All were amazed to hear Aldgisl lift praise for Finn’s kin. Yet none were more surprised than Kristinge himself, who looked upon Aldgisl with new admiration, as one who finds that a past enemy is no longer an enemy but a friend. “You knew my father?” he asked, speaking for the first time.
At the first sound of Kristinge’s voice, the eyes of all of Aldgisl’s party turned toward him. Aldgisl’s gaze was careful and calculating. Did he see Kristinge as the son of a legend, or as a rival of the torc? “I knew your father only as a young child knows a great hero.”
Lured off-guard by Aldgisl’s praise and kind words, Kristinge did not expect what was coming. The situation was far from defused. “A son of Finn?” Réadban said. He laughed a tight, mocking laugh. “We heard of only one son of Finn, and he lies dead. His body was given to the byre.”
“This is Finn’s son,” Aelfin said, his temper beginning to flare again.
“Did Finn leave bastard sons across Friesland to make their false claims one by one?”
Aelfin had withstood the insults against himself, but at this insult against his former chieftain, king, and gift-giver, he could no longer restrain himself. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed the hilt of his sword in two hands. Before Kristinge could breath, it flashed from its sheath. The others were not slow to follow. A sudden look of fear crossed Réadban’s face as he jumped backward and fumbled to draw his own blade. Yet before Aelfin could get to his foe, Réadban’s thanes had stepped between them. Again Kristinge feared then that all was lost.
“Hold!” Aldgisl shouted before the blades crossed. His voice was stern and commanding as he spoke to Aelfin. “By your word we sent our mounts away and waited for you without our war band. If you strike one blow, then our band will not leave a single soul alive in all of Ezinge, nor a single building untouched by the torch. Nor,” he added, turning to Eomaer, “will I leave Dronrip standing. Think not that I do not recognize you, Eomaer son of Eodan, leader of the horse-folk. It was said that you still sought the weregild from me. So there are two chieftains here. Seventy men to defend against four hundred?”
He had read the situation all too well. His words were no empty bluff. And for a second long moment, he and Aelfin stood facing one another. Finally Aelfin spoke. “We will honor our word.” Whether spoken in true honor, or only in fear of Aldgisl, Kristinge did not know. Aelfin continued. “But see that your servants speak with greater honor of the king they once bowed before. The next time a word is spoken against Finn, we will not refrain from spilling the blood of the one who speaks it, even if it costs us our lives.”
“I do not doubt you,” Aldgisl said. Without looking at Réadban, he reprimanded him. “My thanes will show more self-control.”
Now both Réadban and Eomaer were taut as a bowstring. But whereas for the first time Réadban’s face showed a hint of fear, Eomaer’s eyes had only Aldgisl’s blood in them. Neither was pleased to show restraint. Yet Aldgisl and Aelfin were directing the stage now. “Now that I see Kristinge,” Aldgisl went on, “I have no doubt that he is the son of Finn and Hildeburh.”
A few breathed a sigh of relief. Kristinge was not one of them. Where was Aldgisl leading? Did he really intend to relinquish so quickly his claim on the Frisian torc? Now that Kristinge himself had decided he would not wear it, was it being given back to him? Was God telling Kristinge something?
His questions were answered with Aldgisl’s next sentence. “Yet know well, Kristinge son of Finn, and Aelfin son of Aeltar, that blood-bonds do not make a king!” His voice was forceful and his intention could not be doubted: he had no plan to concede the Frisian torc to Kristinge. And though Kristinge knew the danger to his life had just increased ten-fold with Aldgisl’s words, he nonetheless felt a strange sense of relief. “Do you not represent our two greatest foes?” Aldgisl continued, for the first time showing his own emotion and intensity. “Was not your mother Hildeburh the Dane? Even if Finn’s blood gave you some portion of a claim, you hold also the blood of Hoc and Hnaef in your veins. And now you come to us from the heart of Francia, from the land of our greatest enemy, and make claim on your father’s torc?”
“No,” Kristinge answered, his voice barely a whisper against Aldgisl’s indignant question. “No,” he said again. “I make no such claim.”
