The Rood and the Torc Page 41

  When Kristinge awoke, the angle of sunlight at the door of the hall told that it was already midday. He was surprised to find the hour so advanced, and leapt from his bench to see if the village were already besieged. But though Aelfin and Eomaer were not to be seen, most of the warriors still sat in benches around the hall sharpening and testing their weapons while speaking in low voices of battles past, glories yet to come, and families left behind. The mood in the hall was tense, but there was yet no sign of any enemy. Kristinge, afraid to leave the hall for fear that he might have to face Aelfin, remained near the fire keeping to himself in silence.

  It was two hours later when the watchmen first spotted the enemy war band approaching. Daylight was already fading from the sky when the lead riders became visible far across the fields to the east of Ezinge, near to the downstream portion of the Hunze river. Within moments, both Aelfin and Eomaer had been notified. They returned to the hall and told the warriors that the time had come. “Be brave,” Aelfin said. “There is glory to be won this day for the warrior who shows his strength and courage.” Then, already dressed and armed, the two chieftains hurried to the eastern end of the village. Kristinge donned his warm cloak, and pausing only briefly to check that Finn’s torc was secure in the purse at his side, he followed. His sword he left behind.

  Before half the enemy army had emerged from the distant trees, all of Ezinge had gathered on the edge of the terp to watch their approach. It was then that Kristinge realized it was not only the warriors of Ezinge who were armed; Aelfin had armed many of the peasant villagers as well. Kristinge’s heart felt heavy at the thought that they all might be going into battle on his account: that they might die on his account. He looked for Dunnere among the untrained peasants, but he didn’t see him. Nonetheless, his resolve quickened. There was no time to speak with Aelfin now, nor did he have the courage. He would have to act on his own.

  “Thirty on horseback,” Ceolac announced when they were close enough for him to count. “I see two standards. There are two chieftains among them: two wearing torcs.”

  “Aldgisl and Réadban,” Maccus guessed. “They have come together to dispose of us and claim the torc. Yet both, I think, would be happier with a king’s torc of their own than with a chieftain’s. Maybe we should just let them fight one other.”

  Nobody responded to Maccus’ last comment. At the name of Aldgisl, Eomaer eyes narrowed and his steely grip on his sword tightened. Kristinge saw this, and wondered how his young friend would respond to his plan. There was no time left to warn him either. No time to tell anybody. He wondered who would be most surprised. When Eomaer had arrived with word of Aldgisl’s approach, Aelfin had assumed without asking that this news was enough to convince Kristinge that it was too late to turn back—enough to dissuade him from abandoning his torc. “There will be other chieftains among them as well if this war band numbers three hundred,” Aelfin said. “Aldgisl had no easy task to raise and feed a war band of that size at this time of year, though he already holds great sway over many lesser chieftains. This must be a federation.”

  “It numbers more than three hundred,” said Ceolac who was still looking at the approaching army and counting. Just now, the last warriors were coming into view.

  “How many?” a number of voices asked at once.

  “Four hundred or more.”

  Both chieftains could be heard drawing their breath sharply. But Eomaer’s eyes were flashing as he spoke. “This is a good sign.”

  “Good?” Kristinge mumbled, looking at him in surprise

  Aelfin, Ceolac, and Maccus also waited for an explanation. “How so, young friend? Even against two hundreds we would have earned ourselves enough glory in victory.”

  “Wieuwerd is safe,” Eomaer explained. “Aldgisl cannot have waged a battle against Wigmaer, defeated him, and readied his troops to move again in such a short time. Not with the whole of his army.”

  “Then Wigmaer is safe,” Aelfin said.

  “It would seem so.”

  “And he will come to our aid?”

  “If Woden is good to us,” Eomaer replied.

