The Rood and the Torc Read online

There was a moment’s silence as Eomaer pondered this. When he spoke again, the threatening tone was gone but the anger was still audible in his voice. “Then you will help to make Réadban our king?”

  “I will see what the morrow brings. It may be, as you have so shrewdly pointed out, that as our war bands stand in the morning we will have much more to bargain with than we did today.”

  “Now you are the Aelfin I have known,” Eomaer said. “And thus there may be battle after all!”

  “I said only that I will wait to see what the day brings, and whether our bargaining position has changed with the light. Yet it would seem that Réadban is now our best hope to defeat the Franks and drive them from the Rhine.”

  “Then that was all you hoped for from the beginning.”

  “What I once hoped for, you have heard. What may now come to pass, who can say? I know I am too old to be threatened, and too young to be afraid. Remember also that Réadban may be your best hope to avenge your family on Aldgisl, and was that not all that you hoped for from the beginning?”

  They were now back at the mead hall. Word was sent throughout the village that there would be no battle that night. Sentries were posted in plenty, but most of the warriors returned to the hall or to their homes, told only to sleep with their swords at hand.

  “Then I have no need of this?” said Dyflines, stepping from out of the dark shadows near the corner of the hall. Kristinge saw that he had strapped a fine Frankish broadsword around his waist. Where the bard had obtained it, Kristinge did not know, but he looked as one who had really meant to use it had the need arisen.

  “We have greater need of your harp,” Aelfin answered. He started into the hall. Eomaer followed him, along with the thanes that had been with them on the ramp.

  Kristinge, glad for the opportunity to be safe within the mead hall once again, and thinking about the warm fire and some mead, waited for the last of the warriors to precede him and then stepped through the door. The thought of listening to Dyflines cheered him. He could use a song to break the tension. Yet had he thought even for a moment about what had just happened, he might have been more reluctant. At least he would have been more prepared for the greeting he received. But he was not. The events of the day had left him little time to think.

  “STOP!” Aelfin shouted angrily. For an instant, Kristinge didn’t realize to whom Aelfin was speaking. He instinctively obeyed, coming to a frozen halt just two steps inside the hall as he glanced over his shoulders wondering if one of Réadban’s warriors had sneaked up behind him. But Aelfin was looking right at Kristinge. “You have no place here,” the chieftain went on. Beside him, Eomaer was also glaring fiercely at Kristinge. “Tonight you have forfeited your right to stand in this hall. This is a place for warriors. For thanes, and men. For the chieftain and his hearthwerod. You are no warrior. No man of honor. And I have no need for a bard who knows so little the value of truth. Nor do I need a Christian priest. Be gone, and do not set foot here again.”

  Kristinge was too stunned to speak. This was the man who had named him as a foster son. The very same one who just moments ago risked much to protect him.

  “Shall I drive him from this place with the flat of my blade?” Eomaer asked, when Kristinge did not budge. He took a step in Kristinge’s direction. Kristinge backed out through the door, his jaw hanging down.

  “Wait!” Aelfin said. Kristinge stopped. He was trembling. “The torc. This, too, you have forfeited. You are no son of Finn’s. Give it to me.”

  Kristinge did not dare resist. With a shaking hand, he reached back into his purse and pulled out the gold neck band one more time. It was the last he was to hold on to it. He handed it to Ceolac, who stood beside him. Ceolac walked it over to his chieftain, and placed it on his neck. “It fits you well, my lord,” the thane said.

  “So it does,” Maccus added. “Perhaps that is where it ought to stay.”

  The warriors watching the scene started to turn toward the fire, but Eomaer was not finished with Kristinge. The torc was not all that he wanted back. Still brandishing his blade, he stepped toward the former monk. Kristinge winced and tried to pull away as strong quick hands reached for his neck. He was not quick enough, and felt a sharp tug and a sting of pain. Then Eomaer stood in front of him holding in his hand the pendant he had given Kristinge months before: the token of betrothal to Aewin. “This, too, you have you forfeited,” the young chieftain said, then he turned his back and stalked away leaving Kristinge alone.

