“The way one ought to deal with usurpers and pretenders to the throne,” Clovis said. He lifted a sword from beside his throne and made a slitting motion along his neck.
“So the reign of Childebert was short-lived, eh?” one of them joked.
“I’ll bet old Grimoald would have been satisfied to keep the position of Mayor had he known what would happen when he named his own son king,” another said.
The conversation continued, centering on the remaining heirs of the Merovingian dynasty. Clovis continued to put forth his own oldest son, Chlotar, as the only rightful heir of the entire Frankish kingdom. Though none gainsaid him, they kept asking who would rule in practice. But the king was oblivious to the implication that anybody but the rightful Merovingian king himself would have authority. As the conversation progressed, it became clear that Ebroin was the real spokesperson for the throne. Eventually, the Austrasian nobles ceased even to address Clovis.
In the end, Clovis’ young son Chlotar was named as the King of all Francia, much to the glee of Clovis. Kristinge could hardly believe he had just witnessed the naming of a king. He wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or appalled. When the deed was done, Clovis announced that it was time for a celebration. He started to jump on his chair when he noticed that the monks were still waiting by the door. “Hasn’t anybody taken care of them yet?” he asked. The nobles appeared surprised to see the monks still there. They shook their heads. “Well, bring them over here. I feel like granting a boon to celebrate the crowning of my son. Where is my son? We must crown him this very day.” He began to look around the room as if Chlotar might be hiding under his throne. Ebroin tried to get his attention again.
“Yes. I was saying. Come forward.”
Willimond and Kristinge looked nervously at each other, then approached the throne. “Ask of me anything,” Clovis said. At that, Ebroin looked very nervous.
“We seek only passage to Danemark,” Kristinge replied in a shaky voice.
“To Danemark? Who wants to visit that barbaric country? Ask me instead for passage to… to South Burgundy, yes. To Genoa, or Agde. To the Mediterranean. Yes, much warmer there. Ebroin, buy them passage on a trading ship to Italy.”
“Oh gracious king,” Willimond said, with a severe tone that did not match the courtesy of the words themselves. “We seek passage to Danemark. If you have changed your mind about the boon, then we will buy our own passage.”
“Changed my mind? Do you insult me?” He picked up the francisc off the arm of his throne and held it menacingly in his right hand as if he meant to hurl it at the monks. At that moment, however, he caught sight of Kristinge’s sack near the door, and the harp which was half-visible out the top. He let the ax drop with a thud on his seat. “Danemark, yes. Tomorrow morning we will buy you passage on the next trading ship bound for Danemark. Of course you will entertain us this evening, for I see you are a bard.” He was pointing at Willimond, mistaking him for the owner of the harp. “Yes. After this evening’s feast we will expect a song from the bard. But now, it is I who will entertain.”
Now he did jump up on his throne. The nearest of the Austrasian nobles jumped back, tipping over his chair in the process. “Send in the entertainment,” Clovis shouted at the top of his lungs. Somebody was awaiting his order. The moment he shouted, the front door of the hall burst open. In came five young slave-girls, barely clad. “Entertain!” Clovis shouted, and he began to rip open his tunic.
On the heels of Willimond, Kristinge fled from the hall as if he were fleeing for his life.
Fortunately it took only a short time to find abbess Telchild. The same servant who had ushered the slave-girls into the throne room led Kristinge and Willimond to the queen’s chambers where they found Queen Balthild in quiet conversation with Telchild and Beatrice. The queen greeted the monks warmly, and spent a long time querying them about Luxeuil and about Walbert, though she already revealed more knowledge about both than Kristinge expected. Then she asked about their meeting with King Clovis. Leaving out any reference to Clovis’ entry into the hall, or to the conditions surrounding their departure, Willimond explained what they had heard of the conversation. Telchild was far less enthused than Clovis about the naming of her son as the new king of Francia. “My son will be more a slave than I ever was,” she said sadly. Willimond then went on to tell of Clovis’ granting of their request for passage to Danemark, as well as of his command that Kristinge play the harp for him that evening.