  Kristinge knew that the hopes of Aelfin and Eomaer rested on Wigmaer and the other chieftains allied with them. If Theoman, Wihtred, and Aescholt arrived with their war bands soon enough to bolster Ezinge’s defense, and at the same time Wigmaer brought an attack against Aldgisl’s rear, then they stood a chance of winning and driving the enemy away even outnumbered as they were. For this was their home territory. They held the defense of the terp. However despite Eomaer’s proud words, without the help of these other chieftains the sixty in Ezinge had little hope of standing for long against Aldgisl’s four hundred.

  All fell silent then as they watched the army advance, seeming to grow larger as it spread itself out over the village fields which were now frozen and lightly covered with snow. First came thirty on horseback, keeping together in a little pack near the front left flank. Many of them wore battle helms. These were thanes and nobles; they would fight with broadswords and perhaps spears. Following them, the four hundred foot soldiers came in a less orderly fashion, carrying spears, axes, and all manners of weapons. At the end of the train were a half dozen carts pulled by pairs of oxen over the hard ground. Weapons and supplies, Kristinge guessed. There was no doubt that this war band came for battle. They marched across the flax fields like locusts, only these locusts were bent on the destruction of the village itself and not just its grain. When Kristinge saw for himself the size of Aldgisl’s host, confirming Ceolac’s count and far exceeding Eomaer’s, his heart began to pound harder. He had never seen an army this big. Even at the largest celebrations of his childhood he never remembered seeing so many warriors gathered at once in Hwitstan. It dwarfed even the Danish raiding bands that he had left in their coastal villages the previous spring.

  That it was Aldgisl and Réadban whose war bands now approached Ezinge was confirmed soon enough. Aldgisl was a tall warrior with a heavy dark red beard nearly matched in color by the bronze boar on his helmet. Aelfin, who had in the past ridden into battle at his side, spotted him first and pointed him out to the others. “If it comes to battle, let your blades seek first his neck.”

  “No. That one is mine,” Eomaer claimed, giving no consideration to the fact that their war band was outnumbered by four hundred to sixty and that only by the wildest turn of fate would he even be alive on the morrow.

  Réadban they also spotted soon enough. He was a little smaller than Aelfin, and much older. He wore no helmet over his graying head, but at his side carried a heavy black shield, like the Frankish infantry shields. There was a hushed silence over the defenders atop the terp as Réadban and Aldgisl drew closer. Kristinge could see the men around him counting the approaching warriors, and shaking their heads in dismay. A few turned back toward the village, as if to make sure their wives and children were hidden in their huts. Or perhaps to see them for the last time. The enemy warriors were close enough now that their faces were visible: a whole sea of them. When the advancing army came to the base of the terp, they began to spread out along the axwei on the eastern edge of the village.

  Eomaer motioned to the few archers whom Aelfin had set up with their bows. “Should we take a few now and give them warning not to stand so close to the terp?”

  Aelfin shook his head. “Let us speak with them first and hear what they will say.”

  “By the gods, you will not surrender!” Eomaer cried.

  Aelfin shook his head. “We may yet escape this battle, but not by surrender. Mostly, I hope to delay. The longer we wait, the more chance of the others arriving to aid us.” Even as Aelfin said this, as if in response to his wishes, Aldgisl and Réadban began to make their way around to the southern end of the village where the horse path onto the terp was. Six other warriors rode with them.

  “Come,” Aelfin said. “We will go to greet them. A meeting will buy us some of that time we hope for.” He turned to a young warrior beside him, one whom Kristinge gue
ssed had never seen battle. “Bring us four torches before it grows dark.”

  The young warrior appeared eager to comply, and dashed off at once to the hall. Then while the rest of the two mismatched armies stared at one another, Aelfin, Eomaer, and Kristinge walked briskly to the southern end of the village along with Maccus, Ceolac, Treothrym, and a dozen other of Aelfin’s and Eomaer’s strongest thanes. They stopped at the top of the ramp and watched as Aldgisl, Réadban and their thanes rode their mounts halfway up the path. When the two pairs of chieftains were fifty feet apart, Réadban stopped and lifted his hand. His men obeyed the command to halt. Another moment of silence followed while the leaders of the two armies faced one other, each measuring the other’s resolve.

