The Rood and the Torc Read online

  At this, Kristinge couldn’t help but think about Osanne sitting by the gate of Jouarre, but Telchild guessed his thoughts. “Not like Osanne. She is a holy woman. Her insanity was brought on by harm done to her, not by her. The insanity of Clovis is of an altogether different sort. He has done evil that it is best not even to mention. Why God permits him to live, I do not know. Perhaps he has been spared for the sake of his holy wife. Beware of Clovis. His ways have an ungodly appeal for some. He is a man of many lusts, and he has a way of getting them satisfied. But do not fall for the seduction of that life.”

  Kristinge nodded. Another warning to heed. He wondered if he would remember them all. As they walked down out of the village and onto the main highway, Telchild told them more about Clovis and Balthild, and about recent events in Paris and in the various remaining Merovingian courts. She was at once knowledgeable of the events of the world around her and distant from them, as if the governing of nations was not the real stuff of life. Kristinge, mesmerized by her voice and manner, was content to listen.

  They walked until after dusk the first day of the journey, spent the night in the trees near the road, and rose before dawn the next morning. But the time went by quickly. Kristinge learned much from Telchild and also from Beatrice as they walked. Through the abbess’s subtle questions, she also learned much from him, some of which Kristinge hadn’t been aware he even knew until he had had to answer her questions.

  On their second morning Balthild began to prepare Kristinge for the city itself. “Paris is an old city,” she explained. “Older than the Romans. Long ago it was the home of the Parisii, a Celtic tribe, ancestors of the Gauls. They were a strong people then, ruling most of what is now Francia. Lutetia, the little island settlement, was their seat of power. Some traces of them remain, though most have vanished.” There was a sad look upon Telchild’s face now, as if something beautiful had been lost in the Roman conquest. She was Irish after all, Kristinge thought, closer in kinship to the Celts than the Romans. Her sympathies were clear. “It was the Romans who renamed the city Paris after the tribe they had conquered. In the earlier days of the Roman empire, Julian ruled all of Gaul from there. That was when it became a great trade city. It is told that Attila almost captured Paris when he invaded nearly a century after Julian. The city was saved only through the prayers of Saint Geneviéve.” She shook her head. “Would that Geneviéve were here today, for the city is again in need of prayer.”

  Telchild paused again, but she continued a moment later. “Another century passed after Attila. Rome fell, and the Franks came. Paris remained, though more of her splendor was lost. After the death of Clovis the Conqueror, the first of the Merovingian kings, Francia was divided among Clovis’s four sons. Ruthless tyrants they were, inheriting all of their father’s cruel determination and none of his savvy. Officially Paris was given to Childebert as part of his realm, but it became a meeting ground—a neutral city where the four oft-warring siblings would meet to settle matters. Or at least attempt to settle them. If but a fifth of the stories about the sons of Clovis are true, they rarely settled anything with words. But that is the way of the Merovingians. I do not doubt it was that spirit that had made the kingdom of Francia possible. I know as well that it is now ripping it apart.”

  At that she fell silent. Kristinge sensed a finality to what she had said. She would speak no more on the subject. Listening to Telchild, he had barely noticed the slow brightening of the sky from black to gray to blue. The sun was well above the horizon now, and it was not long before they began to encounter other travelers along the road. Several wagons passed them, most moving toward Paris.

  “So you will return to Friesland now?” Telchild asked, some time later.

  “That is my hope,” Kristinge replied. He told her a little of his departure from Hwitstan six years earlier, and of what he had learned at Ulestan’s death. “I feel drawn back to Friesland now, as if there is some work for me to finish—something left undone by my family. That is why I left Luxeuil. But at the same time I fear returning.” It was the first time he had admitted this even to himself. He paused a moment to reflect on his own words before continuing. “There is so much I do not know or understand. I will not return to Friesland yet, except in passing. First I must travel to Danemark, this winter if I can. I must at least seek my mother. I know that both Finn and Finnlaf are dead, but I know not if she still lives—or whether she even survived the battle. No word ever came to Luxeuil, save that Finn had been killed and Finnsburg burned and all of Hwitstan with it. In my heart, I think Hildeburh must be alive—that the Danes would not have killed one of their own, but would have brought her back to Danemark. Yet I do not know.”

