“Though there is some need for discretion, we cannot afford to be overly cautious,” Aelfin explained after describing to uncomprehending ears how large a war band they would need and why. “We must move with speed and urgency, or we will find we are too late.”
“I do not understand,” Kristinge finally said, interjecting a rare word into the dialogue. The whole idea of being king was still too new to him. He could not begin to understand all of what the chieftain was telling him. The need for urgency was the least of his concerns.
Aelfin took the comment in a far narrower sense than Kristinge intended it. He explained slowly. “There are many reasons for urgency, not the least of which are the Franks. I have said before that if we do not have a king soon, we will surely fall to them. With all the quarreling among our own chieftains, few realize how great a threat the Franks are. But I lived at Domburg too long to underestimate this enemy. Now Domburg has fallen and Dorestad is hard pressed. Remember that Francia is still a vast kingdom. Divided though it is, we are like a small clan compared to its power. If the Franks are ever united again under a strong king then we will be swept away. Unless we grow much stronger than we now are.”
Maccus, who had been with Aelfin at Domburg, nodded his agreement. He bore scars from his battles with the Franks, and he did not hide the fact that he was eager to avenge himself. “The Frankish people have lived too long among the Romans. They have forgotten their virtue. We must teach them soon that the true warrior is to be feared.”
When Maccus had finished, Aelfin continued where he had left off. “There is an even greater reason for urgency. There are others vying for the torc of Friesland. One is the chieftain Aldgisl. He is strong and ambitious, and at the prime of his life. Already he is the most powerful chieftain in Friesland. His war band numbers many hundreds. He will soon hold sway over all of us.” He paused. “The other threat is Réadban”
At the mention of Réadban, Kristinge took a sharp breath.
“You have heard of Réadban then?” Aelfin asked.
“I have,” Kristinge replied, but he did not explain. He did not say what he had learned the previous fall—that Réadban had helped bring about the death of Finn. The knowledge was still painful to him. That he had not even known Finn as his father when he died did not matter. A strange rush of anger and pride swelled up at the thought of that betrayal. Suddenly Kristinge was more interested in what Aelfin had to say.
“Réadban is older than Aldgisl. He is past his prime as a warrior. But as a chieftain he is still powerful. His ambitions know no bounds, and he is crafty as well.”
What caused the question to pop unbidden into Kristinge’s head, he did not know, but he asked it without thinking. “Does he still have sons? I heard they were dead.”
Aelfin looked at him and nodded with approval, as if to acknowledge that it was a good question. “You have heard the truth. Réadban had two sons. Radbod the Young died a few years ago. He was strong, and savvy, and even more ambitious than his father. His ambition overran his strength. The elder son, Ultar, was more cautious, but in other ways more foolish. He is now dead also.”
“Murdered in his own mead hall, or so we have been told,” Maccus interjected. “A thing unheard of among Frisians.”
“Though perhaps not so surprising,” Ceolac said softly.
Aelfin did not respond. He waited a moment, and then continued. “Without sons of his own, Réadban may give his full support to Aldgisl. They are distant kin. If this happens before we are ready to act, then Aldgisl will surely rule Friesland unopposed. The one thing we have in our favor, though it is also a great danger, is that Ultar’s infant son Rathbád still lives. Rather than support Aldgisl, Réadban may wait a few years and seek the kingship for his own grandson. Or maybe even for himself. We must hope for some sort of indecision and delay on Réadban’s part. As I said, if he gives Aldgisl his full support before we can act, then we have little hope that Finn’s torc will return to the neck of his offspring. On the other hand, if Réadban opposes Aldgisl openly, then there will be great trouble for Friesland. Though it might help your cause if those two weakened one another, it would be disastrous for our folk. We cannot continue to fight amongst ourselves.” He paused as if to remember the direction of his thought. “Whatever happens between them, it is good that they do not yet know of your presence. By the time they hear of you, we must already have gathered a much greater war band.”
“War band?” Kristinge asked, tasting the word for the first time.
“If you went to war for the torc today, you would have only a hundred thanes and warriors.”
