Aelfin was sitting in the hall beside the fire. There was a slight frown on his face. There was always a frown on his face when Kristinge went to the chapel or led his small congregation in a mass. However the chieftain said nothing, and the duty of leading mass, if nothing else, Kristinge had not forsaken. “The days are too short,” Aelfin grumbled. “And the nights are too long.”
Kristinge, having failed to find Dunnere, was worried. It was four days past the winter solstice. He knew the days would begin to grow longer. But he was in no mood to try to cheer the chieftain. Never before did he remember such a dreary Christ-mass.
“Is your sacred holiday over?” Aelfin asked, in a mocking voice. “Have you finished enlightening the poor peasants?” He usually spared his foster-son from the worst of his disdain for the Christian religion. Today he did not, despite the presence in his hall of some of his thanes whom he hoped would one day serve Kristinge as king.
“It is the birth of the Christ,” Kristinge replied.
“You have not spared me the story,” Aelfin said. “Your Christ was born a peasant in a barn, was he not? Sleeping in the hay with the sheep dung?”
“He was.”
“And did he ever wear the torc of his people?”
“Not on this earth.” Not on this earth, Kristinge said again to himself. Not on this earth. Suddenly, he could hear Willimond’s voice. Do you really desire your father’s torc? Have you learned nothing about the Frankish kings? Nothing from their treachery? Their short-lived reigns?
Aelfin shrugged, as if that was all that needed to be said. He lifted his drinking horn and put it to his lips, but it was empty. He picked up his sword from beside him and banged it against his shield. One of his thanes rose and filled his horn from a nearby canister of mead. Nobody spoke for a time. “Where is that rogue Dyflines?” he growled. Kristinge did not remember having heard the chieftain in such a sour mood before. Was it the strong drink? Or was there something else amiss?
“Shall I fetch him?” Ceolac asked.
“No. Let him freeze,” Aelfin replied, still growling. “The cold sends his lyre out of tune anyway.” A moment later, however, he changed his mind. “Go get him. We could use some song in this dreary place. But warn him I will not be easily pleased this night.” Ceolac disappeared. A short time later, he returned with the bard. It was rare that Aelfin told Dyflines what to sing, but tonight he made an exception. “Sing to me of the gods,” he commanded.
The bard nodded. He worked with his lyre for a few moments, tuning the strings and allowing the wood to warm to the temperature of the room. Then he began to play. He sang an old tale of a battle between the god Thunar and the giants, and of Thunar’s eventual victory by his great strength and cunning, despite being thrice outsmarted and made a fool of. By the time the long song was over, Aelfin’s spirits had been lifted. In fact, to Kristinge it appeared that the population of the mead hall had doubled, though it may have been only that those thanes and warriors already present drew closer around the fire to listen to the talented bard. They had also grown louder and more boisterous. Whatever the case, it was a different mood after the song was over than before. Almost a different company. All except Kristinge whose mood had slunk further.
“Sing more,” the warriors requested.
“Give me more to drink,” Dyflines replied with a smile. His mead cup was filled, and after he had drained half of it he picked up his lyre again. He then sang another long tale, this one about the god Odin who once came to Friesland in human guise as a bard, and was given lodging by a warrior named Raeban. When Odin revealed his identity the following morning, he gave a gift to Raeban, claiming it to be a payment for the warrior’s hospitality. The gift was a powerful sword which could never be broken by human hands and which gave its wielder the strength of ten men. With the aid of this sword, Raeban then went on to become a powerful chieftain over many tribes. Yet in doing so, he slew his own father and his three brothers and earned the hatred even of his only son whom he eventually also slew. In the end, Raeban was driven away from his own tribe and became a lone warrior—a berserker in the service of Odin—until he was finally killed by Odin himself.