  Telchild appeared surprised at Kristinge’s last comment. “You have not heard? Then perhaps I do know more than you. Whether your mother is alive today I cannot say, but I know for sure that she survived the battle. It was she who pleaded for Daelga’s life after the battle was over. The two of them stood on the tower and watched the battle together, for he was unwilling to forsake her. By the time it was over, it was too late for the poet to escape. This, Daelga himself told me. The Danes spared his life at Hildeburh’s request, but her they took back with them. Thus your heart has spoken the truth.”

  Though Kristinge’s spirit had told him this all along, there was nonetheless a sudden upwelling of relief. Despite the years that had passed, he now was more hopeful than ever that his mother still lived. There was silence for a time as tears rolled from his eyes.

  “I will not ask how you will return to Friesland,” Telchild eventually said. “Whether you go as a monk from Luxeuil or as the son of Finn is for you to decide. I sense you do not know yourself. But I will ask in what cloak you will travel to Danemark. Do you go as Hildeburh’s son? Or do you go as a Christian monk? There will be danger on either path. With either identity you choose, you will not lack enemies in Danemark.”

  Kristinge thought for a time. This was another question he had not yet pondered, but he knew that Telchild spoke truth about the danger. “I go to seek my mother,” he finally answered.

  On they walked as the sun crept into the sky. About the second hour of daylight, many miles away from Jouarre, an ox-drawn cart stopped beside them. The driver, a burly gray-haired man with a long scar on his left arm, had noticed the monastic robes and offered them a ride in exchange for a blessing. Fortunately his wagon was nearly empty. It was too late in the season to be selling produce. More likely he was a wagon-driver going to Paris to purchase goods for his lord. Whatever the case, he was acquainted with the abbess and had a high view of her blessings, though from what little he said it appeared he thought of them more as powerful magic than the work of God. Still, he offered the ride and Telchild accepted on behalf of the four monks. For the rest of the journey, Telchild spoke mostly with Beatrice while Willimond sat in his own thoughts and Kristinge reflected on the news that his mother’s life had been spared. It was still before the noon hour when they approached the outskirts of the town. Before long, they were making their way down the dusty dirt streets toward the bridges across the Seine river.

  From what Kristinge had heard along the route and learned from Telchild, Paris had less political importance than it had once had in the days of Julian or even Childebert. Still, the city had continued to grow and had long since expanded beyond the confines of the little island. Like Auxerre, it was dirty, busy, and full of markets. Only it was bigger than Auxerre, and more permanent. Here and there were signs of wealth and power: palaces, large estates, Roman monasteries, numerous stone buildings. It was larger than any settlement Kristinge had ever been in.

  So mesmerized was he by the city—stunned as much by its size and wealth as by the dirt, noise, and crowds—that when the wagon came to a stop near Clovis’ palace, Willimond had to nudge him. Kristinge blinked and turned his head. The abbess was rewarding the wagon-driver with her blessing, and had already been recognized by the palace guards. Before Kristinge could take in the ex
terior of the impressive stone architecture, he was being ushered into the place through the thick wooden doors. Only then, when he stood within the high, stone, torch-lit corridor, did it dawn on him what was happening. And all the stories of Columbanus’s tumultuous relationships with the Frankish rules flashed in an instant across his mind. Yet before the tales had time to terrify him, he was overwhelmed by the palace itself. He had not imagined anything so big. Any one of a dozen rooms he passed were large enough to engulf half of Luxeuil. Even the hallways were grand. The walls were lined with colored mosaics and woolen tapestries of exceptional workmanship and value. Where the stonework was visible, it was masterful—even more ornate than that of Jouarre. To one who had never traveled south to see the great architecture of Rome or east to the famed palaces of Byzantium, the proportions and grandeur of the Frankish palace were breathtaking. Kristinge could only gape in awe as they walked from one hall to the next. Nothing he had seen—not Luxeuil, nor the estates of Benetus or Gundomer, nor the mead hall of Finnsburg—could equal Clovis’ palace. Finn’s mead-hall was petty and barbaric compared with this. The wealth of Gundomer was not even a grain of sand.