CHAPTER 22:
Betrayal
There was a loud crack as a sheet of ice shifted on the nearby river. Across the fields at the edge of the wood, a crow cawed loudly. A second replied. At Kristinge’s utterance of denial, a stunned silence had fallen across the warriors and chieftains gathered there in confrontation. Among both parties, eyes opened wide in surprise. Voices froze. Stares were fixed upon the young man who had spoken—the young man who suddenly became strangely cognizant of the myriad of everyday sounds around him: the soft bleating of goats, the chill wind whistling through the village, and the waters of the Hunze tumbling beneath the broken ice.
This calm lasted only a few seconds. Then the expected pandemonium erupted.
“Kristinge!” Aelfin barked. “Have you lost—”
“By Tiwar,” Réadban cursed simultaneously. “Do you think we are fools? Do you dare—”
A dozen other voices also broke out, some shouting at Kristinge, some at each other, some in surprise, and others in anger; all essaying to drown each other out. But Kristinge was barely paying attention. He was watching the cold, distant winter sun dipping below the horizon. Not many days had passed since the winter solstice, and the light was fading rapidly. It would be dark soon, and Kristinge knew that the moon would be but a tiny sliver. He wondered who would be watching it in Luxeuil that evening.
“Silence,” Aldgisl shouted in a voice that boomed louder than them all. “Silence!” It was unclear at whom the command was directed: Aelfin, Réadban, or the whole gathering. Yet there was something compelling in the chieftain’s voice: an authority that made him difficult to refuse; even Aelfin obeyed. A silence as icy as the wind fell once again. When all had turned their eyes on Aldgisl, he opened his mouth to speak. “Do you tell us—” he began.
He never finished the sentence. Four lights appeared at the top of the ramp: torches. Suspecting an attack or ambush from the village, the warriors under Aldgisl’s command stiffened and moved toward defensive stances. Kristinge looked over his shoulder to see what it was. Then he remembered Aelfin’s earlier command to the young warrior. Two youths descended the ramp, each carrying a pair of brightly burning torches. They spoke no words, but holding the lights high they took posts on either side of Aelfin’s company while all stood watching them, momentarily transfixed by the flames. Kristinge looked briefly upon the nervous faces of the two men, and then back at Aldgisl and Réadban. In the torch light, the glaring faces of the chieftains were once again visible. Aldgisl turned back to Kristinge and began to speak again. “Do you make no claim on Friesland’s torc?” he demanded in a voice that was steady but charged with emotion.
“I make no claim,” Kristinge replied, without flinching from Aldgisl’s gaze. He reached into his purse and removed the gold torc that he had earlier removed from his neck. For just a moment, he grasped the cold metal in his hands; it was heavier than he remembered. Did he really want to do this? Ignoring the lingering trace of reluctance, he held Finn’s torc in front of him as an offer.
If Kristinge’s words had not been enough to convince his companions of his intentions, this action was. Eomaer stumbled backwards as if struck. Kristinge saw the motion from the corner of his eye; he winced and tried not to look in the direction of his one time friend, but he could feel Eomaer’s gaze burning into his cheek, and could not help but glance in that direction. The expression on the face of the young horse-chieftain said all that needed to be said: the now gaunt eyes that were normally so full of life held a gaze of such deep hurt that Kristinge could not bear to look at them any longer. They were the eyes of one betrayed, looking at his betrayer. How soon until the hurt turned to anger? Kristinge wondered. On the other side
, Aelfin had a similar look on his face, though he was not taken as much by surprise. The older chieftain’s hand reached momentarily toward the torc, and then clenched and withdrew as if by great strength of will they were held back. Kristinge bit his lip. What could he say to them? He turned back toward Aldgisl. He could not afford to address Eomaer and Aelfin now; he could not yet offer his apology. For he guessed well that not all was over with Aldgisl and Réadban; the crisis was still unresolved. Perhaps it had just grown worse.
