Theoman spoke. “This I believe is true. Though my village has suffered little at the hands of the Franks, I know that all of Friesland fears them. Not only our traders, but many of our coastal villages have suffered at the hands of Frankish raiders and robbers, especially along the Rhine. If we lose the Rhine and the Meuse both, we will lose control of our trade and our wealth. We must regain Domburg, and control the Rhine.”
“Yes,” Aelfin said. “Then let us raise up Kristinge not as king. Not at first,” he added to their surprised looks. “But as a war leader to lead a Frisian war band against the Franks along the Rhine. The step from there to king will not be a great one, but it can wait.”
At the mention of his leading a war band, Kristinge began to grow nervous. Was his nightmare to become a reality? He was glad when Theoman spoke again. “But Kristinge is no warrior—”
“He has already led a war band into victory,” Aelfin replied before Theoman could finish his protest.
Theoman shook his head. “You forget to whom you speak. I have heard your cleverly crafted tales, and I praise you for your savvy. But I know also that Kristinge, even if he did lead the attack as was claimed, did not defeat a host of trained Frankish warriors. He defeated a small band of poorly skilled and poorly armed raiders.” He turned and bowed his head toward Kristinge. “I mean no insult, and do not challenge either your courage or your wisdom. I say only that you have not been raised as a warrior, and a few weeks of sword training with even skilled teachers such as Maccus and Ceolac will not make you one in so short a time.”
“Yet you serve him,” Aelfin said, cutting again to the heart of the issue.
“I do,” Theoman replied, turning back to Aelfin. “I serve him not because he is a warrior, but because he is the son of Finn and because I loved Finn. And because I see in him some of the same wisdom and vision that was in his father and grandfather. The blood of Finn and Folcwalda is thick in his veins, as is that of Hoc whose name has still not been forgotten. But you know as well as I that the number of chieftains who will serve Kristinge for that reason is the number of chieftains gathered in this room. Though I serve him out of loyalty for his father, I am skeptical that you can make him king simply because he is the heir of Finn’s torc.”
“That is my point. Indeed, that was my idea from the start, though I had forgotten it.”
“But it is even less likely that he will succeed as a warrior,” Theoman protested. They were once again talking as if Kristinge were not present.
“With training, it is possible to make him a warrior,” Aelfin replied. “He is still young. And he is strong. Whatever you may think of the battle, Kristinge stood his ground and slew his opponent.” Kristinge cringed at the memory, as the face of the slain youth rose again to haunt him. “But you speak wisely,” Aelfin continued. “No. I do not propose that Kristinge actually lead us into battle. He leads us in name and figure only, riding at our heads. You, and I, and Wihtred will lead in actuality. And our own thanes as well,” he added, looking around the hall. “They are worth ten warriors each. Remember also that Finn may be dead, but he is not forgotten. There are still many who would rally to a battle against the Franks in Finn’s name even if they wouldn’t accept his son as king. If we promise a victory over the Franks, then Kristinge’s name—the name of Finn’s son—will draw the war bands, which is something I fear we could not do without him. He will ride to war with us, but the three of us will lead. And if we succeed, then it will be no great matter to make him king. And we his chief thanes,” Aelfin concluded, with a gesture of his arms encompassing all in the room.
CHAPTER 19:
Monk, Bard, Priest, King
Kristinge did not sleep well that night. Doubts and misgivings about what he was doing returned in full force. Were it not for Aewin, he might even have sought again to turn his path from the one laid out for him by Aelfin. But now he found that his love for her had grown, and he was afraid that if he lost the torc he would lose her as well. Furthermore, Aelfin was right: it was too late. Even if he gave up the torc and left Ezinge, Réadban and Aldgisl would pursue him. He had to continue on, following the path of his ancestors. Nevertheless, despite this realization, the next day Kristinge felt the need to be alone—to get out of the mead hall and the company of warriors. He walked through the fresh snow to the chapel. It was not the Sabbath, but he wanted to be alone to think and pray.
The chapel was cold as it had been a few days earlier when he had come with Aewin. He sat on a bench and pulled his cloak around his neck. And for a long time, he just sat there and stared at the cross hanging at the back of the church.
