more than he could ask for. “Your home? You don’t need to—”

  “I have already packed my belongings. I have known this day was coming for some time.”

  “Then you’ve already decided—”

  Willimond cut him off before he could finish. “And Walbert, in his great kindness, has even said I could bring my scrolls that have been with me since Lindisfarne.”

  Kristinge could barely believe what he was hearing. “And our horses too?” he asked, spinning back to the Abbot. He had given little thought to his mode of transport. Now he considered how great a distance he was planning on going, and how long it would take on foot. “The ones we—”

  Walbert shook his head no. “They are no longer your horses. They were given to Luxeuil when you arrived. You gave up your personal possessions.”

  Kristinge’s heart sank, but only a little. He was still feeling overwhelmed and overjoyed by Willimond’s news. “Tomorrow?”

  Walbert nodded. “Now if I could speak with you alone,” he said, motioning for Willimond and Petrica to depart.

  The following morning, as their last act of participation in the community that had been their home, Kristinge and Willimond took part in Luxeuil’s prayers. Then they departed. Kristinge carried with him his few belongings: an extra robe, a warm woolen cloak and blanket, a walking staff, and a wallet of food containing provisions for three days if they were careful. Willimond had only a few more possessions than Kristinge; the older monk’s carefully rolled sheepskin parchments were bound together and tucked under one arm, and a larger odd-shaped bag was slung over his other shoulder. When they came to the edge of the cloister, they stopped. Kristinge and Willimond knelt before Walbert who prayed over them and blessed them. Then they rose to depart.

  “You remember your instructions?” The abbot asked Kristinge, handing him a package resembling a small scroll.

  “I do,” Kristinge replied, placing the package into his satchel. He saw the curious look on Willimond’s face and was about to explain when Father Petrica appeared from behind a hut at the northern edge of the cloister, slowly making his way in their direction. Kristinge was glad to see him. Despite the discipline he had received at his superior’s hand—especially during his final distracted summer at Annegray—he nonetheless felt a certain fondness for the older monk. He fell silent as he watched him approach, wondering what to say in farewell. But as was fitting for a Benedictine monastery, words did not matter. When Father Petrica arrived, he proved less formal than Walbert. In contrast to the sober and at times almost stern demeanor he had so often exhibited, there was both a smile and a tear upon his face as he wrapped his wiry arms around Kristinge and squeezed him in a tight hug. His strength surprised the young monk. “God be with you, brother,” he said.

  “And with you, Father,” Kristinge replied, returning the affectionate embrace.

  Then with a sly grin—another uncharacteristic expression on his normally austere face—Petrica handed Kristinge a palm-sized purse. “May this speed your voyage.”

  Surprised by the gift, Kristinge inspected the contents. The purse contained a dozen Roman coins, with a few Frankish and Danish coins also. It was enough, perhaps, for a few nights lodging along the way, or even for passage on a trading ship. Kristinge eyes lit up with gratitude. He didn’t know what to say. “Father! Thank you!” He turned to Abbot Walbert. “And you as well. Thank you.”

  “It is not much by the world’s standards,” Walbert explained. “It is what we can spare to send with you. And perhaps you will find that with God’s blessings it will last longer than you think.” Tears came to Kristinge’s eyes and a lump to his throat, but he could say nothing more. The abbot then turned to Willimond. “And you, brother? You came here with little, and you depart with little. If I know your heart, then I know that the greatest treasure you have is the Word, and that is hidden in your heart more clearly than it is written on your prized scrolls. Yet I would still give you something for your voyage. And so, as you go to be a shepherd, perhaps the most fitting gift I can give you is this.” He extended his left arm and presented Willimond with the ash walking staff he was carrying. “May this lighten the burden on your feet.”

  Willimond received the staff with gratitude. “You honor me. Truly I came here with little, and have left with much. I dwelt longer here than I did at Iona or Lindisfarne, and richly have I felt the blessing. It is not easily that I depart.”

  “It is not lightly that we let you depart,” Walbert smiled. “Go now with our blessings, and do not forget where you came from. Be as shrewd as serpents and as innocent as doves. Remember that you are ambassadors of the Gospel. If you are welcomed into a home, let your blessings rest on that place. If you are turned away, shake the dust from your sandals and move on.”

  His blessing given, Abbot Walbert embraced Willimond and Kristinge. Then he turned and strode back toward the barley fields with Petrica at his side.