It was a new story, one that Dyflines had only recently heard or composed and was singing in Ezinge for the first time. And it was exactly what Kristinge needed to hear. When Dyflines was finished, he stepped forward, and before the Irish bard could protest had taken the lyre from his hands. Though Kristinge had never before sung to the lyre in front of others, in private he and Dyflines had exchanged instruments more than once—though not in several weeks. He knew something of how to get a pleasing sound from it. And tonight, there was no turning back. The prophet’s spirit had come upon him as it had at times past. He gave himself to it. Ignoring the fierce warning glance that Aelfin shot him the moment he picked up the lyre, Kristinge began to sing.
Lo! We have heard it told how once it happened, in a past generation of mankind, that the world’s Creator, the Chieftain of mankind, the God-Son Himself, came to Middle-earth. It had been declared of old by wise men and bards that this should happen: that the Lord of the Heavens, a mighty Warrior, should come to earth to redeem the clan of mankind.
Never before had a warrior, a chieftain of chieftains, chosen his own place of birth. Yet the God of the earth, the Son of the Lord, the mighty Maker of all who ruled an army of ten thousand angels, took the form of a baby. He came among men in Middle-earth in this guise: not as a ruler but as a small child. Jesus they named him, Mary his holy mother and Joseph his father, both in the line of great kings of old. He lived among men as a peasant, one of lowly birth, a worker of wood. This mighty chieftain wore no chieftain’s torc. He became instead a bard: a speaker of truth. Words of wisdom he taught. He did not deceive men, the children of men. He told men how to have life. The mighty chieftain became a giver of gifts to his thanes, his loyal followers, and the gift he gave was Life.
This Lord of Heaven had the power over all mankind. He was a chieftain whose mead-hall was all of Middle-earth. He had the right to take life and give life, but he slew no hearth-companions. He did not take the lives of men, but gave his own life. Lo! The Eternal One Himself, the God-Son who fashioned the world like a carpenter fashions wood, gave his own life on a cross-span of wood. Instead of wearing a torc like a man, he chose instead to hang upon a rood. He whose war band had a hundred thousand angels, whose thanes were the god-angels Gabriel and Michael, waged no war against man. His enemies, liars and servants of the chieftain of darkness, took his life. They buried him. Men and women mourned. His mother lost her son, the offspring of her womb. Ten hundred thousand angels would have come at his call, a mighty war band to take him from the rood and defeat his enemies. Yet the Chieftain of man chose instead to die for man. He desired no berserkers. He wielded no magic sword. His sword was the Word of Truth.
In the tomb they laid Him, the Prince of all people, in the darkness he was bound for the burial. He who made the earth was swallowed by the earth, but the earth could not hold him. Lo! He rose again, survived the perilous journey to the nether world and returned. He who made life took life again to his body. We have heard of His many marvelous works, His miracles before the race of man, but no greater work did He do than this. The great Warrior Chieftain won His battle. The Lord of Victories returned to His thanes and proclaimed His Name. Near and far over Middle-earth he declared his ordinances to men, uttering in words what they should do, and promising another Helper. Then He left this earth, the Chieftain who had walked among men, and went to take again His torc in the Heavens.
We have heard tell of these deeds from trustworthy men, have heard how the great God himself walked among men; his guise was truth and humility. We have heard tell also that the God of Hosts, the Chieftain of all Chieftains, will return as a great warrior with a flaming sword. He will call his thanes and raise his war band, and his enemies will be destroyed. Glorious will be his gifts to his warriors, his thanes and people in that day.
Dyflines gave Kristinge a silent nod of approval: a word of encouragement between two bards. But there was no applause after the song. Kristinge returned to his own hut that night. In the back of his mind lingered the knowledge that Aelfin was angered. He did not care. For the first time in many months, he felt calm. He knew well enough that his situation was not resolved. Yet he had come to a resolution, and with it—at least for the moment—had come peace. Fear of what he would face on the morrow was there, but was held in check. For now, he would not worry. Tomorrow would look after itself.
He had not slept in his hut for many nights. Not for weeks. It was cold and dirty. He had not had a fire in there since winter. There was no wood. It did not matter. Shrugging these thing aside, he put on his warmest cloak, piled his blankets on top of him, and slept peacefully for the first time in many weeks.
