Kristinge awoke slowly, the sounds of bleating sheep gradually becoming the heavy snores of mead-sodden warriors. He squeezed his eyes shut, preferring the sheep, but the dream would not return. Then he remembered where he was, and sat up quickly. Morning had already come. Light was seeping into the hall through the smoke vent in the roof and a thin gap of a slightly open door. He looked around. Willimond was gone. There was no sign of Hildeburh either. He sat still for a time collecting his thoughts. His mother also must have known the danger to Kristinge were it to become known that he was the son of Finn. For now he would have to content himself with the knowledge that she was still alive, and bide his time until an opportunity arose. He took a deep breath, trying to prepare for the patience he would need, and wondering what he would say to her when he finally got the chance. Then he rolled his blanket and gathered his belongings.
Around Kristinge, sprawled out on the benches and cold dirt floor, paying the price for their excesses the evening before, were Fjorgest’s thanes and warriors. A few were just beginning to stir. Ulestan had once compared the scene in the mead hall the morning after a celebration to the scene on a battle-field after a battle. Kristinge now understood the comparison. As he picked his way across the hall, over the benches and still supine forms of warriors, he began to form a plan. The first thing was to find Willimond. Together they would look for the hut Fjorgest had offered them. After they found it and settled their belongings, then they would think about Hildeburh. Kristinge passed the last sleeping warrior and stepped through the doorway. It was a bright day, though cold. The young monk shivered with the excitement as he emerged into daylight and took a look around at a strange and unknown place.
The first person Kristinge saw was Fjorgest. The chieftain stood just outside the door of his hall. It was, as Kristinge soon discovered, the place where he could most often be found, his arms crossed and a stone expression on his face as he watched the goings and comings of his clan-village. He greeted his new bard by name. His voice and demeanor had once again taken on their gruff exterior. Kristinge returned the greeting, while casting about for some sign of Willimond.
“I will show you to your dwelling,” Fjorgest said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began walking northward through the village. Kristinge followed. As they walked, the chieftain informed his new bard that he would be gone for three or four days. He had not visited the other clan-villages since the beginning of the summer, and wanted to do so now before winter set in and traveling grew more difficult. He would depart as soon as his warriors were awake and recovered, and would return three nights hence. Then he would hear his new bard sing again.
“On my future winter journeys,” Fjorgest added, “I will expect my bard to travel with me. But not today.” He halted beside a rectangular turf building, whose roof was only about the level of Kristinge’s chin. “This shall be your abode as long as you remain in my service.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back to the center of the village where he retook his place at the door of his hall.
Kristinge watched Fjorgest leave. As the same time, Willimond emerged from a small grotto near the far end of the village and began making his way back toward the hut where Kristinge stood waiting. After exchanging greetings in Latin, they turned and stepped inside to survey their new dwelling. The hut in which they found themselves was a one room stone and turf shelter, about fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. It was located in the northern half of the village just a few hundred steps from the mead hall where Kristinge would be earning his keep. Its hard dirt floor, dug two feet below the level of the ground, had been packed down firmly and worn smooth over a few years of use. A stone and turf wall, rising another four and a half foot above the ground, supported the few precious roof timbers which in turn supported a turf ceiling just high enough that both of their heads were safe. The hut had no furniture save a single wooden bench, nor was there anything in the door to prevent a draft. Whatever door covering it once possessed had been torn free in the months since its last occupation. All that was left from the previous tenant was an old skin sleeping mat, rotting and stinky. The only real hope of warmth was a small hearthstone near the back of the room, with a smoke hole in the corner above it. The debris of the last fire were scattered about the floor, but the hut did not look to have housed an occupant or seen a fire in many months.
Fortunately, the monks were not shy of work. The first thing they did was dispose of the sleeping mat, whose smell nonetheless lingered some days after its departure. Then they set to work cleaning debris from the floor and hearth. By midday they had acquired a new skin to cover the entrance and additional skins for sleeping mats, and the dwelling was soon habitable. Willimond was in good spirits to be working again instead of traveling. He hummed to himself and labored energetically. Kristinge, on the other hand, was far from content. He soon grew tired of the silence and irritated by Willimond’s good mood. As they worked, he couldn’t help but walk to the door now and then and look out into the streets, hoping for a sight of his mother. “Don’t you wonder where she is?” he finally asked, speaking in the Latin tongue.
Willimond’s answer took the younger monk by surprise. “I have not ceased to wonder about her since she disappeared last night.”
“Then why do you just stand there?” Kristinge replied, his exasperation evident in his voice.
Willimond smiled and shrugged. “What else can I do?” He sat down on the dirt floor and sighed. “Ah. I will admit my unease. I long to see her perhaps as much as you. Do not forget, she may be your mother—”
“Sh!” Kristinge warned, fearing that somebody might be listening and forgetting for a moment that their Latin was unlikely to be understood by anybody in Danemark.