  It was a tense few seconds. Until that moment, Kristinge had naïvely assumed that if he carried through with his plan, it would be enough to save Ezinge. But now, as he sensed more fully how little love existed between the two sets of chieftains, he realized this was not the case: that no matter what words were spoken that night, battle was the likely outcome. Understanding this, he began to tremble.

  “I see we have been expected,” Réadban finally said with a tone of proud sarcasm. He did not bother with the usual formality of exchanging greetings: a formality that was customary even among enemies. Astride his horse, his head was almost level with the top of the terp, and there was a look of haughty confidence on his face. As he spoke, his piercing eyes glanced furtively around the party of warriors facing him, as if looking for somebody in particular.

  Kristinge felt Réadban’s disdainful look as it rested upon him momentarily and then disregarded him and moved on. He shuddered briefly at the hateful touch of those eyes, but pushed it from his mind. He was focusing every ounce of concentration he had on the situation in front of him, bringing to bear everything he had learned so that he could pick his moment. Réadban had spoken first, and not Aldgisl. he noted. His thoughts were all still at the conscious level, not yet intuitive. What did that mean? Was not Aldgisl the leader of this war band: the one who aspired to be king? In the past fifteen months he had learned far more about the Frisian and Danish chieftains and the life and dealings of their societies than in the entire previous six years at Luxeuil put together. He had learned more about the Germanic warrior, about warfare and diplomacy, and about political ambitions and aspirations. He wondered if it would be enough for the trial he now faced.

  “If you come seeking battle against fellow Frisians, you will find more battle here than either of you desired,” Aelfin replied loudly enough for all to hear. “Why do you bring such a large war band to the edge of my village, and approach me wearing a battle helm? When proud warriors surround my village in battle attire, I do not invite them to my mead hall.”

  The formal duel of words had begun: a duel that might last many minutes or many hours. It was Aldgisl who spoke next, but he did not answer Aelfin’s question. It was not the duty of Frisian chieftains—especially of those who sought to be king—to answer questions from inferiors. Kings asked questions. “Is it true that you have raised a war band against me?”

  “There is a war band gathered and ready to fight the Franks,” Aelfin replied. But he gave no more ground. “Do you stand against us?”

  “You think to win back what you so easily lost in the past?” Réadban was speaking again, taking the reigns of the conversation back from Aldgisl, but also sidestepping Aelfin’s question as Aldgisl had done. There was a challenging tone in his voice: like his glance, one of undisguised disdain and hatred. “Hah,” he added, before Aelfin could respond. “Why would we believe you could succeed now, where you failed before?”

  Kristinge’s eyes opened wider. There could be no doubt that this was a deliberately intended insult. He did not need years of experience to know that Réadban was recalling the day when Aelfin had let Domburg fall to the Franks. He was not just testing Aelfin but deliberately seeking to provoke a battle. But why? he wondered. What had Réadban to gain from a fight?

  In loyalty to their chieftain, Aelfin’s thanes dropped their hands to their swords. If Réadban was trying to provoke a fight, he was following the right path. Aelfin’s face turned red, and his voice rose close to the level of shouting as he gave his reply. “We seek to do what has long been needed: to drive the Franks far from the Rhine and take back all of Friesland. If you knew less cowardice, the war band behind you would have traveled south long ago, instead of north to harass your own folk: your blood kinsmen and fellow Frisians.”

  “It is a worthy goal,” Aldgisl said, interrupting the words between Aelfin and Réadban with a comment that took them both by surprise. “Why indeed should the Franks be allowed on Frisian soil? Why should we not drive them far over the Rhine? Gather a war band and sweep through Domburg.” He smiled. “It is a battle that might even make a king of a chieftain. For with such victories kings are made.” He looked squarely in Aelfin’s eyes as he said this.

  “A king?” Réadban asked with mock innocence.

  “It may be that there is one who already has claim to this kingship,” Aelfin replied boldly. “One whose father and father’s father wore Friesland’s torc and ruled us all.”