Kristinge’s jaw dropped. “I would have…” He didn’t finish. The thought of having a war band of his own was terrifying.
“A pledge of support from a chieftain is a pledge of his war band,” Aelfin explained with a grin. “All warriors who serve a thane of yours, also follow you. Between the four chieftains who now serve you, you command a war band over a hundred strong, with six warships and twenty horses.” Kristinge did not smile. He did not know if he needed to feel impressed or appalled. A moment later, Aelfin’s smile faded also. “And alas, as I have said, that is far too few. Even Réadban alone, without the help of Aldgisl, could crush you easily. We must gather more support. Increase your army. We must call on the thanes who were loyal to your father.”
“But those that were here last night—?” Kristinge started to ask. He still had not said what was foremost on his mind. That he was his own greatest obstacle to becoming king. That he was a priest, and not a ruler. For now, he was intrigued enough to listen to Aelfin.
“Not enough,” The chieftain interrupted, slowly shaking his head. “They are important chieftains, and I do not doubt their loyalty. They would not take lightly the pledges they made last night. But they were hand-picked. I chose them because they knew your father and brother and were loyal to them. I tell you this not to discourage you, but so that you will know what is necessary. My own warriors and thanes were prepared for last night. They knew what was going to happen, and what they were supposed to do. It was carefully arranged to gain the support of these first three chieftains.”
Aelfin’s thanes Maccus and Ceolac rode silently on, eyes on the road ahead of them. But Kristinge didn’t need them to speak in order to know that Aelfin had spoken the truth. The entire event had been arranged merely to manipulate the other chieftains? “Why—?” he started to ask.
Then chieftain stopped him with a hand. “Look!” he exclaimed Reigning his horse to a halt, he pointed ahead. They had just come around a bend in the river. In front of them, up a low hill to the left of the river, was Hwitstan. Or what remained of it. “We are here.” The rest of the company stopped beside Aelfin. The conversation was forgotten at the first glimpse of their destination. Kristinge took a deep breath, unsure whether he wanted to ride ahead or turn and flee. He had returned to Hwitstan only once since his departure seven years past, walking with Willimond through the ashes of the old chapel at dusk on a late autumn night the year before. It looked different during daylight. Again he wished Willimond were with him. It was difficult to believe that a year had passed since their departure from Luxeuil.
After a moment of silent watching, Aelfin got their attention again. “Listen to me,” he said in a low voice, his gaze fixed on Kristinge. The conversation was not over, and he would finish it before they rode the last short distance into the village. “Do not underestimate the significance of the past two evenings. Planned though it may have been, it is still a time to remember. You now have a war band. You have as your first thanes four good chieftains. But don’t overestimate either. There is much to be done.”
Kristinge nodded. “I understand.” As frightened as he was, he was beginning to get caught up in the drama. The thought of Réadban wearing his father’s torc was like a sharp spear in his side. The four of them rode up the slope into the ruins of Hwitstan.
As Kristinge knew from his previous visit, there was little left of Hw
itstan. Few huts had survived the fires. And after seven years, even what little had remained was now rotting and fallen apart. Scavengers had picked over anything of value that had not been carried away during the raid. The sight was depressing. But Aelfin did not stop in the village. He kept riding up the small hill that separated them from the beaches of Hwitstanwic. Kristinge could smell the salt air now, and hear the surf washing along the shore. At the top of the slope, they dismounted. It felt good for Kristinge to be back on his feet again. Ceolac took the four horses and hobbled them to a pair of nearby logs. Aelfin, meanwhile, strolled toward the piles of rocks that had once been the tower Finnweard. Kristinge ambled along behind him, and found a seat on one of the boulders looking over the bay. When Ceolac joined them, he was carrying a large bag. Maccus produced a flask of beer, and Ceolac opened the bag to reveal the contents: a late afternoon meal of breads, cheeses, and dried meats.