“Is this true?” Aldgisl asked again. He appeared as surprised as the rest. It was clear that he did not understand Kristinge’s motives. Could anybody understand? Kristinge wondered. No. No Frisian chieftain would ever comprehend why another would give up his torc. For the first time since the confrontation had begun, there was doubt written on Aldgisl’s face. Yet he did not lose control. He made no move to take the torc. Instead, his penetrating gaze searched Kristinge’s face for some sign of a hidden plot. For some malice. “Do you truly release all claim to this? Before all who are gathered here?”
“No,” Réadban shouted, answering the question before Kristinge could. At the sight of the torc, he had regained his composure and taken a step forward as if he too meant to snatch it from Kristinge’s hand. All eyes turned to him now. “It is a ruse,” he went on, a hint of desperation in his voice. “A trick. This piece of gold means nothing. If you take it, their jewelers and craftsmen will forge another later. We have heard. He has already raised a war band against you. Does not Eomaer’s presence here testify to that?”
Réadban pointed an accusing finger at the young chieftain as he spoke, but Eomaer didn’t notice. Kristinge could see he was still too stunned; his hopes of deposing Aldgisl and exacting the weregild on the kin of his father’s slayer had been snatched from him. Kristinge feared that nothing he could say would ever assuage for Eomaer’s sense of betrayal. He turned back toward Aldgisl and Réadban. “It is true,” he admitted.
If Kristinge’s willing forfeiture of the torc had surprised Réadban, this next confession surprised him even more. The chieftain’s eyes widened for a moment, while his followers once more gripped their swords and readied for battle. In their understanding, this was a confession of guilt: Kristinge had admitted that he was an enemy of their lord. The monk had to explain quickly—had to explain in a way that Aldgisl and Réadban might understand, though in his heart his explanation was more for Aelfin and Eomaer than for any others. “It is true that I raised a war band. Though Aelfin also speaks truth that our battle was destined for the Franks, and not for fellow Frisians.” Kristinge did not give anybody a chance to interrupt. “I returned to Friesland seeking the father I had not known: Finn, son of Folcwalda, the warrior. For a time, it seemed to me that wearing his torc was the one way I might honor him. Now I see this is not true.”
“Lies,” Réadban hissed. Despite the cold air, the torch light showed his face was damp with sweat. “You seek to buy time. We have come upon you too soon and too suddenly, before you were ready. When spring comes, you will be at our throats.”
Aldgisl just stared at Kristinge, still seeking some understanding. “Do you have no defense against these accusations?”
Suddenly, however, Kristinge was at a loss for words. What else could he say? He knew that Réadban’s indictment sounded all too likely. “This is not true,” he mumbled. “I have given up the torc.”
“Already you have earned your death,” Réadban went on, ignoring Kristinge’s plea. “You and all who have cast their swords with your plot.” He turned to Aldgisl. “Let us burn this village down. Put them to the sword and byre.”
“You would be hard-pressed, cowardly fool,” Aelfin growled. As angered as he might have been at Kristinge’s decision, he would not take threats from Réadban. He took an intimidating step toward him. This time, Réadban did not back away from the blade. And still Eomaer said nothing. He was staring icily at Kristinge now: the same icy stare that he had previously given to Aldgisl. Kristinge let the weight of the torc—and the weight of his decision—pull his arm down. His held the torc dangling at his side.
“Listen,” Réadban said to Aldgisl. “Even now he threatens you. As long as a son of Finn lives, and there are rebel chieftains such as these willing to follow him, he is a threat. Let us put him to death.”
Aldgisl stood still for a moment, as if in thought. Then he nodded his head. “Réadban speaks wisely and again proves his worth. As long as Kristinge walks freely in Friesland, he is a threat to the unity of our people.”
“A threat to your ambitions,” Aelfin corrected, quietly but clearly. His eyes had narrowed to a hard slit.
Aldgisl only shrugged, as if Aelfin’s words were of no account whether they were true or not. The look of doubt that had briefly appeared on his face was now just as quickly gone. The calm assured smile had once more returned. Aelfin started to open his mouth to add to what he had said, but then he shut it again. Kristinge knew what he was thinking. Had Aelfin not told Kristinge many times? It was the might of the warrior that made the chieftain—and the might of the warrior and his war band that made the king. For all Aelfin’s pride and strength, there was no gainsaying Aldgisl, and no arguing with what he said next. “While I rule the largest war band, my ambitions are one with those of Friesland. You will give me the torc and return to the village. Tomorrow we will decide what your fate and that of your followers shall be.”
