Thus it was that though his new occupation was one he had taken reluctantly and only out of need, those first weeks among the Danes were good days for the young monk-turned-bard. Except for the bitter cold itself and the long nights, he had little cause to complain or to doubt that his God had blessed him. As Petrica and Walbert had said, and as Daelga had long ago prophesied, there was power in Kristinge’s voice. It was not long before his reputation had spread to surrounding villages, and chieftains began to visit Fjorgest from afar. The only troubling thoughts he could not altogether escape were the recurring self-judgment that he was singing for the slayers of his father’s kin, and the fear that he would one day meet the fate of Fjorgest’s previous bard.
In all the clan, there were only three who failed to be pleased by the new bard. Kristinge had guessed on the first night in Heort that he was to have an enemy in Sceaptung as well as in the priests of Freyr whom he met a few nights later. As the days rolled by he saw that he was not mistaken. His songs did not go unopposed. Whatever else Sceaptung was, he was no fool. Kristinge learned this quickly enough. For the skald understood as few did—other than Kristinge himself, and perhaps Hildeburh, Willimond and the priests—that the new Christ-God was a threat to him. Not only was the skald’s importance as a story-teller in Heort being challenged by a skilled new scop, but his very role as a spokesman for the gods. Kristinge was a threat to the gods themselves, and thus to any who wielded power in their names. When men ceased to believe in the gods whose history the skald told—if men no longer followed Freyr and Freyja, Woden, and Odin, and Thunar—then they would cease to follow their priests.
“Sceaptung will oppose me,” Kristinge had said to Willimond after his second night singing for Fjorgest.
“Are you surprised?” Willimond had asked him.
Kristinge had thought back upon the stories he had heard so many times of Columbanus and the founding of Luxeuil. Columbanus had found enemies not only in the pagan king and queen, but even among Gallic bishops who sensed a threat to their own power. And there was Willimond and his tales of his early voyages with Aidan to preach the gospel to the Saxon kings, and of his later coming to Friesland. “No,” Kristinge had answered slowly. “Wherever the Gospel is preached, it will be opposed. But perhaps that knowledge was in my head only. Never before had I experienced it myself.” He then told the older monk what he had seen in the hall those first two times he had sung, of the priests and the skald, and of the enmity he had sensed from them.
“That I do not doubt,” Willimond had replied. “Their is a spirit of darkness about them. They have already heard in your songs what Fjorgest has not, and have certainly guessed whom you serve. They will oppose you. How they will do it, I do not know. You can only pray.”
Kristinge had said no more on the subject. The possibility of being martyred for his faith had never disappeared from his thoughts. He knew the histories of those few missionaries who had gone among the Danes. They were short histories. Few of them ever returned. But these thoughts had not prevented him from doing what he had done: from continuing to put into song the tales of his God. And in choosing song as his vehicle, Kristinge had unwittingly drawn the battle lines, though it had taken him many days after his conversation with Willimond to discover this. When Sceaptung realized that Kristinge could not be intimidated, and that through song he had so quickly earned a place in Fjorgest’s hall, the skald had returned to his duties with a new zeal, investing an energy he had never before shown and an intensity which surprised even Fjorgest. Almost overnight Sceaptung’s manner changed. For those who didn’t know the reason for the change, it appeared almost miraculous. And it was effective as well. For Sceaptung knew the Danes as Kristinge did not. He knew what inspired them. And for all Fjorgest’s complaints about the skald’s croaking voice, he soon proved he could forge a tale that would hold his audience. He composed new tales of Odin and of the fiery Thunar—tales that despite his unimpressive appearance and dour expression became very popular among the folk. And the people could not help but hear the skald’s message in these songs: his gods were the mighty warrior-gods and fertility-gods upon whom their livelihoods depended: the true gods of the Danes. Asgard would be unhappy, he warned, were the Danes to abandon them and serve other gods.