  Kristinge did not hear what went on between Aelfin and Eomaer after that, nor did he hear any of Dyflines’ songs that evening. Rough hands fell upon his shoulders, and a moment later he found himself on the ground outside the mead hall. Though he had been in the warmth for only a few moments, the outside air felt more cold and hostile than it had that day or many days past. Taking one last envious look at the light visible around the edges of the door, he turned and walked back toward his hut near the chapel. It would be a cold, fireless night. Yet the icy chill of the winter air was the least of the stings that bit into him. The chill in his heart was far deeper. For he knew beyond a doubt exactly what it was that Eomaer had taken away from him. It was not the pendant. It was Aewin herself. There would be no wedding.

  It was early morning. Dunnere was returning from the woods across the fields on the southwest side of Ezinge. He was leading a pair of goats, and gazing heavenward as he praised the Creator for His great blessings. He was only a few steps out of the trees when he saw black smoke spreading out into the sky above the village. A second later, the odor of burning wood reached his nostrils. He lowered his eyes from the skies back down toward the ground. Beneath the thick dark smoke that hung low in the cold winter air, an orange flicker shot out from a building near the southern edge of the terp. It was followed by another. Ezinge was in flames.

  Dunnere stared blankly for just a moment before he understood. Flames in the dead of winter could mean only one thing. Stricken by sudden fear for his clansmen and village, the peasant started running toward the village, forgetting for a moment the two goats he had been leading. However he had taken but a few steps when he slowed, then stopped. Could mean only one thing. Raiders. A war band. A battle. And Ezinge had lost.

  Dunnere’s eyes opened wide. Lost?! What would he do when he arrived? He did not know. He felt panic rising within him. What if the enemy was still sacking the village. There was no use in going toward the village. If he was to run, it would be in the other direction. Yes, run, he thought. Escape. He turned back toward the woods to flee. Then he saw the goats and remembered what he had been doing. No, he thought. Do not flee. Walking back to his cares, he stooped to picked up the two ropes which held them. He looked again toward the trees and the safety they represented, but he resisted the temptation. He turned back around and faced the village. After a few moments’ thought, he went onward. After all, God had sent him with a purpose. Anyway, how would an old peasant survive alone in the woods in the dead of winter? More slowly this time, leading the two goats on their short ropes, Dunnere began forward again. He scanned the land around the terp now, looking for signs of a raiding party along the axwei, and occasionally lifting his eyes to the sky where the smoke was still rising. By the time he reached the base of the terp a few minutes later, his legs were trembling. Yet he kept on. God had sent him on an errand. The Lord would not fail him. He must not fail the Lord. Dunnere’s strong, wiry old legs carried up the steep bank, with the goats climbing right behind him.

  When he reached the top of the slope, Dunnere scanned the village. To his relief, there was no sign of fighting. No enemy. Why the smoke then? He skirted around the side of a small hut, keeping his eyes open for danger. He had taken only a few steps before the source of the flames came into view. Then Dunnere’s heart sank deep into his belly. For what he saw was worse than an enemy war band. It was the chapel. His small church was in flames.

  Where is Kristinge? He wondered. Why is nobody putting out the flames? Once again, Dunnere
dropped the ropes and began to run, leaving the goats where they were. And once again, he took only a few steps before he stopped. The scene was in full view now. There were men at the chapel, but they were making no effort to quench the fire which by this time had nearly devoured the small structure. What? Dunnere murmured. Could it be? Did his eyes deceive? No. He was not deceived. It was Aelfin, the chieftain. Beside him, a dozen other of his thanes and warriors looked on at the scene. What were they doing? Leaving the goats where they were to wander around the frozen turf foraging for food, Dunnere started trudging forward. Then came the sight that almost stopped his heart altogether. Crumbled on the ground beside the fire was Kristinge. All around him, Aelfin’s warriors stood with swords drawn. Aelfin had killed the priest.

  No! Dunnere shouted. Not pausing to consider the danger to himself, he ran toward the scene as fast as his old legs could carry him. What had they done to his priest? Why had God—?

  Dunnere stopped near the edge of the half-circle just a few paces behind the thane Ceolac. Nobody noticed the old peasant or the tears streaming from his face. Almost involuntarily, his eyes fell upon the still form of Kristinge. Wait? What was this? Praise be to the God. Kristinge was not dead. He was bruised and dirty, but his eyes were still open and streaming tears as he watched his chapel burn to the ground. Glad to see that his priest was still alive, Dunnere now looked at him more closely. Thankfully he did not appear badly injured. Yet the pain in his eyes was clear as he stared at the sight of his chapel in flames: the chapel that Willimond had built many years earlier.