“Do not worry about entertaining the king,” Balthild said at once. “I will see that your passage to Danemark is purchased. As for the king, he has enough entertainment already.” At this, Kristinge blushed. The queen saw him and laughed a low, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I guessed there was something that Willimond graciously left out of his story for my sake. But alas, I know all too well of the king’s exploits.”
“And it does not bother you?” Kristinge asked. Willimond shot him quick warning glance, but the question had already been spoken.
“Bother me?” Balthild said. “It grieves me deeply, but there is little I can do. Little I can do for him, anyway, other than run his kingdom as best I am able, and give what help I can to his sons. For you, however, I can do more. I will tell you again that you have no obligation to entertain the king or his wicked court. There are some privileges to being queen. If my position does not suffice to rescue you from this, then what benefit has it?” Then she laughed again. “He has likely already forgotten you anyway. I will take care of paying for your passage. And now, I request that you please join us in our own feast.”
Balthild signaled to one of her maids who went to the door. A moment later, a small group of servants appeared at the entrance to the queens’ chambers. She called them in at once, and they entered carrying many trays laden with food—food the likes of which Kristinge had not before partaken. There were a half dozen varieties of fresh fowl and game, wine imported from Italy, fall fruits and nuts, and a large block of cheese to go with the loaves of bread. The young monk sat staring wide-eyed at all the fare, unable to believe his eyes. It was more than ten monks at Luxeuil would eat in a week.
“As I told you,” Balthild said, guessing Kristinge’s thoughts, “for all I have been through at the hands of Clovis, there are still some advantages to being a queen. Eat. It may be many months before you dine this well again.”
Telchild gave thanks to the Lord for His provision, and they shared a meal together. The meal lasted for some time, in part because they were enjoying the conversation and in no hurry to finish, and in part because more food kept coming in. Eventually, however, the flow of victuals came to an end. There was more wine, and then a rest. It was late when another servant entered with a message from Clovis.
“The king commands the presence of his honored bard,” the servant told the queen. He appeared nervous to be the bearer of tidings, as if he guessed how the queen might respond. Kristinge started to rise and reach for his harp.
“No,” Balthild said, speaking to both Kristinge and the servant, and motioning for Kristinge to sit back down. “It is not necessary. He promised a boon before he made any demands. He will honor his promise.”
But Kristinge didn’t sit down again. Some time earlier in the evening, a seed had been planted in his mind. It had been growing through dinner, and now it was beginning to flower. He wasn’t sure he could explain. He wasn’t even sure he knew what he was doing himself, but something compelled him—something that he would only later relate to words spoken to him by Abbot Walbert before his departure from Luxeuil. “I will honor his request,” Kristinge said. “I will tell sing a story for the court if the king so desires.”
Willimond did not show any surprise, but he gave a warning. “Be careful. This is not a gruff land-owner who would punish a distasteful song by sentencing you to a night in the stable. If the king decides to make a martyr of you, I fear there are none who will be able to stop him.”
“There is One,” Kristinge answered.
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“I will not be there,” Balthild objected. “I will not sit at his side when his concubines are dancing.”
It was Telchild who gently answered the queen, rightly guessing what Kristinge had meant. “It is not you of whom he spoke, but One far greater.” Then she turned to Kristinge. “There is a prophet’s spirit upon you tonight. That much I see. Prophets must speak the word—though they are sometimes killed for it. May God bless your tongue.”
“Thank you, Abbess,” Kristinge replied. A strange mood had fallen on him now. Was this the prophet’s spirit of which she spoke? Yet at the mention of concubines, and the realization that neither the queen nor the abbess would be with him, he began to feel fear. He was glad when Willimond arose to join him.
“You will be in our prayers,” the abbess said, as Kristinge and Willimond followed the servant out of the room.
