He paused for a moment, and gazed out over the water. Without looking at Kristinge, he continued. “Well after a short dialogue with Ulestan, I decided I ought to clean myself off. Wanting to avoid further blunders, I thought better of bathing in the pond in the middle of the village, so I came down the hill to the river. And there were Lopystre, Lindlaf and Lawyrke out in the cold water working the weirs. Just as I arrived, Lopystre was struggling to drag onto shore a net laden with fish. Well I had worked weirs as a child in Iona, and I immediately jumped into the water—I was going to wash anyway,” he laughed, “—and I started to help. That was the beginning of a long friendship.”
“I remember Lopystre,” Kristinge said, when the story was finished. “And Lindlaf also. Lawyrke I do not remember.”
“He drowned in the weirs one day. His foot got caught when nobody was around to help.”
“I remember now,” Kristinge said. “He had a son my age.”
“Yes,” Willimond answered. “Did you know that I lived with Lopystre’s family until the church was built?”
“It was a beautiful church,” Kristinge said, watching Willimond’s face closely.
Willimond’s eyes had now begun to well with tears, though he was struggling to control them. “In its way, it was. I have seen many grander in the days since I departed, but I have not seen any I have loved more. For it was the people here who made it grand. A small congregation it was, to be sure. As long as Finn clung stubbornly to his pagan ways, his folk were slow to follow the Cross. But there were some who believed, and they were beautiful. Lopystre and his family served the Lord with such joy—his wife Berigyldan with her quiet hospitality, and tall Lindlaf. I can still see the face of his young daughter Blostma when I baptized her. ‘Momma, I’m a heathen now!’ she sputtered happily as she stepped from the pond.”
Kristinge raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Willimond smiled despite the tears that were now flowing freely down his face. “That was the word Finn used to describe those who did not believe in the Frisian gods: heathens. From his point of view, unbelievers. Though I suppose the word is not accurate. If anything, those from the heath were even less willing to give up their beliefs in the Frisian gods and follow Christ. But for Finn, ‘heathen’ was a term of contempt—a name for a fool who doesn’t know better. Paganus we would say in Latin. Blostma must have known it was a name of derision, but she accepted it.”
Willimond stopped suddenly, and shook with two heavy sobs. He began speaking against almost at once, in a disciplined effort to maintain his composure. “And Lawyrklaf,” he said. “Even after his father died he did not lose his joy in life. The Lord bless and keep his whole family. It was a small flock, but God loved them. I wonder to this day if any of them survive. Does a spark of faith dwell anywhere in this land? Was all my work in vain?”
Kristinge knew that Willimond was referring to the pagan idols he had seen in the homes of former believers—not just in Wijnaldum, but in every village they had stopped at throughout all of Friesland. He knew the sorrow in his former teacher’s heart. But he could not let the statement go without a response. He confronted Willimond, as the other had so often confronted him. “Vain?” he asked. “Do you call what you did for Lopystre vain?”
“It is all gone now.”
“And not Lopystre only,” Kristinge went on, ignoring the comment. “His whole family. And Ulestan, whom you brought up from the pit. Where would he have been without you? And Daelga the poet. And the queen herself, Hildeburh, my mother. All of them. And me. Where would we all be without you?”
“Had God sent somebody stronger—”
“But He sent you. He knew your weaknesses as well as your strength, and He chose you. And for that choice He had a purpose. ‘For the sake of those who are chosen, I also endure these things—’”
“‘That they may obtain the Salvation that comes with Christ,’” Willimond finished. “‘And with it, eternal glory.’” He paused and inhaled a long deep breath. “Come, my young friend. You have lifted my heart. Let us depart from here.” They rose and together walked down the river and along the beach to where the sailors were already preparing the ships for departure.
“I wondered if you had been taken by the ghosts that haunt this place,” one of the merchants said. “We were getting ready to leave without you.”
“I thought you were sending a message to Ezinge,” Kristinge said.
“We are, but Ezinge is far to go on foot, and winter is fast approaching. We have not the time to wait for an reply. My brother will stay there until we return. The rest of us will depart.”
