The Rood and the Torc Page 6

  “Perhaps,” Willimond said softly as they came to a stop a few hundred yards from the outskirts of the village. He stood for a moment scanning the area. The late afternoon had grown warm and the peasants in the field—men and women dressed in plain skin trousers with no shirts or shoes—looked up and saw the strangers, but they returned quickly to their work and paid little heed. “Perhaps,” Willimond said again. “However I am not so eager to lose even one coin. We have many days ahead of us, and we are far from Friesland and farther still from the Danemark. I do not fancy walking all the way if there is a chance of hiring passage on a Frisian trading ship.”

  “And I do not fancy sleeping in the cold for the rest of the journey,” Kristinge rejoined, more sarcastically than he intended.

  “Perhaps we will not need to,” Willimond went on calmly, ignoring Kristinge’s tone. “This must be the home of a wealthy nobleman. He might be of kindred spirit to Benetus.”

  “You think he will offer free lodging?”

  “No. I speak of earning our keep.”

  Kristinge sighed. He was feeling too tired to work more and too tired to argue. “What labor could we perform?”

  “In the days past a wandering bard or minstrel, if he was talented, could earn his keep at the hall of a king or wealthy noble.” Willimond turned toward Kristinge. “There is one more treasure Walbert gave to us. Or rather returned to us, for it was once yours. It may prove of greatest value yet.”

  Kristinge was curious as Willimond pulled his large satchel off his back. He had noticed the bag’s odd shape—odd, though strangely familiar—and had wondered more than once at its contents. Still, he was not prepared when Willimond reached in and removed a small harp. It was not any harp. It was Kristinge’s own harp—the harp that had once been Daelga’s, and that Daelga had given to him the year before his departure from Hwitstan. It was the harp on which he had played and sung so many Psalms in his days at Hwitstan. The harp on which he had once sat by the river and played a song for a young daughter of a Frisian chieftain, pledged in marriage to Finnlaf. He trembled with joy at the touch of the wood and strings. But the joy was overshadowed with a dread of what Willimond was asking of him. He had not played in six years. He was afraid even to touch the strings. “You can not be speaking of me?” he protested.

  “If we are given the chance,” Willimond went on, ignoring the protest, “then tell a story—a pagan lay, such as Daelga used to tell. This is not the time for your psalms, but for a heroic poem.”

  “A pagan lay?” Kristinge was surprised by Willimond’s advice and for the moment forgot his fears. “Should we not be working against the ancient pagan ways?”

  “We are no longer at Luxeuil. Story is more pleasing to the ears. And we do want lodging.”

  “But—”

  “It is no compromise. Story is powerful. It will touch ears that would never hear the preaching of a monk.”

  “But why me?”

  “Ah, my friend. You have a gift.” Without waiting for an answer, he started forward leaving Kristinge still holding the harp. Kristinge paused for just a moment to caress his old instrument. Then he caught up with his companion. They passed around the edge of the village and headed straight for the gate to the main estate. When they arrived, they were met by two young girls of about seven and nine years. Though covered in dirt and dust from an afternoon of playing outside with the animals, Kristinge could see that they were well-dressed in expensive cloth. He guessed they were the daughters or perhaps granddaughters of the manor lord. With a lightly armed gatekeeper watching them carefully and protectively from atop the wall, the girls ran over to the open gate to see who the strangers were. Before Kristinge could say a word, Willimond introduced him as a traveling bard. At the word bard, Kristinge cringed with dread that not even robbers on the road would have elicited. But it was too late. The girls had already turned, and ran giggling back to the house to fetch their father, leaving the guests standing at the gate.

