The Rood and the Torc Read online

  “Which direction?” Willimond asked, after they turned their backs on the monastery.

  “Northwest. Toward Paris,” Kristinge replied. The direction surprised Willimond, who had thought to travel north and east, around the mountains and on to the Rhine in hopes of hiring passage to Dorestad or Utrecht on a sea-bound ship. But Kristinge had opted for the longer route. Though no road could be said to be safe for two unarmed monks traveling alone, the better traveled route might be the lesser of the two dangers. Poor though they were, they were easy prey for robbers. And many of the wild mountain folk did not take kindly to monks. Kristinge did not want to become a sacrifice to some pagan idol before he even reached Danemark. Instead, the plan was to walk by road as far as the Seine river, and from Paris or Auxerre to find a trade ship to the sea. Two week’s journey by foot should bring them from Luxeuil to the city of Auxerre, Walbert had told them. Ten if they pressed hard. Another week from Auxerre to Paris would bring the total to three weeks. It was said that Columbanus once made the entire trip in ten days, but that required him to walk longer each day than Pheidippides walked from Athens to Marathon. And Pheidippides died when he arrived. Yet such a feat would have been no more miraculous for Columbanus than other things he accomplished by God’s power. And if Kristinge and Willimond could make it in twice that number of days, it would be good enough; at that time of year, they were still likely to find Frisian traders in Francia, and maybe even a ship bound for the north.

  The only possible delay was that Abbot Walbert had requested that Kristinge carry a message for him to the monastery at Jouarre, a days journey by wagon to the north and east of Paris. It would take a three day round trip by foot if they had to detour from Paris.

  “Jouarre?” Willimond had asked in surprise when he heard of Kristinge’s plan.

  “A monastery near Paris. It was founded by Adon, a disciple of Columbanus—”

  “I know some of Jouarre’s history,” Willimond interrupted impatiently. “I am only surprised that we are traveling there. You have some purpose at Jouarre?”

  “Walbert asked me if I might deliver some parchments to the abbess. That is what is in the package he gave me,” he added, lifting his satchel slightly, “and part of the reason he requested we follow this route, though he also believes it will be safer for us. He suggested we could find lodging in the guest house at Jouarre before we look for passage on a trading ship.” Then he laughed. “The Lord’s mercy upon us both. I have messages from Walbert for half a dozen daughter monasteries of Luxeuil. I could spend all year delivering them. Fortunately, all Walbert asked was that I bring them as far as Jouarre.”

  They talked more as they walked, at times speaking idly of the terrain, or of their memories of Friesland, or of Finn and Hildeburh. Kristinge said nothing about the young girl he remembered from his final summer in Hwitstan, though her piercing gaze still haunted his memory. He did speak of the poet Daelga and others they had both known. At the mention of Daelga and his minstrelsy, a sly smile slipped onto Willimond’s face, but he said nothing for the time. Late in the afternoon, they shared a loaf of bread together and also found some wild seeds by the roadside. Willimond was still looking for more seeds when Kristinge urged him on.

  “There is an estate ahead,” Kristinge explained as Willimond came trotting out of the woods to join him. “So I am told by Father Petrica. It belongs to a Gallo-Roman by the name of Benetus. He is Latin-speaking. In the past, he has made gifts to Luxeuil, and he might be hospitable to traveling monks. Father Petrica said we could make it there in one day if we walked briskly. It cannot be much farther.”

  “Then let us proceed,” Willimond agreed. “I would gladly forfeit the chance to gather few wild seeds for a roof under which to lay my head this night.”

  Together they marched on. Shortly before sunset, they arrived at a large fortified stone house surrounded by cultivated fields. As Petrica had guessed, the nobleman was more than happy to feed and house two monks for the night. As soon as he learned whom his visitors were and where they had come from, Benetus gathered his whole household to meet them. By the time he had finished introducing four children and thirteen grandchildren, it was dark. Then, though his family had already eaten their evening meal, he brought out another board of bread, cheese, and roasted grains for his guests. “Modest fare”, he called it, but by monastic standards it was a feast. Benetus ushered his family into a large adjoining hall, and then rejoined Kristinge and Willimond in the smaller room to make sure they ate enough.

  When the monks had finished eating, Benetus led them into the large lantern-lit hall where the family was waiting. He then insisted they sit and join in conversation, though it soon become clear that what he meant by conversation was the monks answering his questions. And the questions he asked were as endless as they were varied: questions about Luxeuil, where the nobleman was considering sending his oldest grandson the next year; about God; about the “savage peasants” of the Vosges mountains; about wild fruits and seeds, and about crops and farming—the monks at Luxeuil had a reputation for their ability to conjure a healthy crop from notoriously poor soil—and even about Columbanus, whose famous miracles and exploits the host knew as much about as Kristinge. The questions lasted long into the evening, but Kristinge did not mind. It was more conversation than he had had in the past six months put together. There was a warm blaze in the fireplace that cut the chill of the autumn air, and plenty of mead to share. Both were a welcome treat for the travelers. And as they soon discovered, Benetus was well educated. Though for daily trade he spoke the Frankish tongue of his country’s rulers, in the home his family spoke Latin. He could both read and write, and had even received some years of education at a Roman monastery in southern Burgundy near Arles. However he had been disillusioned by what he thought was hypocrisy and greed there, and had given up religious life—or at least the Gaul-influenced monastic life—and returned to his estate. He was well enough versed not only in holy scriptures but also in secular writings ranging from Tacitus to Sidonius, so that the questions he posed for the two monks were often quite challenging and led to some interesting dialogue and provocative debate about various philosophies. His wife was also educated, though not formally, and could read Latin. At times, she participated with questions as thoughtful as those of her husband. Late into the night and long after all of his children and grandchildren had departed for sleep, Benetus and his wife kept the two monks occupied.