A king is a warrior, he heard Aelfin’s voice repeating. You are king because you lead your people in battle.
“Is that so wrong?” he said aloud to the cross. “What of David? Was he not a man after God’s own heart?”
The cross remained silent. But Dunnere entered the chapel a short time later. Kristinge had not spoken to him in many days. Weeks, in fact. When Dunnere saw Kristinge sitting there, he turned to go.
“No!” Kristinge protested. “Stay.” He cursed silently when he realized he was still holding his sword. He had tried to make a point of never bringing it into the chapel. How had he forgotten so quickly?
Dunnere appeared nervous, but he obeyed Kristinge’s request and entered. He sat on the bench near the door and looked at the ground by his feet. Kristinge sensed at once that something was amiss, but he didn’t know what. He prompted the peasant with a few questions that were answered briefly. They spoke of the fall harvest, the amount of snow on the ground, and the abundance of game in the woods that winter.
“How is your goat?” Kristinge asked after a time.
Dunnere looked at Kristinge in surprise, then shook his head. “Dead,” he answered.
“Dead?” Kristinge was shocked. The goat was not only Dunnere’s only companion; it was his livelihood. What would he do without its milk? “When? Yesterday in the storm?”
Dunnere stared at Kristinge for a moment before he answered. “I do not know how to count days. She got sick shortly after the equinox feast.”
The equinox feast? Kristinge calculated in his head. That was over eight weeks earlier. Eight weeks. Could it be? Had he so lost track of the happenings in the village? Of the lives of his flock? Or was it no longer his flock? Was he no longer priest and shepherd? Dunnere rose to depart, but at the door he turned around one more time. He voice was soft. “I brought her to you, hoping you might pray for her as Willimond once prayed for me. But I could not find you in the chapel. And I was afraid to go into the hall. I am just a peasant.”
Kristinge nodded, accepting the reprimand. It was all he could do to apologize. He would buy Dunnere another goat. He promised himself he would do that. But when he lifted his head to tell Dunnere, the peasant was gone. A feeling of helplessness welled up inside him, then. He tried not to think of Dunnere, or of how he had failed him. But the look of betrayal in the peasant’s eyes had been too much. “If I was king, I could help,” he told himself out loud, but his words were empty. The fireless chapel seemed much colder.
Kristinge did not return to the hall that night. He slept in his old hut. In the morning, he went directly to the chapel, where he spent the day in prayer. How many others had he failed, he wondered.
Aelfin found him there late in the morning. “You are troubled,” he said. Kristinge did not reply, but glanced at the sword leaning against the wall. Aelfin followed the glance and saw the weapon. “It is only for a short time,” he promised misjudging the real problem plaguing Kristinge. “If we defeat the Franks and drive them back from the Rhine, you will surely be king. You will never need fight again. For now, however, you would be wise to grow more used to the feel of the sword in your hand, and how it swings. Continue to strengthen your arms so they will not grow weary of the weight when battle is upon you. Your thanes will protect you in battle, of course. You need not fear. Yet the more you look the part of a warrior, the better.
I have sent word that your war band is to gather at the very start of spring, the moment we can travel. The time for caution is now past. In your name, I have sent word throughout Friesland that you will lead a war band against the Franks.”
“In my name?” Kristinge asked, his voice giving away his frustration.
“It is you who will be king,” Aelfin replied, with a hard glint in his eyes.
Kristinge met the gaze, looked away, nodded, and fell silent. There was much he could do as king, he reminded himself. He thought of various sites where he would begin monasteries. The first monasteries in Friesland! Then he thought of Aewin. And the goat he would give to Dunnere.
“Perhaps you will be the Gideon of our people,” Aelfin went on, referring to the tale Kristinge had sung on the same night he had received the torc. Then the chieftain laughed. “But do not try to make our war band any smaller. I am not sure your god will give us the victory, or that my people are willing to trust him to try. They are too used to trusting Woden.”
A victory over the Franks in the name of Christ, Kristinge thought. Yes, that would convince the Frisians that his God was real.