“Come,” Aelfin said. “Let us eat.” They ate for a time in silence, watching the incoming tide creeping its way up the shore and listening to the gulls crying around them. A strange feeling came over Kristinge as he sat there. Once again he remembered himself as a child, playing along the beaches with the other children of Hwitstan during the summer celebrations, running up and down the sand, looking for sea-polished pieces of amber washed ashore by the surf. He could hear the poet Daelga’s voice, standing atop the stump near the cooking pits on a warm summer evening, singing the long Frisian lays that put the younger children to sleep. He could picture Finn and Hildeburh, standing atop the tower arm in arm, like statues of marble guarding the village. Guarding all of Friesland! King and Queen. Frisian and Dane. He remembered Finnlaf, too, loud and brash but not unkind. He remembered even the young girl Aewin who had once visited the village. Now here sat Kristinge, the son of Finn, looking out across the same beaches. In the distance, he could still make out the gray spot of a second watchtower. Was he truly the heir of Finn’s torc? For a moment, it seemed possible.
When Aelfin spoke, it was as if he had been reading Kristinge’s thoughts. “Your father and your father’s father before you were great kings. Chieftains like the mighty chieftains of old. Were Folcwalda or Finn alive to help you, you would have no trouble inheriting the torc. Friesland would be a place of hope.” He looked out over the sea and after a moment continued. “Alas, as a foster-father I can not do as much for you. Of the thanes loyal to your father, most died with him at Hwitstanwic. Few are left who will support you simply because of the name of Finn. That is another of our troubles.”
Kristinge nodded, but his thoughts were not on the size of Aelfin’s war band or the number of his father’s thanes who had survived. He was wondering what his father had really been like—wondering what it would have been like to have known him. When he turned back toward Aelfin, he saw that the chieftain had stopped talking, and was now staring at him with a very solemn expression. “Tell me what became of Ulestan?’ the chieftain asked. “Did he not also ride south with you when you left Friesland?”
A lump came to Kristinge’s throat at the thought of the old warrior. The owl stare. He fingered the pendant at his neck. His thoughts raced backward to Luxeuil, and the morning over a year ago when Ulestan had revealed to Kristinge who he was: the day that Ulestan had died. Slowly, the whole voyage south seven years earlier came back to him. And to his surprise, he found himself speaking of it to Aelfin, confiding to the chieftain for the first time what had driven him from the monastery. He told of the last few years of Ulestan’s life, and how the warrior had died. He told how he had come to learn who he was. There were tears in his eyes when he finished.
“He was a great warrior!” Aelfin said. “He served his king well, as a loyal thane should do. And he served you well, also. His last duty was to protect you—to bring you safely to Luxeuil, and one day to tell you who you were. He has done well. He gave his life for you so that you could one day be the king. So that you could wear your father’s torc as your father wished. And now you have returned.”
Aelfin waited only long enough for the words to sink in. As your father wished…
“Would that Ulestan and more of your father’s thanes like him still lived,” the chieftain went on a short time later. “Yet only a few remain, and most of them you have now already met. As for the rest of the Frisian chieftains?” He lifted his left hand in an enigmatic gesture. “Six and a half years have passed since Finn’s death, and with those years have come many young warriors into power: warriors who never received gifts from Finn, who never shared the mead-bench or fought at his side. And even among those of Finn’s thanes who remain—even among those who did serve your father—some served him only out of fear or greed. To gain their support, you have but two choices. You can convince them it is in their own best interest to serve you now: that you are a treasure-giver worthy of their loyalty. Or you must be so strong that they have no other choice but to obey you. Now you see what stands against us. Until you are stronger—until your war band becomes much larger than it now is—you cannot rely on the sword to make yourself king.”
“And yet I know well enough,” Kristinge replied, “that only the sword will make a king in Friesland.”
Kristinge was amazed to hear himself speak. Aelfin, too, was surprised. He looked his new foster-son in the eye, and for a moment they held each other’s gazes. Then Aelfin smiled and nodded his heads. “You know more than I thought, young prince. You speak the truth. It is the sword that makes the chieftain, and no less the sword that makes the king. And that does not leave us much time. This autumn and perhaps the coming winter. Beyond that, we cannot hope, for Friesland is not a huge kingdom and word travels quickly. Traders sell information like they do wool, and there will be chieftains who will feign to follow you but whose swords are given to others. Thus it is. By next spring, Réadban and Aldgisl will know of you and your presence here, and they will know you are a threat to their own ambitions. If you are not strong enough by then, they will crush you.”