  Such was the monks’ reintroduction to the world. In the end it was Kristinge’s exhaustion that brought their conversation to an end at an hour much later than he was accustomed to. Benetus reluctantly led his guests to a small room where two mats had already been rolled out on the floor. Kristinge was asleep within moments.

  The next morning, the two monks joined Benetus’ family for a rich meal of baked bread and fresh goat’s milk along with some scraps of grilled ham—a even rarer delicacy to the pair of monks for whom any morning meal was a luxury. After breaking their fast, the host and his wife both encouraged Kristinge and Willimond to remain for the day and continue their conversations. It was a strange feeling not to have any duties—no enforced discipline, or regimen of spiritual activity. Kristinge, having enjoyed the previous evening’s dialogue, was tempted by the offer. It was Willimond, despite Benetus’ kind and persuasive manner, who politely declined and insisted they must continue on. They thanked their host for his hospitality, and after he had given them some guidance for their next few days, they departed.

  For the first hour or so, they marched along in silence. The air was cold—there had been a frost up in the hills—and it took time for their bones to warm. Once the sun was high, however, the day turned mild. The landscape was also changing as they made their way farther from the mountains and closer to the center of Francia. The steeper slopes of the Vosges gave way to wide, rolling hills, while the old deep forests were replaced by younger, more civilized woodlands, and cultivated farms.

  “It looks as th
ough we will be sleeping in the open tonight,” Kristinge commented, repeating information they had heard up from Benetus. He was tired of the silence and ready to talk.

  “It is well we each brought a blanket,” Willimond answered in a quiet voice.

  Kristinge wondered at Willimond’s strangely solemn mood, but he wasn’t yet ready to pursue it. “Tomorrow night we should be able to find lodging.” He was referring to a village near the estate of another wealthy Frankish nobleman whom Benetus had told them of. “There will likely be a guest house or inn for traders there.”

  “Yes,” Willimond said. “And an inn will cost money, too. Do not forget that we have many nights ahead of us.”

  “We have coins,” Kristinge replied. “Enough for a few nights.” He was not excited about sleeping outside throughout the months of September and October.

  “Or, if we can earn our night’s keep in some other way and save those coins, we might keep enough to buy passage to Danemark.”

  “You mean we can do like Columbanus?” Kristinge joked. “We can kick some bear out of its den?”

  Willimond shrugged enigmatically. They strode on. At noon, a small caravan of traders passed by in the opposite direction. They were Goths from Spain, returning with a load of Saxon wool and Frisian cloth, gained from the trade of wine and glass. The traders spoke little Latin, but they had a trade knowledge of Frankish. They confirmed what Benetus had told the monks of the road ahead. Then, after asking for guidance to the estate of Benetus, they passed on.

  “Will Benetus be safe?” Kristinge wondered aloud. “With the barbarians, I mean? They were all armed.”

  “They did us no harm,” Willimond answered.

  “We have no treasure worth anything to them.”

  “We have greater treasure than you know,” Willimond said, referring obliquely to his scrolls which he held up in his hand. Then, more to the point of Kristinge’s question he added, “Benetus’ home is protected. His hired band numbers at least as many as the trader’s band, and it would take a small army to throw down his walls.”

  “Still, I had heard they were not safe. The Goths are Arians, aren’t they?”

  “More likely just pagans.”

  “Barbarians?”

  “You Frisians, too, are considered barbarians here,” Willimond reminded Kristinge.

  Kristinge took the jibe with a smile. “I wonder,” he said, replying to Willimond’s earlier comment, “why in the end Walbert let you take your scrolls, but did not offer to me any of those I labored on.” He paused for a minute, then added a little wistfully, “Or the horses.”

  “He was generous.”

  “Generous? But we brought those horses with us from Friesland when we came six years ago.”

  “We did. And when we arrived, we gave them to Luxeuil as we did all our possessions. And we lived there for many years, eating their food, sleeping in their beds—”

  “And working,” Kristinge added. “Cultivating their fields, copying scrolls.”

  “Do you feel cheated for your labor?”

  Kristinge sighed. “No. Walbert was very generous. He needed give us nothing. He sent us with honor as if we were apostles.”

  “We are,” Willimond answered. This time it was Kristinge who raised his eyebrows. “They gave us what they could afford, and perhaps more” Willimond went on. “What they thought we would need. It was indeed a sacrifice. We had no claim even on these things, and certainly none on horses.”

  “And your scrolls?”