A short time later, they were sailing out of Hwitstanwic into the reflection of the rising sun. Though he wasn’t sure why, Kristinge was glad to be sailing out of Friesland. With the exception of one night in Frotha’s hall and his brief encounter with Aewin, all he had seen so far of his former homeland had served only to depress and discourage him. And also to raise more fears about what he would find when he returned for good. What would he say to Réadban and Aldgisl if he met them? And what would he learn of Aewin? Had she indeed become more unreachable than ever? And more beautiful?
The merchants were in a hurry now. They did not stop long at any villages, and though the amount of sunlight grew less with each passing day, the hours of travel were long. The first day out of Hwitstan took them as far as the mouth of the Ems river, and to another important trading community built on the terps. On the third day from Hwitstan, they reached the Weser river. Now, Kristinge knew, they were approaching an end of the Frisian territories and the beginning of the Danish and Jutish lands. Many Saxon clans still dwelt here also. On the forth day out from Hwitstan, they finally reached the Elbe river, which was nearly as long as the Rhine. It also marked the farthest boundary of Friesland, and even there the Saxon and Danish influences were dominant. Though the village was large, the surrounding territory was wild.
After the Elbe, the coast turned sharply to the north. They were sailing along Danemark now. A large remnant of the Angles still dwelt there on the shores, along with Jutish tribes, but all under submission to the ruling Danes. Here Willimond fared well, for he remembered much of the Saxon dialect from his days at Lindisfarne. They worked their way up the coast fighting against the prevailing winds and weather that worsened daily. On the sixth day out of Hwitstan, it snowed all day. The merchants were looking nervous now, and Kristinge could tell they were eager to turn back to the south. At the end of the fourth day after the Elbe river and the eighth since Hwitstan, they reached a sheltered harbor with a large Jutish village. When morning arrived to reveal an inch of fresh snow on the ground, they made their decision.
CHAPTER 8:
The Hoclinges
As he stood next to the ship, shivering, looking down at the layer of fresh snow atop the cargo, Kristinge heard Wyndlaf speak the words he had been fearing. “We go no further. We will trade with the Jutish merchants here. Our profit might be greater further north among the Danes, but…” He didn’t finish the sentence but merely looked toward the sky and shrugged as if he didn’t need to explain. He spoke with resolve. “Tomorrow we sail southward and homeward.”
No, Kristinge wanted to object. They were only on the southern edge of the Danish rule, among the Jutes and mixed clans. As he had learned from the traders, the Hoclinges dwelt further north by many days. A journey on foot in this wild and unknown territory would be difficult and dangerous. They were too far from their destination to be abandoned now. But the trader read the look in Kristinge’s eyes and forestalled objection. “Winter is upon us. We will go no farther. Already we have risked our boats and lives traveling this far north so late in the autumn. If you wish to continue, you will have to journey on foot. Or you can find a Danish ship more familiar with these waters.”
Kristinge’s felt his heart sink. Not for the first time since his departure from Luxeuil, doubt began to creep over him—doubt that he might never find his mother, and that the voyage was too great for him. B
ut he staved off his despair. Perhaps the trader was right. A Danish ship could be the answer. He turned his gaze back toward the beach, forgetting already how much he loathed travel by sea. Wyndlaf, however, was not finished. He leaned closer as the young monk stood scanning the shoreline and began speaking with Willimond. “You have paid your fare. Go among this folk as you please. You have not sought my council.”
Kristinge understood at once that Wyndlaf was offering advice. Since having attained the stature of a bard, he had found the sailors friendlier and more willing to bestow their wisdom—whether it was sought or not. And at the moment, the monks were not in a position to refuse any aid. Kristinge spun around at once, even as Willimond nodded for Wyndlaf to continue.
“If you ask me, I wouldn’t ride with these Vikings.”
“You don’t trust their ships?” Kristinge asked, plying for any scrap of information he might use.
“Their ships? There are none better. The Danes are masters of their craft without questions. Their ships are as sound and solid as a tree itself—and they know how to sail them.”
“Then what?” Kristinge wondered aloud.