Willimond waited until Kristinge was looking at him again. “She was a treasure to me. You know that she was among the first to be baptized in Hwitstan, despite the objections of her husband who also happened to be king. She was fortunate he allowed her the freedom to follow Christ. Most Frisian chieftains would not have been so tolerant. To the day I left she was among the most faithful of the Frisian believers. How has she fared for these six long years in this pagan place with no fellowship? Does she still serve our Lord? I do not know.”
But she is my mother, Kristinge wanted to add, but he nodded his understanding and kept his silence. He had pondered that final question himself. How had she fared? At Willimond’s suggestion, the two monks spent the afternoon in quiet meditation and prayer so that they would not utterly forget nor forsake their monastic discipline, despite having given up their tonsures when they departed Paris. Before long, the sun was sinking low in the late autumn sky.
Fjorgest and most of his warriors had left at midday. The village was quiet. Evening came quickly, and the sun burned red at the horizon. The air was cold and a few light flakes of snow fell from a single large cloud that wandered low overhead and then disappeared into the south. Kristinge huddled under his blankets on the mats they had made for their beds. He could feel pangs of hunger in his stomach. He pulled the hood of his cloak up over his ears and tried not to look at Willimond, who sat in a posture of prayer. He looked at the door instead.
“A fast will be good for us,” Willimond spoke into the silence. “We have not fasted since leaving Luxeuil.”
“This fast may last three days,” Kristinge replied, his voice on the verge of grumbling. But though he was hungry, Hildeburh was foremost on his mind and not food.
“If God calls us to fast three days, it is because we need it. You know Columbanus—”
“I know,” Kristinge interrupted sharply. “And Walbert too. And Jesus fasted forty days. I’m not a novice any more.”
Willimond smiled. “I’m sorry, my friend. Old habits die hard. You were once my pupil.”
Kristinge closed his eyes and sighed. He had not meant to snap at Willimond like that. If his discipline had so deteriorated, then a longer fast would be good for him. He whispered an apology to his old instr
uctor and friend—the one whom he had once called father. Then his thoughts began drifting once more back to his mother. He knew he needed to get his mind off her. There was nothing he could do to find her until she chose to appear. He cast his glance around the hut looking for something to distract him. His eyes fell on the hearth, and he shivered at the thought of a night in that hut without a fire. He considered trying to build one, but he did not know where wood was to be found, and he didn’t feel like leaving the warmth of his blanket to go searching.
The sudden sound of a voice at their door startled them both. Kristinge, recognizing the voice, jumped to his feet. Throwing off his blanket he raced Willimond to the door, winning by a step. Heart in his mouth, he pulled back the covering.
She was standing there wrapped in a heavy cloak, her face glowing in the light of the sunset. Kristinge tried to speak but couldn’t. Willimond took her hand and helped her step down into the hut. When the door covering was pulled shut behind her, she tilted her head back and let her hood fall off, revealing her full face and head. Kristinge stared at her now, from close. Her face was still smooth. No wrinkles had yet touched her brow, nor had many gray hairs invaded her locks. She looked first at Willimond—slowly and steadily as if to convince herself of his real identity—and then she turned toward Kristinge. For a moment she said nothing, as if she too suffered from the same paralysis that had struck Kristinge. Then she pulled her right hand from her cloak to reveal a bag with two loaves of bread and some other provisions. “You never used to keep a fire in your home in Hwitstan either,” she said to Willimond in the Danish dialect. “If it wasn’t for Lopystre and Berigyldan, I think you would have frozen to death long ago.” She pulled her left hand from her cloak and held out as a second gift a small fagot of firewood. “It won’t last long but…”
The sound of her voice shook Kristinge free from his trance. In a single stride, he was at her side. Hesitating only a second—unsure if he really had the right—he wrapped his arms around her. Hildeburh dropped the bread and bundle of sticks to the floor and returned her son’s embrace with a strength that surprised him. She was sobbing. “How I longed to do this for so many years, my son,” she wept. “My son. My son. My son.”
They held each other, mother and son, for a long time, until both were able to slow their tears. Kristinge did not know what to say. Hildeburh turned to Willimond, who was looking upon the scene, his own eyes full of the tears of joy. “Is it proper, father?” she asked.
“Proper?” Willimond echoed, confused by the question.
Kristinge understood a moment later when Hildeburh threw her arms around the older monk. If Willimond was embarrassed, he didn’t show it. He returned the embrace with vigor. “We have so much to talk about,” Hildeburh finally said to both of them. “But come, let us have a fire. And some light. And food.”
“Is it safe, your being here?” Willimond asked.
Hildeburh lowered her eyes and sighed. “Oh, I am safe. I have not been treated poorly. To Hengest, I was a prisoner, though he still held me in honor. Fjorgest has been more generous—almost like a brother to me. He is embarrassed by my treatment. The daughter of Hoc a captive among her own people. And so many years have passed since the battle—”
“I meant is Kristinge safe,” Willimond explained. “Will he be safe with you here? Will they guess—”
“I do not know,” Hildeburh answered before Willimond could finish. “There are few left who fought at Finnsburg, but there are some.” She sighed. “There is so much we have to talk about. So much.”