CHAPTER 6:
The Prophet
There was once a great and mighty king, one who wore the golden torc, a chieftain of chieftains who ruled many nations. The realm of this king extended to the farthest corners of the earth, and he held dominion over many kings and princes. Countless were the other tribes who paid tribute to him. No other had ever been more powerful than he, nor would there ever be another ruling tribe like his.
One night this king had a dream. He had a powerful vision, a night-seeing. He saw a mighty tree, a great ash of numerous branches that reached to the heavens. Its leaves were fair to look upon, and it bore much fruit, and in its branches nested many birds, and beneath its boughs the beasts of the field came to find shelter. But an ax was laid to the tree, a metal blade was put to the wood, and its glory was chopped down. All that remained of the once proud tree was the stump, and its only food was the dew of Heaven.
This was the king’s dream, the vision that came to the ruler, and he did not understand it. So he called his wise men. He sent for his priests, and summoned his bards and skalds. He told the dream to his councilors, made the mystery known so that they would answer him. But the skalds could not speak. No bard knew the dream. His councilors fell mute. Only one in all the kingdom could help—one councilor wiser than all the rest whose wisdom came from God, and was given to him from the Heavens. This wise man, the one of surpassing knowledge, replied to the king and explained the dream. He spoke with prudent words.
‘Your dream,’ he explained, ‘was given you by the God that you might have wisdom and know what is to happen in days to come.’ Then the knowing bard explained to the king the meaning of his dream. He told him its interpretation. ‘Your dream was about you, O king. You are the great tree. You are the glorious ash. And in your splendor you reach to the heavens, and all of the nations of the earth are under your care, like birds that nest in your leaves. Yet you have grown too proud, O king, too haughty and full of conceit so that you call yourself a god and have forsaken justice and righteousness. Therefore, unless you repent of your pride and show mercy to the poor, unless you humble yourself before the One God, your kingdom will be taken from you and given to another, and you will become like a wild animal driven from the dwellings of men and made to live like a beast of the field until you repent and acknowledge the true Lord of Heaven, the Maker of men, and King over all the middle-earth.’
So the dream came to pass. The vision was fulfilled. One day the king stood upon the roof of his great hall, looking out over his royal city, casting his eyes to the horizon and knowing that as far as he could see in every direction was under his dominion. He felt great and overbearing pride such as he should not have had. And in his pride he proclaimed, ‘Indeed I am like a god, for all that I see I have built by my own power and for my great glory and majesty.’ And in the moment that he spoke these words a voice came from Heaven saying, ‘Today the kingdom is taken from you.’
And so the mightiest king of all the earth, the chieftain of chieftains and bearer of the golden torc, was cast from the dwellings of men, thrown from his castle and banished from the mead hall. For seven periods of time he lived like a beast of the field, drinking dew and eating grass, and his face was not shaven and his hair became like feathers and his nails like the claws of birds. Until seven periods had passed, and after that time the king lifted his eyes to Heaven and his sanity was restored to him and he humbled himself before the God of Heaven and praised His Name and acknowledged His Lordship. And then was His kingdom returned to him.
The hall was stone silent. The revelry that filled the air when Kristinge first began to sing had ceased. The Frankish nobility with their wives and concubines stared in silence at the brash monk-bard as if they expected him to be struck dead. Yet Clovis just sat there, slumped in his throne. On his lap sat another young concubine, but his roving hands had fallen off her. She had pulled a fur shawl back over her exposed breasts. For that, Kristinge was thankful; he needed no distractions.
There was yet another king, he went on chanting, after only a momentary pause. The Frankish tongue was coming easier to him that night than ever before. It was too late to stop. The prophets’ spirit was indeed upon him. Plucking a few rare notes on his harp, he continued.
He was the son of the first king, the offspring of the mighty chieftain. And like his father, his pride too became very great. His arrogance exceeded even his glory and wealth. And he threw a great feast, a splendid banquet in the grandest of mead halls; he celebrated with men, and invited his wealthiest nobles and thanes, and princes from many lands. And when it came time to drink the wine, the hour to share the mead, he called for his golden vessels—vessels he had stolen from the house of God, mead cups that did not belong to him but to the Ruler of the Heavens and Maker of men. He called for the holy cups so that his princes and nobles and wives and concubines might drink and praise his pagan gods made of wood.
