The Rood and the Torc Page 45

  I have a bothy in the wood

  None knows it save the Lord, my God

  One wall an ash, the other hazel

  and a great fern makes the door.

  The doorposts are made of heather;

  and the lintel of honeysuckle;

  and wild forest all around

  yields mast for well-fed swine.

  The size of my hut? The smallest thing.

  Homestead amid well-trod paths.

  A woman (but a blackbird clothed and seeming)

  warbles sweetly from its gable.

  It was early morning, and Réadban stood on the edge of the terp in Ezinge. Six months had passed since Finn’s torc had come to adorn his neck, and nearly all of Friesland’s chieftains now acknowledged him as their overlord. Only Aldgisl and a few of his most loyal thanes resisted. These lived in hiding: a small, outlawed war band, on the run. Their existence concerned Réadban, but for now Aldgisl and his band would have to wait; the king had other duties to attend to. It was the fourth time Réadban had returned to Ezinge since receiving the torc. Summer’s Day celebration had ended two days prior, but that was not the reason for his coming. This time it was to gather his war band for his assault on the Franks. Time for the promised battle for which he would earn the allegiance of so many chieftains: the battle for which he had been chosen as leader. For with such victories, kings were made.

  With the sun rising red behind him, Réadban cast a shadow that faded somewhere far in the distance, beyond his sight. Below him, where the shadow of the entire terp lay on the river plain surrounding the village, an army of six hundred stood awaiting his order. Among them were more than sixty well trained thanes, and as many horses. It was a formidable war band. Beside Réadban stood his chieftains, surveying the band for themselves. Aelfin and Eomaer were among them. It had taken a few days for Eomaer’s anger to cool, and a few more after that for Aelfin to convince him of the wisdom of following Réadban. Actually, Aelfin alone might have done little to convince him had not Réadban himself earned Eomaer’s support. The new king had given the young chieftain the duty of finding and capturing Aldgisl and his war band—or killing them: a task which Eomaer relished, though he had not yet enjoyed success.

  “How many more will join us between here and Domburg?” Aelfin asked.

  “Two hundred and fifty,” Réadban responded. “We will number ten times what the Frankish war band in Domburg numbers by the time we arrive. We will sweep them into the sea. Then we will do the same all along the Rhine, as far as Susburg.”

  Aelfin nodded. There was a gleam of anticipation in his eye at the mention of recapturing Domburg. Another spoke, an older chieftain with a long braid of gray hair and once-blue eyes that had now faded to nearly the color of his locks. “It is the largest Frisian war band in the memory of any chieftain alive. You have done well, Réadban.”

  “Had we raised such an army seven years ago, the Danes never would have defeated Finn,” Aelfin added.

  At this, Réadban’s eyes narrowed into slits. He didn’t reply.

  “Are you not concerned with Aldgisl?” Eomaer asked.

  Réadban knew what Eomaer was thinking. He desired permission to abandon the battle against the Franks in order to carry out his own vengeance against Aldgisl. But Réadban could not spare him. His horses would be needed against the Franks. There were none in Friesland who could match the skill of Eomaer’s men in doing battle from the back of a steed. Furthermore, if rumor was to be trusted, Aldgisl’s band numbered fifty or more. They might prove too much for Eomaer, despite all his skill. Aldgisl was a crafty one. “No,” Réadban answered. “The Franks are our concern now. We will need you with us.” He didn’t wait for Eomaer to argue. He drew his sword and prepared to raise it in the signal to march.

  “Wait!” Aelfin said. Réadban turned to him. “A rider is coming,” Aelfin explained, pointing southward across the fields.

  Sure enough, a lone rider had appeared from the trees and was now approaching across the fields following a direct line toward where the chieftains were standing. Thinking at first he might be one of Réadban’s scouts returning, they waited. When he drew closer, however, they saw that it was not a scout at all. At first nobody even recognized him. He rode a small dapple steed, unlike those usually seen in Friesland, and he sat upon it rather awkwardly. He had a thick beard, not yet long but with a wild unkempt look nonetheless. Along with the beard he bore a strange cut of hair: long in the back and short in the top front as if at one time he had shaved his forehead and was now letting it grow back. On his chest he wore a sleeveless bear-skin tunic. His feet were bare.

  “Greetings, great warriors,” the stranger’s voice rang out when he had reached the bottom of the terp. To Réadban’s right, Aelfin stiffened as if in recognition. Yet he said nothing.

  “Who are you?” Réadban asked.

  “Just a voice,” the stranger answered.

  Réadban was in good spirits that day, else he might not have been so patient. And there was more than that at work also; there was something about this stranger that was oddly compelling: an arresting power that caused even a king to stop and listen. “If you have something to say, then speak it. Else depart.”

  “He speaks like a Frank,” one of the chieftains whispered in Réadban’s ear. “Hear his accent? He is a spy. Do not let him leave.”

  “It is no concern,” Réadban answered. “Even if we let him go, he will not reach Domburg far ahead of us.”

  “It is no Frankish spy—” Aelfin began.

  Réadban wasn’t listening. He had already turned back toward the stranger. “I am in little mood to waste time this morning. If you have a message, we will hear it.”

