Through halls of cares I was carried and held
when wide rolling waves whelmed me with fear,
seized often my ship, at night snatched its prow
when tossing past cliffs. And cold was torment.
My feet were frozen, by frost were bound
in fetters so cold where cares always sighed
hot round my heart; and hunger did tear
my sea-weary mind. Men dwelling on earth,
lives full of pleasure know little what falls:
how I, wretched sad, in winter remain
of close kin bereft, on cold icy seas.
I hung near hoar-frost; from hail-showers fled.
No sound of voice but the roar of the sea,
storm beating stone-cliffs, slap of the waves.
While song of swans, screams of eagles,
gulls’ lonely shriek, and the gannets’ cry
replaced the mead-drink and laughter of men.
Kristinge could almost feel the cold waves upon him as he sang, and could sense the loneliness of the seafarer. He gently plucked at the strings and in a forlorn voice told of his protagonist’s long voyage and his exile away from men. By the time he came to the end, the hall was deathly silent and every eye was upon him.
Yes, shadow of night and snow from the north,
with hoar-frost hard and hail on the earth,
bind fast the ground in grain of cold.
And he with life’s joys and few lonely tales,
no bone-breaking sorrow or bitter experience,
proud and gay-spirited in safety he waits
in his lord’s lofty hall. Little does he know
how I, weary, wander without ever ceasing.
on the rough brine road. Yet I must remain.
Why do I pursue the seafarer’s way?
My heart gives no rest unless I do roam.
My thoughts are ever wandering thence
urging me forward to follow the seas.
They beat ‘gainst my heart, heedless of burdens,
that I might make trial of the tumult of waves.
Dead silence erupted into loud applause at the end of the song. Men and women alike lifted their mead cups, and eyes sparkled in the firelight at the tale. Kristinge’s natural bard’s intuition had not led him astray. This was the right song for these people. He had captured them again as he had done his first night among them. He could feel the air charged with anticipation. He felt the bard’s spirit on him, and knew that all in the hall were his prisoners—at least for the time, until the spell was broken. He waited only a few moments while those present refilled beer and mead cups. His eyes scanned the crowded hall. Faces other than those of Fjorgest, Willimond and Hildeburh were beginning to appear familiar. The thanes seated at the chieftain’s side, the scarred warrior with the wide toothless smile beside his plump wife—
Kristinge saw him then. Sceaptung had slipped into the hall some time during the song. He sat now in the same dark corner, away from the fire, the intimidating scowl still upon his face as he glared angrily at the bard. Kristinge looked away quickly. The skald’s presence unnerved him, though he didn’t know why. He wondered why Sceaptung had come, why he had come late, and if Fjorgest knew he was there. It was best not to worry about it, he told himself. He had many more songs to sing. He had composed another new song about a mighty smith imprisoned by an evil king; he planned to sing this now. Yet almost as if his eyes were drawn there against his will by some powerful force, he couldn’t resist one last look toward the corner. It was then he noticed that Sceaptung had not come alone. Seated next to the skald were two other shadowed figures, also newly arrived. Dressed in heavy black robes and carrying strangely runed staffs, they looked darker and more mysterious even than Sceaptung.
Kristinge realized almost at once what they were. Priests! And not priests of his God. These were priests of the Danish gods. Of Asgard. Priests of Tiwaz and Woden. Of Nerthus, Freyr, and Freyja. Sceaptung had brought them. Kristinge was sure of that. And he could feel his own mood changing as he watched them. Long ago he had learned of these priests, both in Hwitstan and later in Luxeuil. He had heard of their secret rites and rituals—of the human sacrifices carried out at their hidden grottos, of their unholy power. Though Kristinge was warm from the fire and his own exertion, he shivered at the sight of them and what they represented. Now he had to struggle to turn his eyes away, and to shake off the same sense of fear he had felt three nights earlier.