  As Kristinge gazed about, they were led down a palace hallway that would have stretched end-to-end across the main cloister at Luxeuil, and into a large throne room. There a group of richly dressed noblemen were seated around a table in front of an empty throne. Their boisterous conversation came to an abrupt end at the sight of monastic robes.

  “Be seated,” the courtier instructed Telchild. “The king will return momentarily.”

  “I have no wish to see the king,” Telchild objected quickly. “I desire an audience with Queen Balthild.” But the courtier, either not hearing her or choosing to ignore her, had disappeared before she was done. An instant later, the huge doors of the throne room were swung shut, and the four monks found themselves standing in Clovis’ council hall. Kristinge turned toward the abbess wondering what she would do. From all he had heard of the king, he had no desire to meet him. Telchild, however, was unperturbed by the turn of events. “God’s plans were different from mine,” she said in a quiet voice and with a slight smile at Kristinge. “And if God’s plan is that I speak to the king, we will stay and find out why.” Without another word, she and Beatrice sat themselves in two chairs on the opposite side of the door.

  Kristinge stood where he was for a moment longer. He was feeling considerably less confident than the abbess. Only when he realized that his legs were shaking did he follow the abbess’s example and take a seat. His eyes darted around the room, and what he saw did nothing did ease his anxiety. His glance fell first on the pagan statues and idols that adorned the tables and walls alongside the occasional Christian symbols remaining from previous kings. Then he looked to the throne itself, adorned with jewels and surrounded on the four corners by the weapons of the king. A double-edged broad sword leaned against one corner of the throne in an enameled ornamented sheath. A Roman short saber, or scramasax leaned against another. A long spear stood against the third, and a shorter Frankish lance against the forth. And sitting on the right arm of the throne was a francisc—a heavy one-piece Frankish throwing ax. The sight of these weapons along with the pagan statues and wooden idols of Frankish fertility gods made Kristinge even more anxious. He glanced at the table in front of the throne. The group of nobleman had resumed their conversation in lower tones.

  “Have I told you of my first meeting with Finn?” Willimond asked in whisper. “I was a young monk, with little experience outside monastic walls, coming before a great warrior-king whose sword I was barely even strong enough to lift. And the first thing I did was to trip and fall face first in the mud right in the center of the village—”

  His story was interrupted by the sound of loud voices mingled with uneven footsteps and laughter. Immediately the nobles sitting by the throne fell silent and looked around expectantly. Then a door in the far corner of the hall swung open and slammed against the back wall. What Kristinge saw next was an image he never forgot. Into the throne room stumbled a young man with long locks of golden hair reaching down to his waist, and a youthful smooth face that was at once both beautiful and wild. Along with tight-fitting red trousers and high soft leather boots, he wore a woven purple tunic left unfastened and open down to his belly. He was bedecked in silver and gold jewelry from his neck to his wrists, and in his right hand he carried, almost casually, a beautiful gold cloisonné necklace. This, as Kristinge guessed from Telchild’s description, was Clovis the king, descendant of the more famous conqueror of the same name. He was surprised at how young the king looked. And how wild. But what he saw next almost made him fall off his seat. Hanging on to Clovis’ back like a white leech was a young girl of fifteen or sixteen winters, dressed only in linen underwear that reached to her knees, and a flimsy neck scarf that didn’t even cover her breasts. Before Clovis could escape her, she reached a hand into his tunic, and though he was twice her weight she pulled him back toward her and gave him a long sensuous kiss while her hands moved up and down his back and thighs. Was this the holy queen Balthild of whom the abbess had spoken?