  “You have commanded me to speak my message, then?” the stranger queried.

  “I need not be told what I said. Now you try my patience. Speak.”

  “Hear then my message: the God of all the earth says this to the king of Friesland, ‘Do not rise up in pride against the Franks. Their time of destruction will soon come, but you are not the one who will bring it about. Be content with what you have been given, for if your feet cross the waters of the Rhine but once, they will never return to their home. This I say to you and all your descendants.’ So speaks the God of the Heavens.” So saying, the stranger turned his mount and began riding back toward the woods.

  For a moment, Réadban stood there silently. Then, regaining his senses, he shouted. “Catch him. Do not let him escape. Bring him back to me alive.” Nobody responded. Nobody knew to whom Réadban was speaking. He had to repeat himself two more times, shouting the names of four of his thanes who were already mounted before any of them would act. By this time, the stranger had already covered considerable distance toward the woods. His small steed moved surprisingly fast. Finally, four warriors broke from the ranks of the war band to pursue him. But somehow, their reigns tangled up in one another, and they were further delayed. Before they finally started galloping after him, he had already disappeared in the woods.

  They stopped just a hundred feet away and turned back toward Réadban. “Lord?” they shouted up at the top of the terp. “Shall we continue?”

  Now, however, Réadban had guessed the stranger’s identity. “After him,” he shouted. “And do no return to me until you have captured him.” He did not turn quickly enough to see the slight smile on Aelfin’s face.

  It was late summer. The evening air was already cool. It would not be long before the first frost. A band of men were making their way through the woods leading their horses when one stopped. “Lord,” he said. “I see smoke rising through the trees.”

  A well dressed warrior walked up beside the one who had spoken. It was clear that he was the leader of that band. On his neck and arms were a number of gold bands, and his fine tunic was fastened at his chest by a pair of heavy, ornate gold brooches. In addition to his costly attire, he was healthy and strong. He was in his mid twenties, with a clean-shaven and handsome face, friendly green eyes, and
light brown hair. Across the back of his horse was a beautiful sword in an elaborately enameled sheath. This, too, was the blade of a chieftain. “There are no villages nearby,” he answered, when he saw the direction the other was pointing.

  “Shall we explore? I do not complain of where our path has taken us, but I will say that a night beneath a roof would suit me well.”

  “It will not be long before we sleep in our own hall once again,” the chieftain answered. “And once more I will give gifts to those who serve me.” Then he spoke more loudly. “And know that those of you have stayed at my side will not fail to be rewarded most richly.”

  Another voice replied, “We would have stayed at your side eight years, not just eight months. Whom else would we serve?”

  “Hail, Aldgisl,” the warriors shouted in unison.

  Aldgisl smiled warmly at the loyalty of his true hearth companions. Now it was time to find a hearth. Veering slightly from their previous course, they began walking in the direction of the smoke. In just a short distance, they had come upon a small hut in the woods. Though there was nobody yet visible, it was clear that one lived there. There were two fires burning: one inside and one out in the yard. Over the later, a large wild boar was roasting. On a rope behind the hut, a nanny goat was tethered. “This looks promising,” a voice said. “A feast prepared for us. Let us see what else we may find.”

  “No,” Aldgisl replied. “I will go first alone. You know what it is like to live in the wild. We will not steal from another.” He turned to the one on the right. “Herthor shall come with me. The others wait here.”

  Aldgisl walked ahead into the small open space in front of the hut. He was about to shout out a greeting when somebody stepped out from the hut. “Greetings, king,” the man said first. He was dressed in a robe that looked like the monks’ attire that Aldgisl had seen during his exile in Francia, only older and more tattered. And the man had no tonsure.

  “Greetings, hermit,” Aldgisl replied, guessing the reason and nature of his host’s existence in the woods. “You are a holy man?”

  “I am a servant of the living God and his Christ,” the hermit replied.

  “And why is it that you call me king?” Aldgisl answered.

  The hermit didn’t reply at once. “Where is your band? I have been waiting.”

  Aldgisl raised his eyebrow. “You saw us coming?”

  “I have prepared a meal,” the hermit answered, pointing to the boar on the spit. “It should feed you all.”

  Aldgisl looked at the spit. “This boar has been roasting for many hours. You can’t have seen us coming…” He didn’t finish. He could tell from the hermit’s expression that he would receive no answer to that question. “Herthor,” he said, turning to his thane. “We have been invited. Bring the others.” A short time later, fifteen tired warriors came walking into view. They tethered their horses to trees, or hobbled them to large stones and logs, and then collapsed on the ground. Not one of them failed to notice the spit and what it held.

  “King,” the hermit said again. “The food is for you and your men.”

  Aldgisl did not wait for the monk’s offer to be repeated thrice. He motioned for two of his men to remove the pig from the spit. They tested it, and found the meat well-cooked throughout. The rest of the warriors, tired as they were, wasted no time in carving pieces for themselves. The hermit meanwhile set out two large jugs of water. “I can offer you no wine, only good water.”