Kristinge noticed as well that the skald was often at Fjorgest’s side, whispering in the chieftain’s ear. This frightened him far more than the Skald’s songs. Ever did the young bard wonder what they were saying, and how long it would be before Fjorgest turned against him. Would they not some day guess that he was a monk? Nonetheless Sceaptung’s skill was so far surpassed by Kristinge’s that for the time, despite the old skald’s greatest effort, he could not displace the new bard. His only recourse was to make sure his stories about Asgard carried well into the night, leaving little time for his rival after him. This he did on more than one occasion. The effect, however, was only to lighten the burden on Kristinge. As for the priests who had appeared mysteriously that evening, they did not return for many weeks.
And if any other among the Hoclinges guessed at the battle that was being waged, they said nothing.
CHAPTER 11:
Long Nights
Hildeburh sat beside her son one cold sunny morning. “Your stories are beautiful,” she told him, with the pride only a mother can know. She was with him often now. Having grown tired of the imposed secrecy—of seeing her son only rarely and always in fear—she had worked out a scheme to spend time with the monks even when Fjorgest was not absent from the village. It was expected that a bard would be knowledgeable in letters, she had explained to them one morning about ten days after their arrival. And it was not unheard of for a Danish queen to increase her learning under the tutelage of a skald or bard. After convincing even Willimond that her plan was unlikely to arouse suspicion, she had obtained Fjorgest’s permission to do just that. Thus had come about her freedom to visit Kristinge whenever she desired—which was often. When the weather was not good enough for fishing, she, Willimond and Kristinge would spend hours together sitting in Hildeburh’s hut beside a small fire, sharing food and stories, or talking of their hopes. “Never have I seen the Gospel made so clear,” she continued. “Or so beautiful. In time, I think you may win them.”
Kristinge did not answer. He was not sure how much he could hope for. Just to be with his mother was enough for the time. And he felt almost as proud of her as she of him. She took her new role as student in earnest, showing herself both eager and able to learn. As one of the few in the village with both the time and interest for such pursuits, Hildeburh was a model student. She proved adept at Latin, surprising even Willimond with her talent. For his own part, when he saw that she was serious, Kristinge proved a good teacher. In this way, he grew to know his mother and to build just a few of the bonds he had never known. When the Christ Mass came, and time to celebrate the birth of the Lord, the three followers of Christ gathered in the monks’ hut for a small feast, breaking bread and sharing wine together. It did not compare with the winter solstice feast in Heort a few nights earlier. Nonetheless, the event brought tears again to Hildeburh’s eyes, as she told how long she had desired to celebrate the Mass with others. In those times, Kristinge felt such a surge of emotion that he thought he would burst. Yet the emotion itself he could not describe, for it was akin at once to both joy and sorrow.
Nonetheless, Kristinge’s thoughts did on more than one occasion turn to Aewin. And they did so with increasing frequency as the winter progressed. His meeting with her again, after so many years, could only be wild coincidence, and little did he think he would ever see her again. Any wish that he might was foolish. Thus whenever he found his thoughts drifting toward her, he busied himself with other things. And there was no shortage of tasks to keep him occupied. When he was not tutoring his mother, he was most often at work composing songs. Or, when the weather was kind—Kristinge was less willing than Willimond to brave harsh conditions in pursuit of fish—he would travel with his friend,
enjoying the solitude of the lakes and rivers and the chance to be away from the mead hall for a few hours.
It must be said that the older monk, in his new occupation, had met with as great success as Kristinge had with his harp. The new fisher was granted such bounty from the river that Hildeburh feared Jiorlic might try to interfere. “You do not know this fosterling,” she said with such disdain in her voice that even Kristinge was taken aback. “He is petty and cowardly. It is no wonder his father sent him to Fjorgest.”
“What can he do to me?” Willimond replied, with no trace of concern.
“He is a chieftain’s son. He might pressure Fjorgest into dismissing you.”
Willimond laughed. “As long as God continues to put so many fish in my basket, Fjorgest will not send me away.”