Feeling a need for reassurance, the monk-turned-bard glanced over toward Hildeburh. It was like walking from utter darkness into bright daylight. Though she was oblivious to the presence of the skald and priests, the warm smile she focused on Kristinge was like fresh air. He let out a sigh as if a weight had been removed from his chest. He turned next toward Willimond, who also gave him an encouraging nod. Kristinge glanced again at the skald and priests. Only Sceaptung had his eyes open. The other two gripped their staffs firmly, moving their lips with strange mumbling expressions. Though it was impossible to hear any words from where Kristinge stood, he did not think he would like what they were saying. The red wood on their staffs had the tint of blood. The sense of darkness among them was powerful.
Utter darkness.
Darkness?
Kristinge looked once more at Willimond. There was a strange aura about the older monk. He was almost glowing. Darkness and light. The contrast was powerful. It hummed through him like the strumming of twenty harps. And as he stood there, a new thought began to run through his mind—a powerful image as much as it was a focused idea. A sense of battle. A struggle that Kristinge was in the midst of. Like the confrontation between the Abbess Telchild and King Clovis that he had witnessed weeks earlier, only more intense. The evil emanating from the priests was both stronger and more deliberate than that of the Frankish king’s insanity. As if the blood from the sacrifices still dripped from the hands of these priests.
It was a startling realization, both frightening and eye-opening. And with that revelation came another thought—a thought still young, but with implications that were evident already. This was a battle. Not a rivalry between bard and skald, but between their gods. Sceaptung was there for his gods. He had heard Kristinge’s final song the other night and had come tonight to oppose him—to contend against the God of that song. There flashed then through the young monk’s mind the stories Hildeburh had told him of the human sacrifices made by the priests, and of the power they wielded over the people. Of martyred missionaries who had ventured to Danemark and never left—monks whose bodies were weighed down in the depths of some bog. They were images of terror. Yet strangely enough, Kristinge did not feel afraid. Perhaps it was the presence of Willimond and Hildeburh that reassured him. Perhaps it was the bard’s spirit still upon him. He lifted his harp. He had not planned to sing this song. It was young and not fully formed, composed only that morning, fresh and untested. But it sprung now to his lips. The words formed up on his tongue as if growing with his thought. And his confidence soared with his voice.
Of the Shaper of Life a lay I now sing,
A tale that is true I will tell in this hall,
With fair words speak of a wedding feast
When powerful magic made potent mead-wine
And great high glory of the God-son was seen.
The Maker of Mankind, Middle-Earth’s Chieftain,
Father-Spirit of life once lived as a man.
He moved among mortals, a holy Messenger,
To lead men to life, the Son of the Lord.
He wanted to grant, to give to earth’s race
The high Heaven-kingdom as an eternal home.
As a mighty chieftain he chose twelve thanes,
Hearth-companions to hear his commands.
The Protector of People, the powerful God,
Wandered far by foot with his followers.
Hill-forts he visited, clans and their villages,
Chieftains in mead-halls, merchants and peasa
nts.
Wise men were eager to hear his words.
To a wedding he went, the wondrous God’s Son,
His followers too, twelve honored friends.
And his Middle-Earth mother with the mighty One traveled.
A bride to be given, a beautiful maiden,
At a great high house, a rich guest hall.
Earls came from far, nobles to the feast.
Warriors were merry, the people with mead
Drank and celebrated the day of the wedding.
Proud servants poured wine from their pitchers;
They had good mead to make the guests happy.
On the benches was bliss. The sight was beautiful.
Then the wine ran out; the wedding drink finished;
Not a single drop for servants to bring
To the thirsty crowd could then be found.
The vats were empty: the vast stores consumed.
For the guests it was sad the celebration would end.
More greatly would grieve the groom and his bride.
The great host of the feast had failed in his duty.
On him shame would fall if no wine could be found.
Then the loveliest lady did not wait long,
The Middle-Earth mother of Mankind’s Lord
Went speedily and spoke with words to her Son,
Told Him what happened how the host had no wine.
From her Holy Heaven-Son she asked for help.
She prayed for the people. She knew of his power.
