“The Psalms are all written together,” she said. “No beginning and no end, all in one long rush. Fursey says it’s to imitate the long breath of god.”
“Father lord Fursey is a godly man,” Bán said absently, in Irish, and then stopped to test the suppleness of the withy. “Not now,” he said to himself. “Not yet.” They walked on.
“But what I don’t understand,” she said, “is how, if it’s the breath of god, it’s a different breath to Fursey’s little book. Fursey says there is only one god, but surely that’s wrong.”
“It is not. There is God, only God, and God lives in everything. In the air and in the earth, in the rhyne and the willow, in you and in me and in Cú. How can there be two when God dwells in everything?”
Hild was glad she was speaking in Irish, because in Anglisc gods lived in particular places. In Anglisc it made no sense to say god was everywhere. Gods were called Thunor and Eorðe and Sigel, and they lived in their own places, in oak, or a deep well, or the sun. She wished Fursey were allowed to talk to her of his god. “If your god lives in your dog, why don’t you kneel before him?”
“Because God is in me, too.”
Hild pondered that as they walked. The sun was warming her back. “Once I met a British Christ bishop, Anaoc. He said prophecy was demon work. Is his Christ the same as your Irish god, and Fursey’s?”
“There is only one Christ.”
“Then if his god is in everything, too, where do the demons live?”
Bán looked at her helplessly, then said, “The willow in the yard will be dry now. Will I show you how to strip the bark?”
* * *
In the kitchen garth that had become the children’s place at the end of the afternoons once the kitchenfolk had taken the herbs they needed for cooking, Hild finally found a way to tell the story of dogs and gods and demons in Anglisc to Begu and Cian. She had no idea why it was so much harder for her to talk in Anglisc to anyone but Begu, it just was, though these last weeks she was learning how to let the words come. It helped if there was no weightiness behind them, no import; if they were only words with no life or death hanging in the balance.
While Cian hefted his exercise stones up and down, up and down, and Begu wove daises together, Hild finished her story, and Cian laughed. Hild was glad. He hadn’t laughed for a week.
“Gods and demons in dogs and worms!” He dropped his stones and smoothed his hair back from his forehead—it was now entirely the same colour as Hild’s and as long as any warrior’s. Hild saw Begu looking at it and wondered if she would think Cian’s hair felt nice, too. “So when I cast my line into the river and catch a fish,” he said, “and the fish eats the worm, will the worm gods have to fight with the fish gods?”
“And when we eat the fish,” Begu said, “will the gods inside us fight the gods inside the worm inside the fish?” Her plait was coming undone, again.
Hild said, “And will the demons then fight the other demons or band together against the gods like the Gododdin and the men of Rheged did against the Deivyr and Bryneich?”
And then of course having mentioned Cian’s favourite song, which she did deliberately, nothing would do but that they reenact the drinking of the wine and mead of Morei, then the fighting in the fosse with a bold and mighty arm, and the falling, always the falling in the fosse, the funeral fosse. But once they’d all fallen, they wiggled like worms in a pile, then like worms possessed by demons, then like people and dogs and demons and gods all fighting it out, and laughed until the dust on their cheeks turned to mud with their tears, and Begu’s hair was one big knot. And Hild, for a while, was not the bringer of light who predicted the death of a queen and the siege of a fortress, not the seer tasked with learning to read, but just a child.
6
FURSEY, HOSTAGE TO THE KING and tutor to the light of the world, was fond of good wine and long conversations at meat about the wrongs of the world and how to right them, and in the course of things the long conversations naturally made him more thirsty. So Mulstan would call for the lyre more often than was usual, for Fursey, being Irish and highborn—the son of the daughter of the king of Connaught and baptised by Saint Brendan himself—respected the makers of music in hall before even his thirst for Mulstan’s fine wine or the sound of his own voice. But tonight it was yet too early for the lyre.
“This truly is a royal wine,” Fursey said to Onnen, who in Mulstan’s hall, where she spoke only Anglisc and wore clothes like a lady, sat at the lord’s table, not in his kitchen.
Onnen could only agree. Iberian, she’d told Hild the day before, as she had ladled up a cupful from one of the great jars fresh from the hold of an East Anglisc merchant. As strong as good dirt and as rich as blood. Fit for an emperor. But Hild had tasted it and spat, and would only drink it watered and sweetened with honey.
“Something Isidore himself might relish,” Fursey said. “Though he would no doubt quote Jerome: Growing girls should avoid wine as poison lest, on account of the fervent heat of their time of life, they drink it and die.” He smiled to himself, as if remembering some sunlit girl and her fervent heat. “Yes. A man’s drink.” He smiled again—but differently, as flat-lipped as an adder—at Onnen. “An expensive drink. Though, given that his lordship Mulstan has charge of all the trade in these parts, it’s no doubt only proper that he take some of the wares for himself every now and again.”
“He takes no more than his due as king’s thegn.”
“Naturally. For everything hereabouts is his due, is it not? And it would be a terrible thing to suggest that one’s host takes more than is quite proper.”
He looked her up and down, lingering on the magnificent chain of Byzantine and Roman medals draped over her breast that Mulstan had given her only last week.
Onnen’s spine was very straight. Hild put down her copper cup and looked over at Cian. He had put down his cup, too, and his face was turning red. Hild had a sudden regret at giving him the use of her seax.
“What’s the matter?” Begu whispered, but Hild shook her head.
