CHAPTER 7:
The Wics of Friesland
Though many days of travel had passed between Kristinge’s encounters in Paris and his arrival at Frotha’s hall, the memories of the events as well as images of Telchild, Balthild, Clovis and Aewin were still fresh in his mind as he lay on the bench trying to sleep. Long after the fire had burned down to a soft glow and the last of Frotha’s warriors had fallen asleep, Kristinge lay awake pondering what Telchild had told him. And thinking too, against his will, of Aewin. Not until the young monk’s restless mind had recounted almost his entire journey from Luxeuil to Paris and along the wics of Friesland to where he now lay did he finally fall asleep to the heavy breathing of the mead-laden warriors who lined the benches around him. But he did not sleep well. His rest was troubled by dreams of the sea.
It was the chieftain who woke Kristinge the next morning, prodding him in the ribs with his foot. Startled awake, Kristinge fell off his bench and landed on the floor with a painful jolt. He sat up quickly, rubbing his elbow and looking around. Most of the inhabitants of the hall were still sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s drink. But it was not warriors he was looking for. The one he hoped to see was gone. Of course he shouldn’t have expected to see her, he reminded himself. This was not her village, and the chieftain Frotha was not her father—though at times the evening before she had seemed so much at home in the hall he almost thought she belonged there. Even if she were the daughter of the chieftain of this hall, she would not have stayed here with the warriors. She had left while they were still drinking, and was probably asleep in one of the nearby dwellings with some of the women of the village. Someone close in kinship to the chieftain, who could offer a more luxurious bed. Or perhaps her ship had already slid off the beach and was even now rowing eastward up the coast. He cast his thoughts forward. Perhaps he would see her again in another hall the next night.
Then the voice belonging to the foot brought him back to the present, with only slightly less of a jolt than when the foot had brought him back from sleep a few seconds earlier. “I won’t ask for whom you look,” Frotha said. He was standing over Kristinge, looking down with a bemused smile. He had certainly seen the young monk looking around the hall. Could he have guessed for whom Kristinge was searching? For just a moment, Kristinge considered asking him about Aewin. But what pretense could he give for such a question? “Your merchants are awaiting you by the beach,” the chieftain continued. “They are eager to depart. If you hope to depart with them, I would suggest you make more haste than you are making.”
Kristinge jumped to his feet. He donned his warm cloak which he had used as a sleep covering, picked up his harp and belongings, and then took one last look around, this time hoping to spot a different face. When he saw no sign of Willimond, he felt the beginnings of panic.
The chieftain must have read it in his eye. “You need not fear. The ship has not departed.”
“Thank you,” Kristinge said as he hurried toward the door.
“Wait,” Frotha called. Kristinge stopped and turned. The chieftain watched him for a moment, then spoke. “I am in need of a bard, and you remind me of someone I knew long ago. You may stay and serve in my hall.”
Kristinge’s jaw dropped in surprise. This was an offer he had neither sought nor expected. Yet he was not unpleased. The chieftain would not have made such an offer had he not been impressed with the young bard’s performance the night before. Still, Kristinge knew he could not accept. Regardless of what Petrica and Walbert had told him about his gift, he was not sure he wanted to return to Friesland as a bard. And however he was to return, he had first another task to perform—a voyage to Danemark. Besides, he knew he had not yet acquired enough of a true bard’s repertoire to risk more than a night or two in one hall. He wondered how much of his previous night’s success had come from the inspiration of Aewin’s presence in the audience. He could not count on such again. “Your offer is gracious,” he replied after a moment. “Yet I cannot accept. Perhaps I may return in the spring, and if you are still willing I will sing again.”
“So be it,” Frotha said. “The traders tell me you are bound for Danemark. I cannot guess what brings you there, though a good bard can no doubt find service wherever he goes. I warn you, though. Be cautious to whom you sing. Had a certain young woman’s rash brother been present in the hall last night, he could not have missed the look in your eyes when you sang. If a young bard wishes to dream, I will not stop him. Perhaps it is necessary to the trade. But some chieftains are more jealous of their sisters and daughters.” He laughed. “Had I still a wife or daughter in my hall perhaps I would have been less pleased.”
Kristinge blushed and bowed quickly, then almost fled from the hall. Had he been so obvious? Yet regardless of Frotha’s words, he could not help but glance around the village one time hoping for a final glimpse of her. Perhaps… A thought crossed his mind. He had little expected to see Aewin again so soon after their distant encounter in Paris, but he had found her again at Frotha’s hall. Or rather she had found him. Was it too much to hope, he wondered again? That her ship might follow a similar course as his own along the coast? That he might yet see her again before his voyage took him beyond Friesland?