That, at least, nobody questioned. Willimond built a small fire and lit it with tinder brought from Fjorgest’s hearth. Then, as Kristinge broke the bread and shared the provisions amongst the three of them, Hildeburh told them much of what had happened to her over the past six years. When the battle of Hwitstanwic ended, she had been taken captive by Hengest and made to watch as the great hall Finnsburg was plundered and burned. Some of the villagers managed to escape. Others tried to fight back, though few had weapons. Most were killed. Miraculously, Daelga’s life had been spared at Hildeburh’s request. She knew not what had become of him since. It was a horrible experience, watching the flames engulf Finnsburg and seeing the slaughter of many of her folk—a moment engraved still in her memory though it had lasted but a few hours.
When all was over, she had been brought back to Danemark. But after the heat of battle had receded, Hengest realized that he didn’t know what to do with her. She was, after all, the daughter of Hoc and the sister of Hnaef. She was a Dane, not a Frisian. She had royal Danish blood within her. But she had also been the wife of Finn and the mother of Finnlaf. Hengest might have been tempted to set her free—though where she would have gone, Hildeburh did not know—but matters were complicated by the fact that she had turned her heart to the Christian God. She had forsaken the gods of the Danes. That was no small crime in the eyes of many, and there were some—including the skald, the priests, and a few of her family’s long-time enemies—who advocated putting her to death. For a few days she had been prepared to be a martyr for her faith. Indeed, at that time she had felt little desire to live. Her husband, brother, and oldest son had all been taken away from her in the course of but a few months. And her other son, the son who didn’t even know her, had been driven south by his father. What reason was left to live?
But God had given her strength, and sent to her an unlikely aid. Fjorgest, the brother of Hengest, spoke on her behalf. It was he who pointed out who the real victim of the battle was—that she was the one who had suffered most. Both a Dane and a Frisian, she had watched as all whom she loved most dearly were destroyed. The words of Fjorgest eventually swayed the people. Yet life was not easy. As Hoc’s daughter, Hildeburh was shown some honor in the days that followed, but it was a distant honor. People feared and mistrusted her as much because of her new religion as because of her kinship by marriage and blood with the killers of their lord. It was a lonely time. “Fjorgest’ wife, Brytta, alone was willing to befriend me,” Hildeburh concluded. “What joy I have known has come from the Lord and from the times I have spent with her. She was so young, and so beautiful. I think she believed in Christ, though she was afraid to tell anyone.”
“Fjorgest has a wife?” Kristinge asked. “I looked around the hall last night, but could not guess whom it might be.”
“He had a wife,” Hildeburh answered. “But no longer. She died in childbirth last winter. She was always weak. ‘Not a real Dane,’ some said about her, laughing behind her back at her frailty. But Fjorgest loved her.” She paused long enough to wipe another tear from her eyes. Then her thoughts returned to the present. “But never have I known such joy as when I looked across the hall last night and saw the face of my own son looking back at me. Right here, in the middle of Danemark! I could not believe my eyes. I thought I was imagining it, that I was dreaming. Or that after so many years I no longer knew what you looked like. For you have changed, my son. Only when Willimond appeared at your side did I know for certain that I was not deceived. But tell me what has brought you here? Can I believe it was an accident? That the fates brought you here? Or have you come looking for me?”
“It was no accident,” Kristinge replied. “I came to find you. We were hoping—” he choked back a tear. “Hoping that you still lived.”
“But how did you know? How long have you known you were—” she paused. “Were my son?”
“Only a few months,” Kristinge answered. Beginning from his first days at Luxeuil, he then told his own tale: of his life at the monastery, and of Ulestan’s death, and of the discontentment that the old warrior’s final words had brought on him.
“Perhaps it would have been better had he not told you who you were,” Hildeburh said solemnly. “Then you would not have had to seek for me.”
Kristinge shook his head and forced a grin. “And had I not sought, I would not have found.” Hildeburh blushed, and he continued his tale up until the previous evening and their mee
ting. Willimond adding only an occasional detail to fill in the gaps. By the time they were finished, the fire had nearly died out.
“There is so much more to talk about,” Hildeburh finally said. “But Willimond is right. It would be dangerous for men to know you were my son—”
“I want them to know,” Kristinge said, feeling a sudden defensiveness for the father and brother he had never known, as well as a desire to be associated with the mother who had always been kept from him. “I want them to know who Finn was. Who my brother was. To vindicate them both from—”
“I know well enough your desire,” Hildeburh interrupted, shaking her head. There was clear conviction in her voice. “I too have known the urge to convince them of the truth—that my son did not kill my brother. Do you think I have not told them a thousand times?”
The Rood and the Torc Page 18