  Willimond looked down. The scrolls he carried were old, the work of his own youth when he was a monk at Lindisfarne the same age Kristinge was now. “No,” he said. “Only the Word of God is the treasure. I fear that they gave me these because they perceived that my work was of no great value.” He laughed. “The same reason the Abbot of Lindisfarne sent me with these scrolls so long ago when I left there for Friesland.” Then his voice became distant. “Oh, the beauty of the work done at Lindisfarne! The magnificence of Aidan’s work, and the Gospels there. I wish I could one day see the final work.” He paused. Then he startled to chuckle again inwardly. “Did I ever tell you about when Finn—your father—burned one of my scrolls? How foolish I was. I felt as if he had burned the world’s greatest treasure. Ha. Now your work, on the other hand, I have seen. And it is a treasure. That is probably why Walbert sent us with my scrolls. Yours were too highly valued.”

  “You tease me,” Kristinge said, catching some of Willimond’s humor. “I am no artist.”

  “Perhaps not with pictures. That is true. Your script is clear enough, but it lacks the beautiful lines that even some of the poor peasants sometimes discover. Yet you are an artist with words. I have read your translations. You have a gift.”

  “So Walbert was not quite as generous as we thought.”

  “He was. Walbert has sent us out in honor. You may be assured he will pray for our safety, and that is a gift beyond measure.”

  The night was cool, but not as cold as Kristinge had feared. They were further from the mountains now and autumn had not progressed as far in the lower lands. The cloudy skies held off the frost, and the traveling monks remained comfortably warm under their heavy wool blankets. The next morning, as they rolled the blankets and prepared to depart, Kristinge spoke.

  “I have wanted to ask you a question ever since our meeting with Abbot Walbert.” At Willimond’s prompting, he went on. “I was terrified when I went to speak to the Abbot and found you there too—when once more you sought to dissuade me from the journey. Yet later Abbot Walbert told me that you yourself who persuaded him to send me with his blessing, and that he had initially been against my departure.”

  “He said that, did he?”

  “He did.”

  “I suppose, then, that there is truth in it. Though I do not think he needed much persuading. He is a man who is keenly aware of God’s will. But come, what was your question?”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Willimond was silent for a moment before answering. “My mind was never changed.”

  The answer took Kristinge by surprise. “I do not understand. You still think I should not have left Luxeuil?”

  “No. It was never my belief that you should remain there forever. It is rather to the contrary. I spoke the truth when I said that Hwitstan was my home; that I loved Friesland. I have always longed to return. Oh, I was content at Luxeuil,” he quickly added, “and I am glad for my years there; I learned much. But I feel that my work on the outside is not yet finished. Though I am not sure how or where I will continue. I have heard that my church was left in ashes when the Danes attacked. No,” he concluded, “my desire has been to return to Friesland. To see again my flock that I labored with for so long. Even to see Hildeburh, your mother.”

  “But that does not explain—” Kristinge began.

  Willimond cut him off with a wave of his new staff. “Does it not? Do you not now see why I had to question you? Why I had to be sure? I am all too aware of my own weakness. I knew where my own selfish desire lay. I could not, in my selfishness, let you leave too quickly and easily. It would have been too convenient for me. I had to make sure that it was God who was leading you away, and not me. I had to test. Perhaps I tested too hard. I do not know. But there was also this, as Walbert said when he read my heart: I truly wanted you to have a real home such as I never had.”

  When Willimond was done, they both fell silent. The day progressed much as the previous day had, except that they saw no other travelers until late in the afternoon when they approached a small village. After unsuccessfully searching and inquiring for lodging, they walked on and spent another night in the open a mile past the village. This night was colder than the last. Kristinge was up well before sunrise, pacing around trying to warm his legs. Willimond soon joined him, and they set off on their fourth day of travel. When the sun was high enough in the sky to have melted the frost and dried the ground, they stopped for a rest. They finished the last loaf of bread,
shared a small block of cheese, and then set off again. Their legs were now growing more used to walking, and with the stiffness of a second night’s sleep on hard ground wearing off, they set a quicker pace.

  By evening they had come to a much larger estate set in a wide shallow valley by a large stream. They had a good view as they came down the hill. A big hall, as big as the largest building at Luxeuil, was surrounded by a number of smaller structures: stables, pens, granaries, and a smithy. The whole cluster of buildings was enclosed by a high stone wall a few hundred yards in circumference. It was not a true burg, or fortress as Annegray had once been, but the wall was wide and well built; in places it rose as high as ten feet. It was enough to offer at least some protection against a small band of robbers. A number of sheep and pigs roamed inside the enclosure, watched casually by a swineherd-shepherd. A larger flock of sheep grazed on a hillside to the south. On the other side of the wall, about a quarter mile away from the main enclosure, was a separate cluster of small huts, likely for the peasant workers. Most were above-ground timber structures, but Kristinge also saw a few sunken mud houses that reminded him of the Frisian terpen. Seeing them gave him a sudden sense of urgency about his return, and also a desire for company. “Let us pay for lodging if we must,” he suggested as they approached. “There is a large hall here. For a gold Roman coin, they must be able to accommodate guests.”