  Kristinge stared for just a moment before turning away, embarrassed by the display. When he looked back up, the woman was slipping out the door wearing the cloisonné necklace, but the king was still holding her scarf. With a lewd grin on his face, he walked over to the throne and sat down. The noblemen all rose and gave half-hearted bows before returning to their seats. Only then, when Telchild loudly cleared her throat, did Clovis turn toward the door and notice the four robed monks seated there. Fumbling clumsily, he fastened his shirt at the neck with a gold brooch, and then rudely called the guests forward.

  “What in the name of Woden do you want here?” he asked of the abbess. It was obvious that he had made her acquaintance in the past. “I hope you haven’t come to tell me how wicked I am. I’ve got plenty of my own bishops and monks to tell me that.” Then, for no reason, he burst into a strange fit of laughter. He jumped onto his throne and started dancing around, until one of the nobleman rose and helped him back to his seat. Kristinge just stood there, watching the scene half in horror and half in fascination.

  “The sensible Ebroin,” Clovis said. “Always spoiling my fun.”

  Ebroin? Kristinge wondered. Where had he heard that name before?

  “And speaking of spoiling fun,” the king went on, “back to you.” He released one more squeal of high-pitched laughter then turned his eyes on the abbess. “What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing,” Telchild said coldly.

  “Then what do you have to give me?” he asked.

  “Everything,” Telchild answered. “But nothing that you would accept.”

  “Nothing to give and nothing to take? Then why are you here?” Only now did Kristinge notice that Clovis was flinching away from the abbess, as if he was afraid of her, or as if her presence made him feel guilty.

  “I wish to speak with Queen Balthild,” the abbess replied.

  “Sapping more money from our treasury?” Ebroin asked.

  Telchild refused even to look at Ebroin, and Kristinge remembered where he had heard the name before. Osanne! Ebroin was the one who had raped her.

  “Some day you may find a palace mayor who is not so pliable,” Ebroin said. “I suggest that you return to me soon what you have unrightfully taken.”

  Still Telchild refused to look at Ebroin, but Kristinge could see her face growing red with anger. He wondered if she had the same Irish temper as Columbanus. “I wish to speak with Queen Balthild,” she repeated.

  “Send her away,” Ebroin said.

  “What?” Clovis replied angrily, suddenly turning on his servant Ebroin. “Are you giving me orders now? Would you have her pestering me instead of Balthild? Give her what she wants and let her go.”

  Turning from Ebroin, the king gave orders for one of his servants to fetch the queen. After a few long minutes of waiting, filled with icy stares and unspoken accusations, anoth
er woman entered the hall through the main doors. She wore long, heavy, loose-fitting trousers which, unlike the king’s, had been made more for rugged wear than for luxury. Above the trousers she wore a tunic and cape which in color and fabric were not unlike the robes of the women monks. Upon seeing the abbess, she broke into a warm smile and ran over at once to welcome her with an embrace. This, then, and not the other woman, was Queen Balthild.

  “Why did you not tell me you were here?” she asked. Before Telchild could reply, the queen was ushering her and Beatrice out of the room. And all of a sudden, Kristinge and Willimond found themselves alone with the king and his court.

  “And you,” Clovis said, turning his eyes upon the monks. “Your requests can wait. Be seated.”

  Kristinge, who had been foundering at a loss for something to say, breathed a sigh of relief and followed Willimond back to the door. “What are we going to say?” he whispered after they once again took their seats.

  “I do not know,” Willimond answered. “But it appears that God brought us here, so I trust He will give us the words when it is time.”

  At the present moment, that did not come as a great comfort to Kristinge, but he held his tongue and waited. As nervous as he was, something about the scene intrigued him. He listened to the conversation with fascination, hoping to glean as much as possible from what he heard. With the exception of Ebroin, it turned out that the noblemen in the room were not from the Neustrian court of Clovis, but were Austrasian seigniors and aristocrats come to discuss the future state of their realm. The conversation centered on who would run the realm after the recent deaths of King Sigibert and his son Dagobert.

  “You have taken care of Grimoald,” they queried. “And his son Childebert?”

  “Of course,” Clovis answered, grinning with evil delight.

  “How?” they pressed.