  “Then rumors are true,” Réadban said, his own voice now also rising to the level of shouting. Again his eyes could be seen glancing around. Only this time, Kristinge knew for whom he was looking. He felt exposed.

  “Do you stand against us?” Aelfin asked again, ignoring both Aldgisl’s correct assessment of their real motives and also Réadban’s comment. “Do you force us to bring our battle against you, instead of against our proper enemies?”

  Kristinge, who had never seen Aelfin appear so haughty and angry, began to despair further. The situation would be out of his hands before he had a chance to act. But again Aldgisl interrupted the shouting between Réadban and Aelfin. His voice was calm and controlled. “Must we yell at each other like enemies? Or shall we come together as Frisian blood-kin?”

  It was strange. Kristinge got the impression that under other circumstances he would have liked Aldgisl. But his hopes for peace were still dwindling. Aelfin did not back down. He was seething. If he had a bigger war band, he might have begun a battle already. Réadban had done his work too well. “When a chieftain brings a large war band to my village and approaches with insults and battle helms, I do not invite him into my mead hall until I hear more of his purposes.”

  “There are only eight of us,” Aldgisl said. He lifted both hands off his horse. “The war band waits behind us. Their orders are to remain until we return. If you still fear us, we will come to you unarmed.”

  “We fear nobody,” Aelfin growled, though he made no motion to accept Aldgisl’s proposal. Kristinge could see him pondering what to do. He guessed the chieftain’s thoughts. Did he really have a chance of winning a battle against such a large foe? Or was he forced to back down and let Réadban’s insults go unchallenged.

  Eomaer leaned over and spoke softly to Aelfin. Only Kristinge and Maccus were close enough to hear. “Do not let them come up here. It is a ruse. They wish to spy the village and survey our defenses. Do not let them know how many stand against them. Let them feel some doubt.”

  Aelfin nodded. Without taking his eyes off Aldgisl, he replied to Eomaer’s question with a question of his own. “What then shall we do? Would you have us go down among them? Aldgisl is a man of honor, but I do not trust Réadban. The path that brought him his torc is still wet with blood, even of his own kinsman.”

  “Have them send their horses away,” Eomaer whispered. “We will meet them on the ramp.”

  Aelfin looked approvingly at Eomaer. Ignoring the situation for a moment, he spoke. “You are wise. I hope we live through this day that we might fight side by side again. Together, we might well defeat the Franks.” Then he looked back toward the enemy and shouted. “Send your horses away. We will come down to you and talk.”

  Réadban appeared about to say something, but Aldgisl reached out his hand and held him.
“We will do as you say.”

  Réadban pulled his arm free from Aldgisl’s grasp, but he did not gainsay the other’s words. Aldgisl dismounted first, followed by Réadban and their thanes. At Réadban’s order, one of them led the eight horses back down the ramp. When the horses were gone, Aelfin stepped forward. Eomaer went with him on one side and Kristinge on the other. The three of them were flanked by Maccus and Ceolac. Five other warriors followed behind as they started down off the terp.

  The two parties met in the middle of the ramp where horse, cattle, and oxen were led into and out of the village. Though oft in battles past many of them had fought at one another’s sides, now the two groups stood staring at one another from four paces apart like blood enemies. Though no weapons were drawn, no onlookers would have mistaken this for a friendly meeting. Eomaer in particular was looking at Aldgisl with fire in his eyes.

  But again Aldgisl showed why he was worthy of making the claim at kingship. Before either of the other three chieftains could speak, he began. “Folcwalda was a king worthy of his torc. He ruled well. His thanes had no cause to rebel, and his enemies no cause for pride. His hands were rich and generous, and those who served in his hall were fortunate. Finn too was a good king, served by loyal and proud thanes.” At these words, Réadban began to grind his teeth and clench his fists. Kristinge saw that he did not share that opinion. But Aldgisl continued to speak, looking around at the warriors facing him as he did. “I have heard that even Finnlaf was held in as high praise as his father and father’s father before him, though his life’s days were cut short.”