  There was no time for Kristinge to protest. The lord of the house emerged a moment later, with his lady beside him. He was a heavy man, and tall, dressed even more richly than his daughters—though only slightly less dirty—in dark wool trousers, with a heavy blue tunic pinned at the shoulder by a large horse-shaped gold brooch. He wore real leather shoes. His wife, considerably shorter but no less plump, wore a simple ankle-length dress bunched at the shoulders and at her ample waist. She stood at the door holding her two daughters while her husband walked over to the gate. In his right hand, he carried a stout staff taller than he was. He bore a large Frankish broadsword as well, but it stayed in its sheath. The man appeared strong enough that just his staff, which he gripped more like a weapon than a walking stick, would suffice against most enemies. Next to it, the beautiful staff given to Willimond by Abbot Walbert looked like a mere twig. Kristinge, already in dread, wanted to turn and run. Onward the manor lord came until he stood just a few inches from the monks. There he stopped and just stood looking them over with squinty, suspicious eyes. Finally, in a heavy gruff slurred Frankish dialect, he spoke. “What you want? You don’t look like bards to me.”

  He took his staff in both hands now, holding it in a threatening manner that made Kristinge—who was himself taller than most—take a step back. But Willimond, though he was gripping his own staff rather nervously, held his ground and, to Kristinge’s surprise, replied in Frankish almost as heavy as the nobleman’s, “We are as we appear, monks from Luxeuil.” He spread his arms in an wide open gesture. “I am named Willimond, and this is Kristinge.”

  “Monks?” the man grunted. “My daughter said you were bards.”

  “So they claimed,” shouted down the gatekeeper, speaking for the first time. “I heard them myself.”

  “And so we are. Or rather my companion is,” he said, pointing toward Kristinge whose stomach had just slid a few more inches up his throat. “For a meal and lodging, we will gladly entertain you. Or,” he added, pointing to the young girls, “we will entertain your daughters if you wish.”

  “We got a nursemaid already,” the man grunted again.

  The gatekeeper laughed.

  “I don’t need nothing from you,” the man yelled up at his servant. “If you was doing your job, they’d have been a mile gone by now.” He reached up suddenly with his staff and knocked the gatekeeper backward off the wall. Kristinge heard him land on the far side with a thud and groan.

  Kristinge, eager to avoid the same treatment, took another step backward and prepared to leave. Another night in the cold might not be so bad after all.

  “Monks, you say?” the man went on. “Well I suppose you can’t do us much harm.” He looked at their arms. “Don’t look like you could hurt much. If it’s lodging you want, you can sleep in the stable. But if it’s a meal you want, you’ll have to earn it first. We’re eating now. Entertain us.” Without a further word, he turned and strode toward the house.

  CHAPTER 4:

  Monk and Baro

  Willimond and Kristinge glanced at each other, then turned and followed him into the house. It was a far cruder building than the home of Benetus, and a little smaller, though together with all the out-buildings it formed a larger overall estate. Through the main door they found a large central hall with a high angled roof running the entire length of the house. A door on one side led off into a side corridor where the occupants bedded, but most of the activity took place in this main hall. In the middle was a large table, big enough to seat twelve or more men. Around it were four long benches, and at the far end was a hearth and some cooking utensils. Shelves on the walls were covered with pottery, bronze bowls and utensils, glass drinking horns, a few silver bowls, and some wooden bowls. Further from the hearth were stacks of clothing and blankets, along with a few weapons hanging from hooks: bows, battle-axes, an assortment of spears, and a pair of swords. Where the walls weren’t lined with useful commodities, they were decorated with woven hanging carpets—a luxury uncommon in Friesland save in hal
ls of the richest chieftains, and not to be found at all in Luxeuil.

  Without a further word to the traveling monks, the lord of the house seated himself at the table. His wife crossed the room and began to serve him dinner. Only when he was well into the meal, did she and her daughters sit to join him, and even then—in contrast to the wife of Benetus who spoke freely and intelligently during the evening—she said nothing while her husband ate. All of this took several minutes during which time Kristinge stood nervously, wondering whether he should just turn and flee. He had no idea what to sing, and didn’t even know if the harp was in tune. Over the previous six years he had sung nothing other than the chants, and he didn’t think they would be well-received at the moment. How had Willimond gotten him into this? He was a monk, not a bard.

  “Now,” Willimond whispered in his ear.

  Now? Kristinge asked wordlessly.

  Now, Willimond responded with a nod.