Wyndlaf leaned even closer. “They’re warriors, not traders, these Danes are. I wouldn’t feel safe with them. No. If you really want my advice, turn around and return to Friesland. Forsake this barren land. Come back with us to Ezinge. We have visited more than one chieftain who would take a good bard like you. Indeed, you could find no more generous treasure-giver than Frotha himself. Come. We have room in our ships and would charge no more fare. You’ve got Frisian blood in you, I can tell.”
Kristinge stared mutely, his thoughts paralyzed. Turn back? This was not the advice he needed. What could he do? He was not yet ready for his return to Friesland. Yet to be left in Danemark…
It was Willimond who answered the trader. “For the safe passages as well as for the generosity and wisdom of your warnings, we thank you. But we will continue if we can find a way.”
Wyndlaf shrugged again and stepped back. “Do you know where you go?” He asked in a more distant tone. “How far? Where you will winter?” Then once again his voice lowered. Though the monks had not worn their robes in many days, the traders knew what they were. “Christian monks have not fared well here.”
This time Willimond looked at Kristinge for an answer. “We do not know how far,” Kristinge replied, finding his thoughts and tongue again. Cautiously he added, “We are looking for somebody. A Dane.”
Now the trader’s curiosity and nose for information were aroused. “Searching? For whom? A chieftain? Another monk? In this I might be able to help. I have traveled among the Danes before. We have traded in many Danish villages. I know most of the clans and their chieftains.”
Kristinge hesitated. The name of Hildeburh would arouse suspicion. He looked around. There were no Danes or Jutes within hearing distance. Though Kristinge placed little faith in the ability of a merchant, even a fellow Frisian, to hold his tongue, he wondered if he had any choice. Was it worth the risk? What if the trader really did have information? What else could Kristinge do? “We are looking for Hildeburh, your former queen,” he finally said. “We have heard rumor that she still lives.”
At the mention of that name, the merchant’s eyes narrowed and he looked Kristinge over more carefully. “If I didn’t know better…” he started, but didn’t finish. “Monks from Luxeuil, you say? And yet you speak the Frisian dialect like natives.”
Under the trader’s penetrating stare, Kristinge began to grow nervous. Had he made a mistake and compromised his identity? How much would the trader guess? He was glad when Willimond broke the silence. “We have been to Friesland before. In Hwitstan, I served the queen for many years as her priest. We have heard she still lives. As her former priest, I would see her again. We departed from Hwitstan only a few months before the Battle of Finnsburg—”
“Not a good event to speak of here,” the trader interrupted with a cautioning word.
“We understand well,” Willimond went on more softly. “That is why we are asking you where we might find her. As a Frisian, we hoped you might help—”
Again Wyndlaf interrupted. “I also heard this rumor, the same as you. It is said to have come from some who survived the pillage. But nobody I spoke to had themselves met any survivors, and so I did not at first believe. You have seen Hwitstan yourselves. There was little left after the second battle. Finnsburg is in ashes. It is hard to believe any endured the fury of the Danes on that day.” Kristinge’s heart sank. His hope faltered further and he wondered if Abbess Telchild had been mistaken. But the trader was not finished. “No. I was slow to believe such a thing, until I saw the queen myself.”
Now the young monk took a sharp breath. Excitement rose in his chest. “Hildeburh? In Friesland?”
The merchant shook his head. “Not in Friesland. After the battle of Finnsburg she was taken back to Danemark by her people. I saw her two summers ago when I was trading farther north. She had seen I was Frisian and came to speak with me. She asked me about Friesland. Bought some cloth from me. That was all. I only know that she is still alive. Or at least that she was alive two years ago. I have not seen her since.”
“Is she well?” Kristinge asked, unable to hide his interest.
“She looked well,” the trader answered, once again watching Kristinge closely. “Though I don’t know how free she is. After the death of their chieftains, her clan was somewhat inhospitable toward Frisians. Even toward traders. It was three years after the battle before I even ventured north again.”
“Do you know where she is?” Willimond asked.