Whatever hopes he had, she was not to be seen that morning. And Kristinge could not afford to stand too long looking for her. A frosty wind was blowing from the north. Already his ears were cold. Above, the sky was dark with low gray clouds. It would be a rough day on the water—cold and damp. He was not looking forward to the voyage. Frotha’s proposition now sounded more appealing. Nevertheless, down he walked toward the beach and the waiting sailors. Most of the crew were already aboard the two trading ships when he arrived. Willimond was nestled in the center of the smaller ship, wrapped in his warm cloak, with eyes closed in prayer or meditation. Only the chief trader, a red-bearded Frisian named Wyndlaf, along with a fellow merchant and one of the steersmen, were still standing on the beach conversing with one of Frotha’s seafaring thanes about the water conditions. Wordlessly, Kristinge gripped the gunnels and climbed down the center plank to his own spot. Over the past fortnight he had grown quite familiar with the small ship. His life, he realized, rested as much on the strength of the thin oak planks beneath his feet as upon the skill of those who guided them. Motivated by that knowledge, and not lacking the time to do so, he had studied the craft’s construction on the first few days of his voyage. It had taken the young monk’s untrained eyes some time to see how it was all fitted together, but as he eventually realized the design was both ingenious and simple—a work of art of a master shipbuilder. On each side of a heavy keel board were five overlapping oak strakes fastened with long narrow shards of iron driven in rows through each overlapping pair. The rowlocks—sixteen of them—were similarly fastened with these iron nails. The ship’s ribbing, on the other hand, was not attached directly inside the strakes, but was lashed to wooden clamps fixed to the timbers. Kristinge himself could never have designed such a sturdy or complex vessel. Nor even having seen the design could he have replicated its construction. But several days of travel had proven its seaworthiness.
Still, his stomach was uneasy when a minute later they slid off the beach and started rowing out into deeper water. Though Kristinge had been born in Friesland a stone’s thrown from the sea, he had never been on a sea-going vessel until his departure from Paris. Travel by ship, after all, was for kings, warriors and merchants—and perhaps for the brave exploring Irish monks—but not for peasants and priests. He had heard enough stories of warships lost to storms, and had times without count in his childhood stood upon the hill above Hwitstanwic watching wild waves crash upon the shore. He knew the sea was a thing to be feared: a wild and unpredictable creature against which a few pieces of wood might account for naught. And yet he had also come to realize how much he missed the salt air of Friesland and the sandy wic of Hwitstan. It had thus been with a sense of fearful excitement that he had stepped aboard this same vessel
in Paris, and had set off with an unknown band of Frisian merchants bound for Danemark. He had felt then for the first time, as he said farewell to the queen and abbess and started down the Seine river toward the great North sea, that his journey had really begun.
A far cry from the slow jarring rattle of Gundomer’s wagons, he had at first found their smooth speed exhilarating as they sliced through the water behind the strokes of eight pairs of oarsmen. But his excitement had not lasted, and he had soon grown weary of the ship. As large as it was, nearly fifty feet in length and wider than the young monk was tall, there was little space left for the passenger. Between the rowers, the traders, and the goods, Kristinge found himself hunched in a small ball. Well before the end of the first day, a short afternoon of rowing, he had been ready to escape. But after a brief night in a small village, they had continued at first light—with the second day being twice as long as the first. On the middle of the third day, rounding a bend in the river, Kristinge had caught sight of the long-awaited North Sea. As it came into view, sparkling in the distance under the afternoon sun, he had momentarily forgotten the discomfort of his position. But even that thrill had faded a short time later when they moved down through the mouth of the river, past the tidal water, and out into the surf—when the first swell hit the boat and he felt the dismal sensation of having his stomach drop into his bowels one moment and rise into his throat the next. Any romantic ideals he had ever had of the seafaring life had disappeared almost at once, vanishing in the mist of the first icy spray that caught him in the face, and the first feeling of nausea that crept over him. Suddenly, Kristinge had not only had to deal with the cramped quarters, but with the wind, waves, and swell of the North Sea in October. When the chop and swell were at odds, which grew more usual as the month progressed, it was next to impossible to stay dry in the boat. Even dressed in his new woolen garments, which on the council of both the queen and abbess he and Willimond had donned in replacement of their monastic robes, he could not stay warm. He soon gave up trying, and resigned himself to shivering away the days.
Night had brought only a little relief when they pulled ashore to sleep on a lonely bank or to find shelter in a trading village. Evenings were barely long enough for Kristinge to stretch his legs, and never long enough for him to get completely dry. Willimond, who had long ago taken a sea voyage from Lindisfarne to Friesland, had tried to encourage him, reminding him how richly God had blessed them already. Kristinge had been forced to admit that his purse, if nothing else, had grown rather than shrunk. Indeed, at Clovis’ expense, it had bulged like a pregnant sow. Two heavy gold armbands and a rich necklace—any one of the three worth more than the sum of all the coins he had been given Luxeuil—now weighed him down. Not to mention that to his meager wardrobe had been added the beautiful wool trousers, tunics, and fur cloak given him by Queen Balthild, while in addition he had been provided with passage on a trading ship and had not had to purchase a single meal or night’s lodging in all his many days of travel. But he had been little in the mood for cheering.