  “Then it is I who will offer you the wine,” said Aldgisl, still curious as to who this hermit was and how he had come to cook the boar. He fetched his last skin of wine from his horse and presented it to the hermit. He also took a large gold ring from his wrist and offered it to him. The hermit took the wine and filled two wooden cups, but he refused the gold ring. “I will take no payment for what has cost me nothing. God has provided the food for you.”

  “Some day I will hear more about this god of yours,” Aldgisl said. “As for the gold, it is no payment. Take it as a gift.” When the hermit still would not receive the gold ring, Aldgisl tossed it inside the entrance of the hut. Then they drank wine together. A short time later, when Aldgisl had feasted on pork, he returned and sat beside the hermit once again.

  “You have come to be anointed as king,” the hermit said, before Aldgisl could say a word.

  Aldgisl narrowed his eyes. “You know me, then?”

  “I do,” the hermit replied. “We have met, not long past.”

  Aldgisl searched his memory. He had rarely been in that part of Friesland, and had no recollection of having met a hermit there. But another question was more pressing in his mind. “King?” he asked. “Then you have heard the news?”

  “I have heard little news in the past nine months. Only what the peasant Dunnere brings me, and he pays little attention to the dealings of chieftains.”

  “Then why do you speak of me as king? What do you know of Réadban?”

  “God has told that you will be the next king of Friesland. I was told to anoint you when you came—if you are willing to receive an anointing from a servant of Christ. If you are not, then the torc will not rest long on your neck.”

  “It harms me little to receive your anointing,” Aldgisl answered, but he was more afraid than he was willing to admit.

  “Then kneel.”

  Aldgisl looked around. His men had begun to listen to the dialogue. They were all watching him now to see how he would respond. Aldgisl took a step back, as if to walk away. Then he stopped. With a shrug, he stepped back forward and dropped to his knees before the hermit. The hermit took a small clay vessel from the bench at his side and held it over Aldgisl’s head. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit I anoint you king of Friesland.” He let fall from the vase a few drops of aromatic oil on Aldgisl’s head. “Now rise,” the hermit went on. Aldgisl obeyed. A strange feeling had come over him: a presence at once both calming and terrifying him. What strange power did this holy man have? He was not like any of the priests of Tiwar or Woden whom Aldgisl had ever met.

  The hermit spoke again. “Your reign will last many years. When a man of God comes from the north, you must receive him into your hall. He will be the bearer of good news to you and your people. Only do not seek war against the Franks. Be humble and content.”

  The hermit lowered his hands and sat back down. The short ceremony was over. Aldgisl did not know what to say. “Réadban is dead,” he said in a soft voice. When the hermit nodded his understanding, the newly anointed king continued. “They took Domburg quickly, but by the time they had pressed two day’s ride to the south the Frankish lords had already raised an army. Réadban’s war band was destroyed, and along with him fell many good Frisian chieftains.”

  The hermit hesitated a moment before asking, “What of Aelfin?” And Eomaer?”

  Aldgisl wondered how the hermit knew those names. He now felt more nervous, as if he should recognize this man. But he answered the question. “They live still. Eomaer escaped on horse. And Aelfin did not ride to the battle; he was wounded in the first battle and remained in Domburg. I am glad, for he is a good chieftain: one of the last alive who served Finn.”

  Finn! Aldgisl suddenly narrowed his eyes. He stared long and hard at the hermit. How indeed had he known the names of Eomaer and Aelfin? Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and drew his sword. Seeing this, a few of his men reached for their own blades and looked nervously around, as if expecting a sudden ambush from the woods. Aldgisl, however, was not looking into the woods but straight at the hermit. “Your hair has grown since we met in the cold of winter, young hermit.” He held his blade in front of him. The hermit raised his head and met Aldgisl’s gaze. There was no fear in his eyes as he looked up the edge of the sword. “And so again I meet the son of Finn. All was not finished at our last meeting, young Kristinge.”

  “Was it not?” Kristinge asked. “Then finish what remains to be done.”

  Aldgisl raised his sword. With a quick, sk
illed flip, he reversed it in his hands and held it hilt first toward Kristinge. “You have anointed me in the style of your god. Now anoint me as a Frisian chieftain.”

  The hermit took the blade in his hands. It appeared awkward in his grip, but he touched both of Aldgisl’s shoulders as the chieftain knelt before him. As he did, he searched far back in his memory for the right words. “Rule long and well, Aldgisl king of Friesland. Slay no hearth-companions in anger or drunkenness. Serve your thanes well and they will serve you well. May this blade never break at your side, and may Frisian soil always be rich beneath your feet.”

  Aldgisl rose. The hermit Kristinge handed back the blade, anxious to be rid of it. Then he disappeared momentarily into the hut. To Aldgisl’s surprise and to the delight of his company, when he returned he was carrying a harp. And for the rest of the day, the young hermit was once again a bard, and not a single man in Aldgisl’s war band failed to acknowledge his skill.

  When the long summer evening approached, Aldgisl departed, leaving the hermit Kristinge with many thanks for his hospitality. Kristinge stood in front of his hut and watched until the last of Aldgisl’s warriors were out of sight. He was about to turn when a strong pair of hands slipped around his waist. He jumped in surprise, but then settled down without resisting the grip that held him firmly.