CHAPTER 16:
War Band
The small band spent that night on the ground near the old tower Finnweard. They built a small hearth with stones from the fallen tower, and roasted a large rabbit that had wandered too near Maccus’ bow. Then, as they sat around the fire drinking wine from a shared skin, Aelfin and his thanes began their plotting to win for Kristinge the high torc of Friesland. They knew from the start that if their campaign was to succeed, they would in short time need to secure the aid of several more chieftains. The next two would be the most difficult, for they had as yet little to offer except the name of Finn. Once Kristinge’s war band had grown more substantial, however, others would follow. But whom to approach first? Ceolac, Maccus, and Aelfin all had different ideas, and long into the evening they argued about various chieftains. Their strengths and weakness. Their might in battle and the sizes of their war bands. Their loyalty. Whether they had known Finn. Whether they were thought already to be loyal to Aldgisl or Réadban.
Kristinge—though their planning affected him the most—said nothing. Despite his reticence, there was growing inside him a small spark of belief that Aelfin’s plans might actually work. The visit to Hwitstan and the ruins of the hall where Finn had once ruled had not been without affect. Might it be that Kristinge, one day, could bear the torc of his father? With one ear to the conversation of the moment, and another to voices long gone past, the torc-heir fell asleep.
The next morning, they arose early to return to Ezinge. As they rode, the three warriors continued their talk of how to build up Kristinge’s war band. They had agreed to speak first to a young chieftain named Eomaer of a small coastal clan. His predominant traits were two: a youthful impetuousness, and a hatred of Aldgisl. For the young heir, however, the vague dreams of the previous evening had faded. In the reality of daylight, miles away from the ruins of Hwitstan, the hope of becoming king was both more remote and less desirable. Thoughts of wearing his father’s torc, he told himself, were utterly foolish. He was
a priest, not a chieftain. A monk, not a warrior. And yet… And yet he could not altogether shake loose the idea. What had Ulestan really died for? Was it so that Kristinge could return to take his father’s torc? His arguments that he should reject the plan at once were not convincing. Whatever he told himself, he did not feel like a priest. Once again, he heard Osanne’s voice. You will build no church. He could not keep the words from ringing in his ears.
Once back in Ezinge, Kristinge returned to the chapel to spend the day in prayer, but it was a distracted prayer and he soon gave up and returned to his hut. The following morning, Aelfin came once more for Kristinge. His foster-son was in the chapel, trying again to focus his thoughts on prayer with only a little more success. This time, Kristinge was not disappointed at the interruption. He felt the desire for distraction.
“We must begin,” Aelfin said. He ordered the confused Kristinge to remove his monk’s robe, and to don his torc and the richer clothing he had received a year ago from queen Balthild. With a lofty air to his voice, as if it were some important occasion, he explained, “You must begin to wear things more befitting for a king. The people of this village, at least, must come to see you as their chieftain or you will never succeed in the broader realm.”
Kristinge obeyed. He guessed well enough what the chieftain had on his mind. Kristinge was to be seen by the villagers walking at Aelfin’s side, wearing a king’s torc. Aelfin was planting an image. He was seeding it first in Ezinge with simple peasants, later to grow and spread through the realm. At first Kristinge was tempted to resist the plan—to resist being drawn into an idea to which he had not yet agreed. Despite the chieftain’s anxious presence at his side, he returned to his hut at a slow walk, trying as he went to think of what he might say and how he might refuse. He worked unsuccessfully to formulate some plan of his own. Even as he unpacked the cloak from his bag of possessions, he searched for an excuse not to put it on. But no plan formed. When Kristinge held the cloak in his hands and examined it for the first time since he had come to Ezinge many weeks earlier, memories of Balthild and Telchild swelled in his mind. His thoughts flashed back to his brief visit to Jouarre and Paris, to his meeting with the abbess, and then the king, and finally the queen. And then to the memory that he could not shake.
The Rood and the Torc Page 31