CHAPTER 20:
Réadban
Réadban sat astride his horse, anxious and impatient, a host of memories racing through his mind as he leaned forward eager to continue his journey. Long ago he had heard the rumor that Finn had sired a second child, a son raised in secret and sent southward to be reared in a Frankish monastery far away. At the time Réadban had given the rumor little thought. A strange and unlikely tale it had seemed then, come at a season when he was busy with more pressing concerns. Yet it held the ring of truth, and in the intervening years it had returned to gnaw at him. After all, such things were not unheard of. Many a Frisian chieftain had fostered away a younger son to be raised by a distant relative, or a clan lord of another village. It would not have been beyond Finn, Réadban thought, to send his own son away to Francia to hide as a cowardly monk. And now, had the rumors proved true? Another son of Finn? In the past two months, more than one trader had brought that curious story to Réadban’s hall: that Finn had still a living heir, and that the heir had returned to Friesland and was raising a war band. A son named Kristinge, taken as a foster of the chieftain Aelfin. This was news that tugged at Réadban like the pulling of a scab off an old wound. Thirty years had passed since the day of Finn’s wedding, the famous marriage celebration of Finn and Hildeburh, the day that was to bring hope to all of Friesland. Réadban scoffed at the thought. Finn was a fading memory, he told himself. A failed and soon-to-be-forgotten chieftain.
Yet for all his disdain for his former king, and for all the years come and gone, Réadban still remembered Finn’s wedding day as if it were yesterday. He could recall the scene at the tower; he relived it in his waking dreams. With strong oaths, he had challenged the stronger and more skilled Finn to a fight. But the battle never happened. Mercy? Finn had spoken of mercy. He had not made Réadban fight the duel to which he had sworn, but had instead released him from his oath. Perhaps in doing so, Finn had even spared Réadban’s life; Finn was a great warrior and there were few who could have stood alone against him in his prime. Yet that was not mercy. In front all his own thanes, before all who had heard him issue his challenge, Réadban had been forced to bow before Finn and acknowledge his own wrong. His wrong! It would have been better to have died. Yes he had suffered this humiliation before Finn, and he had not forgotten it. He had vowed to carry his hatred for Finn and all his offspring to his dying day. Long had he plotted his revenge, and long had it been in coming. But come it had, at last. Fate had been good to Réadban, that day; the gods had blessed him. Finn did most of the work himself, bringing about his own demise. Finn and the Danes. It was a convenient war. A misunderstanding that Réadban could not have conceived of better: the death of Finnlaf and Hnaef at each other’s hands and the ensuing feud between the tribes. All Réadban had done was take advantage of the opportunity given him. When the time had come, he had influenced the right chieftains and made sure that Finn was unable to raise the war band he needed to stand against the Danes. Oh. It was good that Réadban had not died, for then he could never have tasted that sweet morsel of revenge.
And yet even that was not enough, Réadban now realized. He had not been able to watch Finn die; he had not seen Finn’s humiliation. Réadban’s part in bringing about Finn’s death had been too small. No. The revenge was not complete. And now? Could it be true? Could a son of Finn really have returned? Did he now have an opportunity to finish the revenge long desired?
Réadban turned his horse and looked back across the valley, as if worried that some unforeseen catastrophe might still upset his plans and rob him of his rightful vengeance. But his war band was still there, four hundred and fifty strong! The warriors were spread across the open field taking their midday meal during a brief rest from the march. He smiled, still confident in his plan. The sudden attack on Ezinge would never be expected, not now at the onset of winter. Aelfin and Kristinge would not be prepared. Though Réadban had heard no trustworthy report as to the size of Kristinge’s war band, other than the names of a few chieftains who had thrown their sword in with him, he knew that Ezinge was a small village; its puny war band would not stand a chance against a host as large as the one he now led. This would be another easy conquest, made that much sweeter by the thought of destroying Finn’s son and the last of his loyal thanes. Nobody would remember the name of Finn.