“Come,” Aelfin finally said. “Your servant Eomaer awaits you in the hall. His war band has been traveling for some days, riding through the snow over forty miles to come here. It was a long journey and they are tired. We have fed them and warmed them, but now he wishes to see you. He has news of Francia.”
“Eomaer?” Kristinge asked, jumping to his feet. “Is Aewin—?”
“She did not come. It is a long ride in the winter. But fear not, the day of your betrothal approaches quickly.”
Though he did so more slowly than he would have if Aewin had come also, Kristinge rose and followed Aelfin back to the mead hall to resume his duties. The news from Eomaer was good. He had been busy during the past few weeks, and had gained more followers for Kristinge. He had thirty-five new warriors from a neighboring clan that occupied the coastal villages north of Dronrip. Moreover, it was a warring clan that had many fast ships. They would be ready in the spring to carry Eomaer’s horses by sea. “It might be possible,” the young chieftain explained, “to come at Domburg from the south by horseback.” Kristinge nodded. He still had little idea of battle strategies, but he did have a good idea of the lay of the land. He tried to envision Eomaer’s plan. “There is more good news,” Eomaer went on. Kristinge nodded for him to continue. “Clovis is dead.”
Kristinge was slow to grasp the strategic significance of that announcement. An image of the insane ruler surrounded by his brothel came to his mind. Then he thought of queen Balthild. What this would mean to her? Aelfin, however, had already risen to his feet. “What? Clovis is dead? When? Who has succeeded him in Neustria and Burgundy? Who is king of the Franks?”
Eomaer turned from Kristinge toward Aelfin and answered the questions. “I do not know exactly when he died, or how. Word travels slowly this time of year. I myself heard from traders only a few days ago. They did not know how he died. Only rumors. Some say disease. Others say he was poisoned by a servant. Others say he was killed by his own queen.”
“It was not his queen,” Kristinge said softly, but nobody heard him.
Aelfin sat back down. “Who now rules?” he asked, repeating his earlier question.
“His son, whom they call Lothar—or Chlotar the third—has been proclaimed the King of all Franks. Yet he is just a child, not even ten years old I am told. One named Ebroin, a thane of Clovis, has been named Mayor of the Palace of Neustria. He will hold the real power there.”
Ebroin? The name sounded familiar to Kristinge. It took him only a moment to place it. He had met Ebroin at the palace. However that was not why he remembered the name. Abbess Telchild had also mentioned him. Ebroin was the one who had violated Osanne. And now he ruled the Franks. That was more reason to fear them. More reason, perhaps, to go to war. Kristinge could think of three people who would not be happy to have Ebroin in power. Osanne, Telchild, and Balthild. Here were their names again. For weeks, Kristinge had avoided thinking of them. Now the memories were returning once more. He barely heard the rest of the conversation. Eomaer and Aelfin talked briefly about the death of Clovis. They both saw it as a good omen. It meant an opportunity to attack the borders of Francia while there was confusion and discord. Then conversation returned to the strategy for attack. Where would they bring the battle against the Franks? And how? Would they settle for regaining Domburg? Or should try to drive the Franks back all along the Rhine? Eomaer, though still young, had many ideas, and Kristinge could tell from the way that the older chieftains responded that they respected him. But Kristinge understood little of the art of war; even had he been able to pay attention, he could not have followed their strategies. After a time, his thoughts wandered from the queen, the abbess and the prophetess to the poor peasant Dunnere and his lost goat.
Later, when the fire had burned low and the guests slept, Kristinge quietly questioned Aelfin. “Why has Eomaer changed his heart so quickly?” he asked, avoiding the real questions on his mind. “I thought he had no interest in a war against the Franks, but only in avenging his father’s death against Aldgisl and extracting the weregild.”
Aelfin smiled. “Eomaer is young. If he lives, he may well be your mightiest thane. And that may be just what he is thinking. Remember that the names of Finn’s thanes are still remembered in the same breath as Finn.” That was all he said.