But the Ruler’s son his answer had ready.
To His mother he spoke, “What is it to me?”
On earth was still secret that He was God’s Son.
“Why do you speak so in front of strangers?
What is warriors’ wine and the wedding drink?”
He spoke of his kingdom: “My time is not come.”
But His wise Earth-Mother trusted well in her mind
Even after these words that He would not refuse.
She spoke with servants, warned them to silence,
Commanded they listen and obey the holy Lord.
Six vats of stone were standing there empty.
Very softly he spoke, the mighty God’s son
“Fill these with water drawn from the well.”
The servants obeyed, those with the barrels
filled them with water, spoke not of His words.
God’s mighty Child then choose that moment
To show his great power among those people.
What was once water He made into wine.
The drink was then poured, drawn with the pitcher
And placed in the hands of the head of the wedding,
Who after the host ruled over the people.
As soon as he drank his delight was great.
He could not refrain but spoke to the crowd.
He said that most earls the best wine serve early.
“When men are merry, and drunk from the mead,
They serve cheap wine. That is the custom.”
“But Lo! This host the best held for last.
To this folk he served first the cheap wine.
When guests were full, were drunk from the feast,
Then brought, of all wines the best I have tasted.”
Now again was bliss for groom and for bride.
The host had heard high words of praise.
And many a thane was then made aware
That the holy God’s Son a great sign had performed.
When he was done, Kristinge bowed his head. Fjorgest tossed him a small gold ring while the gathered company cheered. “An interesting tale” the chieftain said in low voice and with a strange smile. “A god who changes water into good mead-wine? Now there is a god I would have visit my hall.” He said no more, however, and if he suspected that Kristinge was speaking of a new god—the Christian God so disdained by that people—he gave no indication. After all, stories of gods walking the earth were common enough among the Danes as not to arouse any suspicion.
Sceaptung, however, was not so blind. As Kristinge sank to his seat, tired from his singing, the skald and his two companions stomped furiously from the hall.
Late that night, snow began to fall. Not the light flurries of October that left only fine white dust, but a heavy winter snow. When the storm subsided a day and a half later, and the clouds at last began to thin, the snow was above Kristinge’s knees. The long Danish winter had begun in earnest. The season of travel was over. Trade ships as well as the infamous raiding vessels had returned home. Trader, hunter, and warrior alike were back with their families. The grain had been harvested and stored for the winter, fuel gathered and stacked for fires on the hearth, and what meat there was from the autumn hunts had been carefully smoked and salted. Only a few hardy hunters would continue to seek game and waterfowl during the winter months, hoping like Willimond to supplement the winter’s reserves with fresh meat. Life in the Hoclinges village had slowed to a trickle like water along an ice-bound spring. The days had become short, the nights long, and the air cold enough that even with their heavy fur cloaks the two monks longed at times for the air of southern Francia.
Had it not been for Hildeburh’s presence, Kristinge would have found the northern winter difficult to endure. To earn his board, he performed almost nightly in Fjorgest’s famed mead hall, Heort, or traveled with him to nearby clan-villages. Though on most evenings he sang only a few songs for a small gathering of thanes, now and then the chieftain opened his storehouses for larger feasts. Then Heort would fill with guests: not only the warriors and their women, but wealthier traders and chieftains from other clans come to see Fjorgest—to receive gifts from the chieftain’s hands or to give gifts to his thanes. Then Kristinge would sing long into the evening, exhausting his repertoire as well as his lungs. On these nights especially, the young singer wondered with some dismay how he had taken up the role of a traveling bard. More than once he grumbled at Willimond, blaming the older monk for his troubles. “Were it not for your unwanted meddling I would never have taken up this harp under the ridiculous pretense of barding. Who will long be fooled? I should be fishing at your side and sleeping in my own hut at night, not blistering my fingers and straining my voice for a hall full of drunken warriors.”