And that was but the first step. The broader implications of the victory did not escape Réadban, for the schemes playing through his mind went well beyond his own revenge. He was leading only a part of the forces he now commanded from Dorestad. His war band had grown greatly in the past year. Ten more noble Saxon thanes had recently taken him as their lord and gift-giver, and with them came a hundred Saxon warriors: mercenaries perhaps, but hale warriors nonetheless, and fighters who had been proven in battle. With these following him, Réadban was now the strongest chieftain in all of Friesland. Stronger even than Aldgisl. Réadban cast a sidelong sneer of contempt at the other chieftain beside him. Aldgisl, a younger kinsman of Réadban’s wife, was leading only thirty mounted warriors as part of the host moving toward Ezinge. Young in his power, Aldgisl was cautious but ambitious. It was at Réadban’s own advice that the younger chieftain was biding his time. He smiled at the influence he wielded over his rival. “Keep your eye on Friesland, but let your power grow,” he had told him. And Aldgisl, in his trusting foolishness, had listened, and brought only a token part of his war band to Ezinge. “My war band is easily a match for the task,” Réadban had promised. “The more warriors we bring, the more we will have to feed.”
Deferring to the wisdom—so he thought—of an elder kinsman, Aldgisl had reluctantly consented to the small number. “Agreed,” he replied. “But I shall come with you, for I am curious to meet this new threat: this son of the legendary Finn.”
Réadban smiled as he thought back on the conversation. Little did Aldgisl know that his greatest threat was not a son of Finn but the chieftain at whose side he rode. That he was riding to his own doom as much as to the doom of Finn’s heir. For Aldgisl still looked upon Réadban as a loyal thane: a kinsman, no less. After all, Réadban had lost his own two sons. Radbod the Young, who might have made a good king, had died many years earlier. While Réadban’s other son, Ultar, was too weak and foolish to ever hope to rule. Even Réadban had conceded that Ultar’s death in battle the year before was no great loss. Yet their deaths had only temporarily dissuaded Réadban from seeking the torc. In his advancing age, he had pledged himself to support Aldgisl’s claim to the torc. But he had secretly recanted of that pledge many months earlier. As his own power had grown, so had visions of the Frisian torc. He was not so old that his neck could not bear the weight of a larger torc than that of Dorestad. And Ultar’s child Rathbod still lived. At the age of four, Rathbod was already a small boar. He could be made into a warrior one day, a king even. No. Réadban would not sit idly and watch Friesland’s torc sit on another’s neck. And now, the opportunity to do something had finally presented itself: the chance to eliminate two rivals with one swift stroke. By the time Aldgisl knew better, it would be too late.
If only Réadban were still fifteen years younger, he lamented. But
then he turned his eyes back northward and turned his thoughts to the task at hand. Enough of his plotting against Aldgisl. He would first see the son of Finn humiliated and killed. And then he would worry about the other. It was Aldgisl who gave the signal to move on. And for the time, Réadban allowed him the vanity of thinking he led the war band. Winter’s first assault of cold and snow had come early, but little snow had fallen in the past two weeks, and the unusually warm December weather had melted or evaporated most of November’s snow. They were keeping a much better pace than Réadban had expected. They would have no trouble with their supply of food. In four days, before the first of the coming year, they would be in Ezinge. Then the last of Finn’s sons would drink the bitter dregs prepared by his father, and Réadban would at last have his due.
At the southern edge of Wieuwerd, four men—three on horseback and one on foot—gazed silently out from the top of the terp across the flat frozen ground toward the southwest. Treothrym, a tall hardy warrior with angular cheeks, long brown hair, and a heavy beard, sat astride a bay mare. Beside him on matching chestnuts were his two younger brothers, Tredswar and Hyse, the latter an unbearded youth. The three brothers were similar in face and feature, though the younger two were not as large as Treothrym. Beside them stood Wigmaer, the chieftain of Wieuwerd. On foot, his head was just above the level of their knees. He was fairer of skin and lighter of hair than the other three, and just a few years older than Treothrym. All four had sheathed swords across their backs. Far away to the southwest, Hyse had just caught sight of something moving, but against the glare of the setting sun it was hard to make out what it was. “Something is coming, certainly,” he said, breaking the silence.
The Rood and the Torc Page 38