  CHAPTER 3:

  Daelga’s Harp

  It was the booming voice of the chieftain that brought Kristinge back to the present. “Another song, bard. Or you will make me regret filling your cup with drink.”

  Kristinge glanced over at Willimond. The older monk was still seated on a bench against the wall, watching the performance from the shadows away from the fire. Not for the last time, the young monk-turned-bard wondered what he would have done without his friend and former mentor. When the older monk gave him a nod of confirmation, he smiled at him then stood. He took a final swig of the ale followed by a deep breath. Then he lifted his harp and stepped back toward the hearth. Everyone in the hall was watching him expectantly now. The chieftain Frotha. His thanes and hearth companions. The traders who were present. Willimond. And Aewin. She was no longer talking with the warrior at her side. Her gaze was upon the bard now. Kristinge’s neck tingled with the excitement of her glance. He plucked a few strings on the harp. He could still feel the barding spirit upon him. He knew what he must sing. It would not be long. An ode to many heroes of the north who had passed through hardships and on to joy. It was another song to please the warriors, but one that might also please a chieftain’s daughter.

  Weland by hindrances, by hardship was tested,

  endured the exile, that strong-minded earl.

  He found often woe, his friend was his sorrow,

  his companion was longing, the cold winter loneliness.

  His supple sinews, by Niphad were severed,

  his legs thus were bound, though he a better man.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  Was Beaduhilde’s doom— the deaths of her brothers

  were not as sorrowful as her own troubled state.

  She knew without doubt, and now was her dread,

  a child she carried; she could never now

  demand any answer, how it was destined.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  The moans of Maethild many have learned

  came without count, the Geat’s lady’s cries;

  A languishing love deprived her of sleep.

  The joys of life, laughter and song,

  strength and passion, she could not possess.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  Theoderic was exiled thirty long winters

  in the Maering’s city; many knew of his sorrow.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  Lo! We have heard tales of great horror:

  how Attila ruled, rode from the East

  with fell horsemen, the foul hunters.

  Their yoke was heavy. Hard were those years.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  We have learned as well of the wol
fish thoughts

  of Eormanic the king; how he cruelly ruled

  the wide Gothic country; that was a grim king.

  Brave warriors sat bound in their sorrow,

  expecting only misery, many times wishing

  that this cruel kingdom would be overcome.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  He who sits sorrow-bound, stripped of his pleasures,

  gloom in his heart, himself ever thinking

  that his heavy hardships will have no end,

  bethink on these words! In this world you are living,

  where God in his wisdom, that we do not have,

  sends among men both joy and sorrow.

  About myself I will say only this much:

  I was the Heodening’s scop, before them I sang.

  I was dear to my lord. Deor was my name.

  High was the honor I held for long years

  in my master’s heart, until Heorrenda,

  that song-crafty man, stole all my honors

  which the leader of men had long lent to me.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  The song was done. It was too pensive, too full of longing and emotion to be applauded, but Kristinge could see in the eyes of his audience that they had not gone unmoved. Quickly, before the mood of the hall was lost, he launched into another song—a longer tale of a young warrior who fell under the enchantment of the Fairy folk and with the help of a battered old war-blade became a mighty hero before losing all his strength when his chieftain unknowingly broke the enchantment by giving him a new sword. All the men-of-arms who knew the value of a battle-tested weapon cheered loudly when this song was over. Now Kristinge was warmed. Not even the eyes of the maiden could wholly distract him. Three more songs he sang, each as well-received as their predecessors, until Frotha tossed him a small gold ring and told him to sit. “Well done, bard,” the chieftain acknowledged. “You have earned your keep.”

  Kristinge collapsed back to his bench, exhilarated but exhausted. You have earned your keep. How odd it was to hear a chieftain say that to him. The title bard still sounded strange to his ears. That he had even come to take up the harp again was still something of a surprise to him. Despite all that Petrica and Walbert had said of his gifts—despite even what Willimond had told him about Daelga’s prophecy—Kristinge had not left Luxeuil with any intention of being a bard or scop. He had remembered little if any of what the old bard Daelga had taught him long ago; neither the songs, nor the plucking of the harp, nor even the rules by which the true bards composed. The little training he had received as a young boy in Hwitstan was too far in the past. The road and its dangers gave him enough to think about without trying to dredge from his memory a long list of old Frisian lays. Until the morning he had departed from Luxeuil, he hadn’t been sure how he would be traveling. His travels as a young novice and monk had been limited to a few short trips into nearby villages, either to aid Walbert in the preaching of the Gospel or to help the poor.