Yet despite his complaints, Kristinge grew in experience and confidence. Rarely did he lack encouragement. Willimond, who was now more like a brother to him than a father, came to Heort as often as Fjorgest allowed to listen to his former pupil. While Hildeburh, who by right of birth had a seat at the mead hall whenever she desired, was there every night listening to her son. Her presence alone was sufficient to lift Kristinge from even the darkest of moods. Her expressions of delight—the obvious pride in her sparkling emerald eyes as she watched him perform—was for Kristinge worth more than any reward given by Fjorgest. When he saw her face in the midst of his audience, he grew bold. Though during the days he was full of doubts, ever questioning his skill and wondering how much longer it would be before Fjorgest grew tired of him or the skald succeeded in bringing about his demise, at night when the bard-spirit was upon him and his mother was near, he was fearless and confident.
Of equal importance, Kristinge also learned from Hildeburh many of the Dane’s favorite legends: tales that she had heard since her youth and could recite nearly as well as any bard. There were tales of seafarers and wanderers; of famous battles; of great chieftains and smiths; of powerful swords, magic tools and enchanted ships. These Danish songs—added to the many he had recalled with Willimond’s help from the days when the poet Daelga sang before Folcwalda and Finn in Finnsburg—served Kristinge especially well, and his repertoire continued to grow. Before long he was spinning new tales of his own making from these familiar legends and characters. Though he said nothing of the Danish gods themselves, others of their famous heroes found themselves woven by the young bard into new stories and adventures. The old story of Aurvandil, whose frostbitten toe the god Thunar f
lung into the sky to become a star, Kristinge spun into a tale of an angel whose bright light became the morning star and the hopeful promise of God’s coming.
Some sung and others chanted to the gentle plucking of harp or recited with the meter and rhythm of a poet, the songs sprang to his mind as if they had life of themselves. Not many nights passed without him introducing a new lay of his own composition. And as his attempts met with success, he gained confidence, attempting ever longer and more elaborate tales. Some lasted far into the night or were spread out over several evenings—often, to his own surprise, growing during the telling. For the Danes, as Kristinge learned, were true lovers of story, ever eager to hear something new. Their appetite was insatiable. The longer the story the better.
It was his success with these new songs and the long-bred Danish love of story that fully convinced Kristinge that he was right to bring the Gospel to those folk in their own most beloved form. Thus it came to pass that on many nights, when his audience was particularly receptive, he would end his singing with a tale of a different sort: a tale drawn from the great heroes of his own faith. As the weeks passed, he told tales of David, Joshua, and Gideon. Of Samson and Noah he told as well. And tales of the God-son himself, and of his band of twelve thanes. Tales of water turning to wine, and of a executioner’s tree coming to life such as he had already told. These tales he told, not in ancient Hebrew style, nor even as they might have been told six centuries earlier during the time of Christ, but in the Dane’s own style adopting their rich northern rhythm and vocabulary for the greater lessons he had to tell. For Kristinge had not forgotten his conversation with Willimond on their first day in the Hoclinges village—the seed that had been planted many weeks earlier in the Frankish court of Clovis. Nor had he forgotten the success God had given him when he had sung to the Danes of the Cross-Dream and the Wedding Feast of Cana.
He had stumbled onto something powerful. Whereas a monk preaching of a strange god would long since have lost his head, a bard telling heroic tales was applauded. What warrior among the Spear-Danes could not rattle their shield in tribute to the great chieftains Joshua and David who led the Israelite clan to victory in battle against an overwhelming foe? And were not the Danish myths themselves full of tales of the gods walking the earth as men? Even a chieftain could praise a God-son who dwelt on earth as a man doing great works of power: healing the sick, making good mead-wine out of water, raising the dead, and calming the stormy seas by the power of his voice. Even Aurvandil, the star of hope, became in his songs a harbinger of the god-son, just as the morning star promised the coming of dawn. Only when he attempted to put into song any teachings on humility—the command to love one’s enemies—did the warriors grumble and Fjorgest prove stingy with his reward.
The Rood and the Torc Page 21