  Kristinge took the leather cover off of his harp. He plucked a few strings. It was as out of tune as he expected, and it took him many minutes to adjust the pegs to his satisfaction. The delay seemed terribly long. The Frankish lord grunted as he savagely ate his meal of wild game, occasionally taking a break to swig ale from his huge glass drinking horn. “Well?” he said once, turning and fixing a stare at Kristinge. “Will you make me wait all night, and regret my offer of lodging, too?”

  Kristinge cleared his throat. Only one song had come to mind. It was an old Saxon poem that Daelga had brought to Friesland from the isle of the Britons. Fortunately, the characters were wholly Germanic, and—as long as he didn’t forget it in the middle—would suit a Frankish as well as Frisian audience. Daelga had sung it many times at Folcwalda’s court, and he had patiently taught it to Kristinge. Somehow the intervening years had left the words in his memory. He cleared his throat and began.

  Weland by hindrances, by hardship was tested,

  endured his exile, that strong-minded earl.

  He found often woe, his friend was his sorrow,

  his companion was longing, the cold winter loneliness.

  Though a better person, by pain he was bound

  when his supple sinews by Niphad were severed.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  Contrary to his fears, he did not forget the words as he went. Each new stanza rose to his mind as the time came, and somehow the act of singing took his mind off his own fears, freeing him of his awareness of the audience that sat in judgment. He closed his eyes and sank into the mood of the song. As his apprehension faded, he became less self-conscious and less tentative. His fingers, rusty as they were from lack of practice, still remembered some of their old skill. His voice grew in strength.

  Was Beaduhilde’s doom— the deaths of her brothers

  were not as sorrowful as her own troubled state.

  It was his voice that was his real gift. As Willimond had told him, he had the true voice of a bard—clean, clear and spellbinding; at one moment loud and ringing off the walls, and the next so soft his listeners had to hush and lean forward. It was a voice that could cover many imperfections in his playing of the harp. Remembering something of what Daelga had taught him, or perhaps singing from sheer instinct alone, he used that now. Before the song was half-over, the lord of the manor had stopped eating. He had even stopped chewing, his mouth half full of food. When Kristinge opened his eyes, he could almost see the gruffness sliding from the man’s face. When the older daughter climbed into his lap and he absently put his arm around her, the bard knew he had succeeded.

  High was the honor I held for long years,

  the maker of music, in my master’s heart,

  ‘til a song-crafty man stole all my favor

  which the leader of men had long lent to me.

  That passed over. This will as well.

  The song was over. Their host, realizing there was still food in his mouth, quickly finished chewing as he rose. “I am Gundomer,” he said. “Welcome to my house.” He extended his right arm and gave a firm greeting to Kristinge then to Willimond.

  Kristinge set the harp down and bowed. “May your hospitality return to bless you,” he said.

  “Please, sit,” Gundomer said, motioning to the monks. “Wife. Bring more food.” He looked at his wife, but she just stood there expectantly, holding a slight curtsy. “Ah,” he said, realizing what she wanted. “Excuse me. My hospitality indeed! If it returns upon my head I will be a poor man. This is my wife Berta. And my daughters Elfhild and Hildegund. Please, accept our welcome. Would you join us in a meal? Elfhild, tell Celestine to bring in more poultry.”

  Before either monk could say a word, Berta had scurried off to the cooking end of the hall. She returned with two bowls of hot barley soup, and some bread, cheese, and nuts along with a drinking horn of beer for each of them. A short time later, one of the servants came in with some poultry ready for cooking. Willimond and Kristinge then spent the next two hours sitting at the table with Gundomer and Berta, the two of whom proceeded to consume a second dinner at least as large as the monks’ first. When all was done, the host insisted first that Willimond and Kristinge share the hospitality of their house rather than the stable, and second that Kristinge sing again that evening. Kristinge readily consented to the first demand and reluctantly to the second. He dredged from his memory a longer story about Merovech’s famous defeat of Attila the Hun at the battle of Orleans—a place near Gundomer’s home—and the conquering of Francia. He forget several lines, and fumbled somewhat with the harp, but the host did not mind nor even notice; Kristinge’s stature as a bard had already been established.