And as he sat drinking wine and worshipping his idols and giving his body to his concubines, in that very hour a great hand came out of the walls of his banquet hall in the royal palace, an arm emerged from the stone, and the hand took a candlestick and began to write upon the plaster walls, made letters that all might see. All who were there could see the hand, yet none knew the meaning of the writing; none understood the mystery. And the countenance of the king was changed, and his thoughts troubled, and fear came upon him, and his knees began to shake like those of a young man going to battle. He called to himself all his pagan priests, his skalds and his diviners and astrologers, his wise men and councilors. But none of them could read the writing. They did not know its meaning.
But the queen came into the banquet hall. The wife of the king entered. And she was more righteous than the king, and wiser. And she knew of a man of God who had great wisdom and understanding, and could understand all manner of hard sayings and dreams, ‘for the Spirit of God is upon him,’ she said, ‘and his wisdom is from Heaven.’ So the king called this wise man before him, the very same wise man who had once explained the dreams of the king’s father, and the king asked him what was the meaning of these words.
The wise man appeared before the king as he was commanded, came to the throne as he was ordered. Without delay, he told the young king the tale of his father, how the former king and once great chieftain had been cast from his throne like a wild beast and restored only when he humbled himself before God. Then this is what the wise man told the king. ‘You, too, O king have not humbled yourself, but have lifted yourself against the Lord of Heaven. You have stolen the drinking vessels from His house and have drunk wine in them, and you have praised your gods of wood. This then is the message which has been given for you, the words which were sent. “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.” And the meaning of the message is this. “God has numbered the days of your kingdom and finished it. You have been weighed on the scales and found deficient. Your kingdom will be divided.”
Then the king ordered the wise man to be clothed in a cloak of rich fabric, adorned with gold, and richly rewarded, though indeed the wise man wanted none of these things; he had no desire for riches or reward. Then the king s
ent the wise man from the hall in great honor, paid him tribute and made him depart. But the king did not heed the message, and he did not humble himself. And that very night, he was slain and his kingdom was given to his enemies.
Kristinge lowered his harp which he had been plucking throughout the telling of his story. With just a glance at Willimond, he turned and strode hurriedly toward the door of the hall, anxious to be gone as soon as possible. He knew not how the king would interpret the story, but if it was unfavorably he did not want to wait for the consequences. Willimond followed him toward the door.
“Wait!” Clovis commanded. His voice was surprisingly stern and powerful. Kristinge froze, a knot of fear rising in his throat. He turned around and walked slowly back to the throne, with Willimond still beside him.
“Is it cloaks and reward you want, then?” the king asked loudly, sounding more lucid than he had all afternoon. He rose suddenly from his throne, causing his concubine slave to fall to the floor at his feet. His hands were trembling. “Take it, then.” He ripped the fur shawl from the shoulders of the girl. She was left exposed once again as Clovis threw the fur on the ground at the monk’s feet. Kristinge could see the shame in the young girl’s face as she clutched her arms around her breasts and tried to hide. Feeling no longer condemnation but pity for her, he picked up the fur shawl—appreciating for just a moment the beautiful extravagance—and then gently set it around her shoulders. Though she said not a word, he could see the gratitude in her eyes.
“Is it gold you desire? My offer of passage to Danemark was not enough? Take it then, also.” He unbent a gold ring from his left wrist, and threw that at Kristinge. Kristinge instinctively caught it in his free hand. Clovis was already stripping another one off. He threw this one also, followed by a heavy neck-band. “How much do you want?”
“King,” Ebroin objected, eyeing the wealth accumulating in Kristinge’s hand. “The monk has gone too far. He deserves death for his insolence, not reward.”
The Rood and the Torc Page 10