“Do not be so sure,” Hildeburh replied. “And even if Fjorgest refuses, Jiorlic might simply kill you one day and throw your body into the river.”
Willimond, however, was not afraid. He continued at the task given him. He avoided confrontation, yielding to Jiorlic’s demands no matter how unreasonable. And he was so successful wherever he went that nothing Jiorlic did was able to thwart him. In this way, the older monk eventually proved more successful at conquering his rival than did the younger monk did his. Before many weeks had passed, Jiorlic had given up his own nets and begrudgingly joined Willimond who was happy to teach his new companion what he had learned about fishing with a line. Despite Jiorlic’s initial hostility toward the intruder, the two became good friends, often disappearing together for two or three days to the lakes to fish with lines through the ice.
During these longer trips Kristinge was not able to go with them, for Fjorgest would not let his bard be too long absent from the hall. Often Kristinge was asked to sit with Fjorgest beside the hearth or stand by him at the door, telling him of Francia and what he knew of the southern kingdoms. On occasion he was also called to travel with the chieftain to other clan-villages. With slow winter travel, they would be gone for three or more days at a time. It was when he was apart from Willimond that the time moved the slowest. It was then also that Kristinge’s thoughts turned most often to Aewin, and to Frotha, and to his eventual return to Friesland. For he knew that he could not forever stay among the Danes. He had known this in his spirit from the moment he had stepped upon the Danish soil. Despite the joy of reunion, something still drove him on.
What made things worse was that after some weeks, Hildeburh took to joining Jiorlic and Willimond from time to time on their expeditions even when Kristinge was not with them. The first time she did so, Kristinge was gone with Fjorgest. When after three days he returned to the village, tired of being with Danish warriors and eager to see his mother again, he discovered to his dismay that she was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared with Willimond to the lakes. Though Kristinge admitted it to neither of them, he was jealous. When they returned late the next day, their baskets full of fish, he was terse with them both. Then, only a week later, Hildeburh disappeared again with Willimond and Jiorlic, leaving Kristinge alone in his hut for the day. His singing at the mead hall that night was rushed and gloomy, leaving nobody happy but Sceaptung.
“Where were you yesterday?” Kristinge demanded of his mother the next morning, though he knew already the answer.
If she heard the reprimand in his voice, she gave no indication. “With Willimond. I have missed his teaching these six years.”
“I thought you did not like Jiorlic.”
“Perhaps I misjudged him,” she countered. Her voice was suddenly defensive. “But whether I did or not, I was not there to be with him.”
Kristinge felt his jealousy grow. “Fjorgest will be suspicious,” he warned. But that was not his real concern, and even as he said it he felt guilty for his attempted manipulation.
“I think not,” Hildeburh answered, her voice now echoing some of the coldness in Kristinge’s. “For one, I do not think Fjorgest cares what I do. I am not his wife. For another, it is no more strange my spending time with him than with you. You yourself have told Fjorgest he was once your tutor. It stands to reason, then, that he also should tutor me.”
“But—” Kristinge started, but he could think of nothing to say.
“My son,” Hildeburh then said more softly. “Do not begrudge me this. I have learned so much from him. Do not forget, it was he who first told me of Christ. It was he who taught me much of what I know. I have known him longer than I have known you.”
Kristinge closed his eyes. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. “I was jealous.”
“Do not be. You are the only son I have left. But Willimond, too, is dear to me. Dearer than I can say. And wiser,” she quickly added.
Something in her voice caught Kristinge off guard, but he couldn’t identify it. “You need not convince me,” he admitted. “I, too, have benefited from his wisdom. And his selflessness. Where I would be today were it not for him, I do not know. But I know better how Timothy must have felt for Paul.”
Hildeburh nodded her head. “Perhaps Finn was wiser than anybody knew when he gave you into Willimond’s keeping.”