  Thus began Kristinge’s trifling as a bard. Not by any decision of his own. It was not a path he would have sought. A mere two songs in Gundomer’s house had left him drenched in nervous sweat and silently thinking he would never again play the harp no matter how desperately he needed lodging. And yet he couldn’t help feeling a little satisfaction at having conquered in such a short time the inhospitable Frankish manor lord. For his songs had possessed a certain power, in which Kristinge himself had been swept up. When a short time later the elder daughter Elfhild came shyly back into the main hall and asked him if he might tell her a story before she went to sleep, he obliged her and her sister with a story about Luxeuil’s founder Columbanus, which he half chanted to the plucking of his harp. On a whim of the moment, he even made up a short song and wouldn’t let the girls go to sleep until they had learned to sing it with him, which pleased their mother to no end. The rest of the evening the monks spent talking with Gundomer. They said little about the purpose of their own quest other than that their first destination was Paris. Instead they indulged their host’s curiosity with several stories about Luxeuil.

  The following morning, when the monks came to say farewell, Gundomer scratched his face in a sly way. “I have a wagon of goods to be brought to Auxerre and Paris for trade. My driver might enjoy your company along the road. He likes to talk, and my soldiers are tired of his chatter. If you’re willing for your ears to be taxed instead of your legs, the ox-drawn wagon is sure to cut your voyage short a few days.” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “Of course the wagon won’t be ready to go until tomorrow, but if you’d stay the night with us again I could send you along the road with a good word or two for when you next need lodging. By foot, it will be many nights to Paris.”

  Lured by the promise of speeding their voyage to Paris as much as by the possibility of lodging on route, Kristinge and Willimond accepted the offer, consenting to spend another day with Gundomer waiting for the wagon-master to have everything ready. Only later did Kristinge discover the manor lord’s motivation for keeping them at his estate. During the day, without the knowledge or consent of either monk, he sent messages to several nearby nobleman, landowners, and traders inviting them to hear his new bard. When Kristinge saw the crowd gathered in the hall that evening, and discovered that he was expected to sing before them all, the rich barley and wild nut s
tew became unappetizing. Whatever Willimond thought of his voice, Kristinge did not have a true bard’s repertoire. To survive the previous night, he had already performed the only two songs he could dredge from his memory. What would he sing? Had he been given the day to work at it, he might have come up with something. But Gundomer, assuming Kristinge was a real bard, gave no thought to such matters.

  Miraculously, however, the second evening proved as successful as the first. Gundomer, with a house full of guests who had not heard Kristinge’s earlier performance, insisted that he sing the same two songs again. It was such a relief to Kristinge that he almost hugged the great bear of a man and he went on to sing with more energy and confidence than he had the night before.

  Sitting in the hall of Frotha several weeks later, having just sung the Lament of Deor yet again, Kristinge cringed. How many times had he performed that song since the first night at Gundomer’s estate? He could not even count. He supposed it was one advantage of being a traveling scop rather than a bard in the permanent service of a chieftain; performing for a different audience every night he could get away with such limited repertoire. The poet Daelga on the other hand would never have prospered under Finn had he sung the same songs evening after evening, month after month, winter after winter. Not that there were no songs worth repeating. There were lays even a true bard like Daelga would come back to time and again—proven poems tried and battle-tested like a good sword, sharpened from time to time or given a new sheath but keeping always the same shape, retaining its original metal. Yet even the greatest of songs grew wearisome if overused, like an arm holding a blade through a long battle.

  Fortunately Kristinge’s repertoire had expanded a little since his nerve-wracking beginning at Gundomer’s small burg. Though he had continued to rely on just a few songs, memories from years past had slowly returned to him. As the leagues had gone by between Luxeuil and Paris, as evening after evening his fingers had stroked his old harp in order to earn his keep, he had recalled more of the old songs from the days when he would sit at the feet of Daelga listening to the old bard sing. He had even composed a few new poems during the long days in the wagon, and from time to time had ventured beyond the safe confines to perform them.