Kristinge nodded. He started to lift the torc once again in an offer. But before he could step forward, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Aelfin was not as ready as Kristinge to accept Aldgisl’s terms. He and his men made no move to budge. For a moment, the chieftains stared at one another. Yet at Aldgisl’s final words, a smile had returned to Réadban’s face: a sly grin that frightened Kristinge. “The largest war band,” Réadban mumbled softly, repeating Aldgisl’s words as if reminding himself of something. He looked once more at the torc in Kristinge’s grip, then at Aelfin. When he spoke again, his voice was loud and clear. “Though your village is surrounded by a war band six times as big, you do not cease to threaten us and hurl insults upon us. But I am not one who does not know mercy. After all, it has been shown even to me. Did not Finn spare my life after I swore allegiance upon his blade and acknowledged my wrongdoing?”
What has Finn to do with this? Kristinge wondered, but he only mumbled aloud, “Finn?”
Réadban continued. “If you turn Kristinge and the torc over to me and swear your fealty upon my sword, then I will let you live and leave your village unharmed. For the good of Friesland, this offer I will give once and only once to all who have bowed before Kristinge. If you do not accept, then your lives are forfeit.”
Kristinge understood at once that it was his own life being bargained for. Nevertheless, he breathed a sigh of relief. He did not want to see Aelfin or Eomaer die on his behalf: to see all of Ezinge ravaged in his name. If his sacrifice could save their lives, he would pay that price. He had made up his mind some time earlier. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Then he started forward. Again Aelfin’s hand came down on Kristinge’s shoulder like a vice. “Do you think we are so easily frightened that I would give up one I have named as my son so that you could put him to death?”
Kristinge looked at Aelfin in surprise. You would still protect me as a son? Even now?
“I will not suffer that his life be taken from him,” Aldgisl said, stepping back into the conversation. “Only that he not be free to stir rebellion among Friesland. He will be kept safely in my custody.”
“Being a prisoner is one with death,” Aelfin said fiercely. “You will not take him.”
“Think twice,” Aldgisl replied sternly. He had no reason to veil his threats now. “It is your own life that you speak of now.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps yours also. Many lives will be spent if you seek to take Ezinge from us. Think not that we stand alone.”
Réadban had not stopped grinning. “Do you speak of Wigmaer the weak? He will not come to
your aid.”
At the mention of this name, they once again had Eomaer’s attention. “Why does the name of my cousin come from your lips?”
“Do you think we know so little of your plans?” Réadban went on, ignoring Eomaer. “Do you think that we would come here without knowing against whom we stood? We know those who have cast their ill-chosen swords with Finn’s whelp. Wigmaer will not be coming to your aid.”
“If you have taken Wigmaer’s life, I will follow you to the ends of the earth and give your bowels to the wild boar,” Eomaer replied, his eyes blazing with the red of the torch light. “Whatever injury you have given him, I will take from you threefold.”
“No harm has come to Wigmaer,” Aldgisl said. “We have simply left a token of our army behind in Wieuwerd to see that we were not followed.” Then he turned back to Aelfin. “And so you see that before the battle has even begun, it has turned against you. You are a worthy warrior and chieftain, Aelfin. I have fought at your side more than once in the past, and would do so again. If you give Kristinge to me now, you will fight with me again, against the Franks. Even Domburg may be restored to you. But if you stand against me, then not the smallest hut will be left standing in Ezinge.” Then he turned back to Eomaer. “And you, bold chieftain. I have heard that you have claimed the weregild against me for the death of your father. Know that I did not fight against him that day, nor did any of my kin. We took no part in his death. I owe you no debt. Know also that I have heard of your prowess on horseback, and though you have sought my life, my offer extends to you as well. I would rather have you beside me than against me. And you will see that I am not a poor treasure-giver.”
The Rood and the Torc Page 42