Kristinge pondered this for a moment, then slowly voiced his agreement. “I do not know whether it was human wisdom at work or not, but I have no doubt that the hand of our God was at work.” Her words had struck close to home as he realized just how much he had come to rely on Willimond’s support. And also on Hildeburh’s. That dependency frightened him, and as the winter waned he found his peace diminishing and his thoughts ever turning southward. The passing of time among the Danes did not make him any more at ease in the mead hall, regardless of his success there. Exactly what it was that troubled him, he could not tell. Fjorgest especially was an enigma. Sometimes he was a gruff warrior chieftain who seemed perfectly capable of slaying his own thane—or bard!—in a drunken fit of anger. Other times, he was the generous treasure-giver who had interceded to save Hildeburh’s life. And yet other times the sense that Fjorgest possessed some dangerous hidden knowledge was more frightening to the bard than his fear of being slain for displeasing the chieftain.
What influence the chieftain had on his mead hall, Kristinge could not tell. On the best of nights there was a certain fellowship in Heort that held just a taste of the fellowship Kristinge had known at Luxeuil. There was an aroma of something deep and profound and inviting—something Kristinge had a hard time identifying, but struggled to capture in his songs. Still, after his six years in Luxeuil the young monk found the pagan Danish ways rough and unwholesome, especially among the warriors. Their lives were centered on but two things: fighting and feasting. And their feasting was not confined to food; they treated their women like cattle. The men demanded complete loyalty and subservience from their wives, while they themselves thought nothing of taking concubines as freely and frequently as they wanted, sometimes right in the middle of Fjorgest’s hall. Women caught in adultery were shaved, stripped, and driven from home and village, while men caught in the same act went unpunished. The hypocrisy and wickedness infuriated Kristinge. And not that alone. He found oppressive the entire warrior culture of the Danes, with its pagan rites, war-gods and fertility-gods.
“Do not be so quick to judge,” Willimond reminded Kristinge one day when the younger monk was complaining. “They are not much different than the Frisian people—than the village of Hwitstan where you grew up. The warriors, I mean. Of course most of the folk here, the peasants, are just like peasants anywhere: too concerned with what they will eat tomorrow to have time for the idle pursuits that occupy the sword-bearers. But even the warriors are not so different here than they are in Friesland.”
Kristinge did not believe it. Though he was barely fourteen years old when he had left, his memory told him that Friesland was not at all like Danemark. “But you were in Hwitstan,” he said, as if that somehow made Hwitstan different.
“And now I am here,” Willimond replied with a smile. Kristinge had no answer. “As for me,” the older monk went on, �
��I find that my love for your mother’s people is growing. It is a strange thing, too. For I thought I could never forgive them for burning my church and ravaging my flock—for the acts that were responsible for driving me from Hwitstan. But our God is a God of grace. He continues to teach me. Remember that all are lost apart from Christ, whether Gaul, or Frisian, or Frank, or Saxon. The need here is no more and no less.”
As usual, Kristinge found it hard to disagree with his old teacher, but the words provided little comfort at the time. At least Fjorgest was a good chieftain, showing mercy and compassion on the villagers of his clan, and attempting as best he could to see that they were not too much overworked or underfed. Nor did he display the same behavior as many of his thanes. “In all of the time he was married,” Hildeburh told Kristinge, “I don’t believe he ever took another women—though as chieftain he had the power.”
Kristinge nodded, but the knowledge did little to improve his opinion. Perhaps he had been in southern Francia too long. For on top of all else, he was unaccustomed to the northern winters. The days were painfully short, and the nights brutally long. The villagers spoke already of the lengthening days, but the change was imperceptible to Kristinge. Six weeks following the Christ Mass, the brief sunlight hours still seemed barely long enough to walk across the village, and the shadow cast by the noonday sun was nearly as tall as himself. Then came a time of especially bitter cold, that encompassed the village like a siege. When mornings came, Kristinge was loath to leave his small hut. He spent his hours wrapped in his cloak beside the embers of a dying fire, too tired to gather more wood and too cold to sleep. As winter progressed, he slipped more and more out of the discipline of his monastic habits. Only Willimond’s presence and example spurred him on.
The Rood and the Torc Page 22