It not been until the evening after the fourth day of travel that he had pulled out his harp to take his mind off his concerns. The sound of music and the feel of strings beneath his fingers had a soothing effect, especially when he was most distraught. Though his fingers had been cold and cramped from a long day in the boat, he had found solace and distraction in his playing. So, apparently had the traders and sailors who heard him. He had not been playing and singing more than a few minutes before they had gathered around him to listen. Soon they had built up his little fire with their own wood and were cheering him on. And though he had not performed since his appearance before Clovis four nights earlier, Kristinge was infected by their enthusiasm. He was in the right mood to entertain. Dredging from his memory the few seafaring songs he knew, from the most somber and lonely to the most adventurous, he stumbled from one song after another until late into the evening when the fires had burned low and his fingers were nearly frozen to his strings—and still Wyndlaf had to rescue him by sending his crew to sleep.
It was that night that had planted the seed necessary for Wyndlaf to present him to Frotha as a bard—the seed that resulted in his singing once again, after many years, for Aewin. And though Kristinge had not planned on returning to Friesland as a bard, he had not been altogether unhappy with the proposal. His singing had also provided one additional benefit. The following morning, to his pleasant surprise, both he and Willimond had found a little more room in the boat and a greater willingness on the part of the merchants to talk. Thus they had made their way along the Frankish coast and started up the western shore of Friesland. And so, not far beyond the Rhine, they had eventually come to the clan village where Frotha ruled. And Kristinge had once again sung for his acquaintance of long ago. And now he departed, wondering if he would ever see her again. Perhaps her ships would also be traveling up the coast, following him from mead hall to another. Until he sailed past her home and onward to Danemark.
It was not long, however, before he had other thoughts to occupy his mind. The merchants were working their way along the Frisian coast, from village to village, bay to bay, hoping to reach Danemark before it was too stormy. But winter was fast approaching. There had already been days between Paris and the shores of Friesland when they had been unable to travel due to rough weather. As they sailed onward from Frotha’s hall, these days became more frequent. The islands and wics of Friesland protected them from the worst of the North Sea, but the waters were still rough. To the inexperienced Kristinge, it felt as if they were traveling through constant storm. One evening after the weather had been particularly rough and cold, and they had been forced to stop early when the boat had nearly swamped, he overheard the merchants wondering whether they would make it to Danemark at all that year. If winter came too soon, they would go no further than their homes in Friesland. At these words, Kristinge’s heart froze as cold as his fingers. Having learned from Telchild that his mother had survived the battle, he was now more eager than ever to reach Danemark. And he was not ready to return to Friesland. Not yet.
That night he felt in no mood to play his harp for the sailors. He spent the rest of his waking time praying fervently that they would make it to Danemark before the winter set in. He did not feel close to God, and wondered if his prayer would be answered—or even heard.
The following morning, for the first time in many days, the sun was shining. Despite the lingering discomfort in his legs and back, Kristinge was eager to board and press on. So were the sailors. Before the sun had risen full above the eastern horizon, they had set off, and with favorable winds they were soon able to pull in the oars and raise sail. An hour later, they had rounded a long peninsula and turned eastward across the great bay. The seas were nearly flat. There was no chop and the swells rose no more than two feet. With the unseasonably calm waters, they made good headway. They had crossed the great bay by the end of the morning, and were approaching Wijnaldum early in the afternoon, half a day ahead of Wyndlaf’s prediction. For the first time in many days, Kristinge grew confident again that they might make Danemark. They would cover many more leagues on the famed swan road before resting for the night. To his dismay, however, he looked up to see Wyndlaf signaling the two steersmen to shore. A minute later, they were sliding ashore at Wijnaldumwic while several warriors stood watching from the beach.
“Welcome, Wyndlaf,” came the booming voice of a burly red-haired war-leader. “If had you passed us by this trip, my welcome next time might not have been as heart-felt. Come ashore. Show us your wares.” Kristinge saw from the man’s torc that he was a chieftain. Accepting the invitation, the trader ordered his men ashore and followed them out of the ship.
“We have made good time today,” Kristinge heard him saying in a quiet voice to his steersman. “Let us rest for the night. We may fetch a good price for our few Frankish-forged weapons here. This clan has no smith of its own.” When the other nodded his agreement, Kristinge’s hear
t sunk. No, he wanted to protest. They would be losing precious hours of travel. We can not afford such a delay. But his words would be futile. His legs felt unduly heavy as he stepped out of the ship.
“I hear your thoughts, friend,” came Willimond’s voice from behind. “I am no happier about this delay than you, but perhaps it is God’s will.”
“That we fail to reach Danemark?” Kristinge replied in frustration.
“I was thinking of something else. That there are some believers here. Or there were; I know not if they still remain. There were only three: a peasant farmer and his wife whom Ulestan once helped, and a metal smith. I came here on more than one occasion to preach to them. We are not far from Hwitstan, or from where Finnsburg once stood.”
“I was with you the last time,” Kristinge answered. The memory was coming back to him and for a moment he forgot his impatience.
“You remember this village?”
“Yes. It was the only time you ever allowed me to join you on your travels.”
“I did not travel much beyond Hwitstan and Ezinge,” Willimond replied defensively. “There was enough to do there. But I had a vision to one day bring the Gospel throughout all of Friesland—to see many churches grow here. Alas, it was a vision I was not to see fulfilled.”
The Rood and the Torc Page 12