“The Hoclinges are her clan. They dwell in two coastal villages in the summer, one north of here a day’s journey by boat, and another on the Baltic sea south of Geatland and Swedeland. In the winter they move inland. Best inquire of the villagers here. Do you speak the Danish dialect?”
“Some,” Kristinge answered. He was thinking more of Willimond’s capacity than his own. The Saxon spoken at Lindisfarne by the elder monk in his youth was close to the Jutish and Danish dialects. Even Kristinge had discovered that Jutish was not so different from Frisian, and he guessed he could get used to the Danish dialect.
“Ask for the Hoclinges,” the trader said softly. “That is the queen’s clan. The people here should know where they winter.”
For the third time, Kristinge and Willimond thanked Wyndlaf for his help. Then, ever more eager to find his mother, Kristinge led the way into the village. It didn’t take long to find Danish traders who knew the land. They were a rough looking lot. Dressed in poorly-tanned fur hides, with bare arms, long braided hair, and shaggy beards, they appeared more like mercenaries than merchants. Nor did the Danish battle-axes, visible at their belts, bolster Kristinge’s confidence. But he and Willimond knew they had little choice but to seek help. Praying silently, they approached.
Despite Kristinge’s reservations, the band proved amiable enough to the strangers. When they heard that Kristinge was looking for the Hoclinges, they grew more friendly still. “We serve Fjorgest, a Hoclinges chieftain,” their leader said.
“Is Hengest still king?” Willimond asked.
The trader looked him over. “Irish?” he asked.
“Half,” Willimond answered.
Kristinge winced. He knew as well as Willimond that purity of blood was highly valued among the northern tribes, and that mixed-breeds were disdained. Nonetheless, the answer was true, and safer than telling a Hocling that they were from Hwitstan. Or that they were monks.
“And you,” he said to Kristinge. “You have Danish blood in your veins.” It was a comment, not a question.
“Half,” Kristinge echoed, following Willimond’s lead in accepting disdain rather than giving up too much information.
“Two halflings, eh? Traders?”
“We’ve come from southern Francia,” Willimond replied, neither lying nor answering the question.
The Danish trader laughed. “Men of few
words. I like that. It’ll make you easier to travel with.”
“Then you will guide us?”
“You are looking for the Hoclinges? We leave for their villages today. Four days of hard travel, but if you can keep up we’ll guide you—for a price, of course.”
“How much?” Kristinge asked, too eagerly for one hoping to strike a good bargain.
The trader looked them over, as if guessing how much they could pay. “Ten Danish silvers. For that, we’ll guide you, guard you, and feed you.” He laughed and put his hands on his own healthy girth. “You look as though you could use some more food than you’ve been getting.”
“I have only four,” Kristinge answered. “But I can add two Romans.” He was trying to bargain the traders down. The Roman coins weighed more than the Danish, but not three times as much.
“It is settled. We leave after our meal.”
An hour later, Kristinge and Willimond found the traders packing up their belongings near the edge of the village. There were twelve of them in the band, and it was difficult to tell who was the leader. All of them looked equally rough. Kristinge decided that if he was safe from them, he was probably safe from anything. They looked the match for any bandits they might encounter. With a reassuring nod from Willimond, Kristinge swallowed his anxiety and the two of them fell in with their newest guides. Before the sun had reached its peak, they were hiking northeastward into the interior of Danemark.
As Kristinge had been promised, the going was not easy. Though there were signs that other traders had traveled that overland route, there was little that could have been called a road. They were not far out of the village before Kristinge was fighting his way over rough terrain. Bushes and small scraggly trees cluttered the landscape, tearing at the legs of any who wandered too close. Numerous streams and brooks crossed their way. And where the ground was open, it was strewn with small boulders and loose stones that were difficult on the footing. To make matters worse, snow fell on and off all afternoon, accumulating little but making for cold travel and slippery ground. Having been confined to a wagon or boat since leaving Gundomer’s house weeks earlier, Kristinge was out of condition for such work. He struggled to keep up the brisk pace set by the leaders of the Danish party—who to his dismay were not the least hampered by either weather or rough ground—and was winded before they had gone more than a few miles.
The Rood and the Torc Page 14