  Why? Dunnere wondered.

  A moment later came the heavy voice. “You have made your choice. Serve your weak god.” It was the chieftain Aelfin speaking. “You have no part in Ezinge. No part in the mead hall. No fellowship with the hearthwerod of a chieftain. Today, you are no longer my son—”

  “But the chapel—” Kristinge pleaded.

  “We have our own gods. They have served my people from time without count, and they will serve us still. Your god has no place among the strong. Be gone, and return not to Ezinge except on pain of your own death.”

  Kristinge didn’t respond at once, but just lay there, staring. A big scarred warrior—one whom Dunnere had heard named Maccus—put his booted foot in Kristinge’s side and nudged him roughly. “The chieftain has spoken. Rise and be gone.” The thane Ceolac was a little more kind. He reached down and helped Kristinge to his feet.

  “Where?” Kristinge asked.

  “Go find your god,” Ceolac answered.

  The despondent Kristinge took one last look at his chapel in flames. Then a push from one of the warriors propelled him from the spot. Dunnere reached out and caught him as he stumbled forward. He led the young priest from the fire and the harsh angry faces, and started walking toward the edge of the terp where the goats were waiting. “Are you hurt?” he asked gently.

  Kristinge shook his head, but he was limping. “My harp,” he mumbled. “Cloaks and scrolls.” Dunnere didn’t know what Kristinge was talking about until Kristinge leaned them both toward his hut. Understanding now, Dunnere waited as Kristinge gathered his few belongings: a pair of cloaks, his treasured harp, and a few parchments of holy writing.

  “Be gone!” Aelfin shouted when they emerged. Still leaning on Dunnere for support, Kristinge lowered his head, and without a word started walking.

  “I thought they had killed you,” Dunnere said.

  At first Kristinge didn’t answer. When he spoke, his voice was broken. “I have lost all. All. The chapel—Willimond’s chapel—burned. And Aewin… Aewin. What have I done?”

  Dunnere did not know of whom Kristinge spoke, but now was not the time for questions. “Wait for me at the bottom of the terp,” he said into the priest’s ear. Kristinge nodded absently. Dunnere looked at him closely to see that he would be able to walk alone. Then he started back across the edge of the village to where he had left the two goats. The goats had not wandered far. At that time of year, beneath the crusty snow, there was little grazing to be done atop the terp. The old peasant grabbed the two ropes and hurried back to the ramp. Kristinge was only half way down; Dunnere caught him by the time he reached the bottom. He did not ask what had happened. The dealings of chieftains was not his business. Yet in his heart he wondered if he once again had his priest back. They walked silently for a time, heading southward across the fields toward the edge of the wood. When they were some distance from the village, he spoke. “The goat is for you.” He hoped his words would encourage Kristinge.

  “What?”

  “The goat. It is for you.”

  For the first time, Kristinge lifted his head and looked Dunnere in the eye. “I do not understand,” he said. Then he lowered his head again, as if he were ashamed even of Dunnere’s gaze.

  “God gave me two. One for each of us.”

  “God—?” Kristinge started to ask.

  “He called me into the woods two days ago. He told me to keep walking and that I would find them. He said one was for you, that you would soon be needing it.”

  Kristinge nodded, but showed little surprise. “He was right.”

  “I’ve already tasted their milk, you know,” Dunnere went on, his former cheerful demeanor returning. “It is fine milk. As long as she is with you, you will not want for good drink.”

  Kristinge raised his head again. This time he stopped walking. “This is for me?” he asked, as if he had not heard a word Dunnere had said.

  Dunnere stood watching Kristinge for a moment. “Have they injured you?”

  “Just a few bruises. I will heal.”

  “Yes. The goat is for you.” He handed one rope to Kristinge. “And see?” he pointed. “God gave one for me also. It is bigger than the one I lost. She gives even more milk.”

  Kristinge shook his head once in amazement, then turned and started on. “God is good,” he said, though his voice gave no indication that he really meant it.

  “He is,” Dunnere replied, in a more convincing tone. “He has showed me something else, too. Not so far away as the goats were. Just a morning’s walk. Come with me.”