Over the following three days, there was a celebration in honor of Eomaer. It was another attempt by Aelfin to insure the future loyalty of this thane. And perhaps also it was intended to raise the spirits of Kristinge. This it did, though only for a short time. With Eomaer, Theoman, and Wihtred present, along with Isernfyst, Kristinge had his own hearthwerod together in Ezinge. For the first time he really felt like a king, and some of his unease vanished. That night, as mead and beer were brought from the winter stores, he gave gifts to his thanes. Meanwhile, at Aelfin’s orders, the best hunters in Ezinge had been sent into the woods for fresh game. Perhaps motivated by a desire to miss as little as possible of the celebration, they returned early on the second day with rabbit and venison. Fish were also taken from the river. And, in keeping with the festive mood, the weather turned warm and along the axwei and beside the huts the snow melted away under blue skies. The spirits of the gathered war bands were high as the celebration continued, and Aelfin once again sounded hopeful. Talk turned to the building of a larger mead hall for Kristinge’s growing number of thanes. Perhaps even a move to a larger village.
Even Kristinge was in a good mood, succumbing to the atmosphere that surrounded him. He had grown to like the impetuous young Eomaer, even as he had grown in a short time to love Eomaer’s sister Aewin. In Aewin’s absence, he and Eomaer spent much of the celebration talking together. In the young horse-chieftain, Kristinge could see the makings of the ideal Frisian warrior. Intent. Fearless. Ambitious. Strong and confident. Kristinge was almost frightened by how compelling he found him. The older chieftains, on the other hand, were far less compelling and more enigmatic. Wihtred and the Saxon Isernfyst spoke infrequently, and Kristinge guessed little if anything of what they were thinking. There was an impenetrable darkness about them. Theoman spoke more often and more directly than the other two, and reminded Kristinge of Aelfin, though with fewer different sides. Aelfin himself was difficult to predict or comprehend. At one moment, he was a character from Deor’s lament: a quiet, lone warrior remembering better days when he was a chieftain at Domburg and the served a great king. This was the Aelfin whom Kristinge had first met upon the watchtower at Hwitstanwic. Yet in the presence of Dyflines the bard, the chieftain was once again a young warrior, glorying in battle, and looking forward to victories to come. Still at other times Aelfin was the wise and kind father figure—though Kristinge could never truly think of him as father, a role that he still gave in his heart to Willimond. Finally, when in the presence of other chieftains, Aelfin was a careful plotting warrior, planning the co
nquest of the torc of Friesland. That was the Aelfin that Kristinge knew best, and the one who scared him most. To that Aelfin, Kristinge was only a tool. He leads us in name and figure only, riding at our heads, Kristinge could still hear Aelfin saying to Theoman. You, and I, and Wihtred will lead in truth.
Unfortunately, the celebration could not last all winter. It ended after three days. Eomaer and Isernfyst with their war bands departed first. “I will bring Aewin soon to be with you,” Eomaer promised as he rode from the village. Kristinge bade him fare well, and with cheerful countenance urged him to keep that promise. But as soon as Eomaer was gone, Kristinge felt empty and knew that it would not be soon enough that he returned with his sister. Worsening the gloom, on the following day Theoman and Wihtred also left for their own villages. Once more, Kristinge was left feeling lonely and isolated. Winter solstice was just a few days away, and the nights were once again long; bad memories of his long winter in Danemark returned. And now that Eomaer was gone, Kristinge’s sudden friendship with him did not keep him from pondering the young horse-chieftain’s motivations. Three reasons kept surfacing: revenge, glory in battle, and honor as a thane of the king. Among the Frisian warriors, those were virtues. But all three of those motives frightened Kristinge.
Nine gathered in the chapel for the Christ-Mass. Kristinge looked forward to the event with great eagerness. Unfortunately, Dunnere was not among those present. Kristinge was worried about him, but he said nothing. He would look for him later, he thought. He read the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ birth, and preached a homily to those present. They broke bread together. Then the peasant believers departed and returned to their huts, and Kristinge went in search of Dunnere. He was not in his hut. Where else in the village could he be? Kristinge wandered from place to place, but his search proved to be futile. He descended off the terp and walked around the axwei, where a well-worn trail spared him from the crusty snow. The old peasant cow-herd was not to be found. After a second trip around the village, he gave up and returned to the mead hall fearing his peasant friend was dead.
The Rood and the Torc Page 37