  Kristinge obeyed. They walked together throughout the morning, speaking little. Though Dunnere did not know what had happened, he did not bother the priest with his questions but gave him some time of silence. The air was once again unusually warm for winter, and they loosened their cloaks. When the sun had reached its highest point on its winter arc across the southern sky, the peasant produced from his pouch a loaf of bread and some wine. They shared the meal in silence. Then they continued their march. It took longer than Dunnere expected to reach their destination. Kristinge was walking very slowly, and Dunnere did not think he ought to disturb him by increasing the pace, so he patiently walked alongside. Yet when he saw the goal in a small cluster of trees ahead of them, he could not contain himself any longer. “See?” he asked. “It is here. God led me here, and told me I was to bring you—that you would know what to do.”

  Kristinge lifted his eyes and looked. For a moment, his face lit up with surprise. Dunnere, who was watching him closely, was glad to see this. The priest was too young to be so downcast. Then Dunnere turned and looked alongside Kristinge at the scene in front of them. Ahead, in a small grove of elms and ashes, was a small hut like that of a hermit. The walls and roof were made of rough hewn wood, with clay daubing sealing the cracks. It had a heavy bear hide for a door. Kristinge looked questioningly at Dunnere.

  “It is for you. I did not understand at the time, though now I do. God said it was for you.” Dunnere hoped to see a look of joy on his priest’s face in appreciation for God’s provision, but Kristinge only stared ahead. “Come. Follow me,” Dunnere finally said. Silently, they approached the building. They looked over the outside for a moment, and then entered. It was bigger than it looked: perhaps ten feet wide and twelve feet long. It was just tall enough for a warrior to stand upright in. Dunnere, who was small, had plenty of head room. The hut was sparsely though adequately
furnished: a bench, a single table, a pile of straw for a bed, and a small stone hearth for a fire. There were a few shelves on the wall too, with some pottery jars. All were empty, Dunnere informed Kristinge, but they would come in handy. “I don’t think anybody has lived here for many years?” he concluded.

  “Who built it?” Kristinge asked, speaking for the first time since they entered.

  “Don’t know. Maybe God himself.”

  Kristinge just stood shaking his head. “Am I to be a hermit then?” he asked in a dismayed voice. Without waiting for an answer from Dunnere or God, he turned and walked out the door. Once outside, however, he did not leave. He sat down on the frozen ground nearby.

  “If you don’t mind,” Dunnere said. “I’ll stay here with you a few days. Help you get some wood. Maybe find some food. I saw plenty of rabbit tracks. They shouldn’t be too hard to trap.”

  “A hermit?” Kristinge muttered.

  In the end, Dunnere stayed for more than a week. For the first few days, the priest spoke little and Dunnere was worried about him. Before long, however, he was like his old self again. They gathered fire-wood together and explored the surrounding area until they had found a nearby spring and also some frequented game trails. As Dunnere had suspected, despite the cold they had little trouble capturing small game to eat, and Kristinge remembered his old monastic skills at finding edible roots even in wintertime. They built a small additional shelter for the goats, but somehow the goats managed to find their way into the house every night and the two added bodies helped with the warmth. When Kristinge unrolled his small bag of parchments with the scriptures, Dunnere guessed he would be okay. He left shortly after that, but throughout the winter and into the following spring he visited the hut frequently. At first the visits were to make sure the priest was surviving well enough. Then they were just for the fellowship. They spent many Sabbath afternoons together.

  Though the inside of his hut was but a few degrees above freezing, Kristinge woke in a sweat. The word of the prophetess Osanne were ringing in his ears. They had come back to haunt him. You will build no church. One who comes after you will build it. You will build no church. No church. You are just a voice. Yet for some reason the words no longer haunted Kristinge as they once had. So the prophetess had been right. He had not only failed to build a church; he had succeeding in getting one burned down. And now what was he? Monk? No. Not even priest. A hermit. He laughed at himself. This had never been in his plans. But perhaps it had been in God’s plan from the start. Wide awake, he walked to the door. The moon glistened on the freshly fallen snow. Winter was not yet gone, but it was going. The snow was heavy and wet. It would not be long before it disappeared. He threw another log onto the embers of his fire, then pulled out his harp. After a time he began to sing.