“Oh, yes,” mused Fursey, “he does like his treats and his wealh ways.”
Fursey looked over at the red-faced Cian and smiled another of those snake smiles, and Hild saw the priest was drunk—just enough to let his devils out to play, as he might put it. Onnen saw it, too, and called to Cian.
“Cian, tell my lord Mulstan how you acquired your fine shield. Better yet, fetch it for him. My lord would like to see it.” She looked at Mulstan, who looked up from his conversation with the East Anglisc merchant captain and said, “Yes, yes, bring your shield, boy.”
Fursey watched him go then said in a voice pitched for Onnen’s ears, “His hair is a most remarkable colour, is it not? And it is interesting that his mother is making up to the most powerful man on the south Deiran coast. A man once sworn to Æthelfrith the Ferocious and perhaps still to his sons. A man with gold, who could command many swords, should he call for them. And the king already weakened in his fight with the Dál nAriadne.” He laughed, like the slither of silk. “No one expected Fiachnae to run around your king and storm Bebbanburg, did they? Or, oh yes, someone did. Your young charge here. Strange, that. And now here is Mulstan and that boy with the interestingly coloured hair, thrown together at an opportune time.”
Onnen contemplated the eating knife balanced in her hand, four inches of rippled steel honed to a sliver, and then Fursey. “Priest, are you tired of life?”
Begu stared at her. She knew Onnen only as the woman her father liked and who was a stern weaving teacher. Hild, who had seen Onnen gut more living things than most warriors could begin to dream of, did not believe, quite, that she would cut the priest. She found Begu’s hand and squeezed reassuringly.
“Not at all. The little maid’s uncle, your king, hired me as tutor and I am teaching.” Hild snorted inwardly. Hired. It was one way to describe being hauled from the bloodied mud on the south bank of the Tine and put to double use by a canny king. “If she’s t
o guide kings she’ll need subtlety, and all the Anglisc know is blade and blood and boast.”
Hild said in Irish, “You have not met my mother.”
He threw back his head and laughed, showing teeth and tongue stained dark with wine.
Onnen wiped her blade on the edge cloth, sheathed it, and stood. She leaned across Fursey and took the wine jar. “Our gracious host has been overly generous with his wine. You are not yourself.”
He reached to grab it back.
“Must I explain to my lord that you are in drink?”
Fursey cursed and reached for a sword that was not there. Accusations of drunkenness to an Irish noble, no matter his priestly vows, were tantamount to accusations of faith-breaking, for the word or boast of a drunken man was not to be relied upon.
Onnen smiled and cradled the back of Hild’s head briefly. “Learn well, little prickle. And you, Begu, it won’t hurt you to pay attention, though you must talk to me or Guenmon after of what you think you’ve learnt, for I’d not trust this sotted priest as far as I could fling him. I’ll send more wine when the lyre comes down from the wall.”
* * *
The next day Hild and Cian and Begu climbed the headland together, Hild and Cian copying Begu’s natural habit of grasping whatever shrubs or rocks came to hand to ease the strain on thigh and calf. The furze—gorse, Hild reminded herself, gorse—was in full flower. Hild had the Psalter, now carefully wrapped in a soft old cloth, tucked safely into her sash, and used both hands, but Begu seemed perfectly at ease swinging the cowbell with one hand and using only the other to climb. Cian, as usual, wore sword and shield and the slaughter seax. His hair was dressed back with goose grease like that of Mulstan’s men. He looked the very picture of a warrior, though somewhat slight and beardless.
When they reached the top, the headland smelt of windblown grass and cows. The horizon was dusty with purple heather, and daisies starred the grass. There was no sign of Cædmon or cows.
“He’ll be along,” Begu said, “but perhaps not until middæg.”
“A fort!” Cian said, pointing at the broken Roman signal tower, and he ran towards it, drawing his wooden sword. It wasn’t the same sword Ceredig had given him, he’d outgrown that one long ago, and kept it in his kist. This was sized for a man, shaped oak with a square of painted stone Hild had found from a broken pavement in Caer Luel set into the carefully carved hilt, and bits of begged scrap metal hammered into the edges to give it heft. His scabbard was a real one, but old, discarded long ago by one of Mulstan’s men, though now freshly relined with sheepskin and its wood cunningly painted to look jewelled and chased. Hild and Begu were working on a tablet weave to replace the fraying baldric.
Begu and Hild ran, too.
Cian climbed the low east wall, jumped inside, and popped up again, eyes shining. “You shall attack and I’ll defend!” He unslung his shield.
“Aren’t you old for games?” Cædmon, standing, rubbing his eyes. He’d fallen asleep inside the tower, waiting. He studied the odd sword for a moment. “Old for toys, too.”
Cian, ready for battle, slammed his sword hilt on his shield. “This is no toy!” The painted stone fell out of the sword.
Cædmon folded his arms and was about to smile when Begu said, “It isn’t a toy. Truly. My father just last night declared it a shield fit for an ealdorman. Didn’t he, Hild?”
“He did. And it was given to him by a Bryneich lord in the presence of the king. I was there. And the knife he wears slit the arm of a man of the Dál nAriadne.” Though she had been the one wielding it. “Begu and I are working on a baldric fit for a prince. And look, we have brought back your book.”
“And bell.” Begu, holding out the bell, looked about. “Where are the cows?”
“Having to do with the hall’s freemartin. Da thinks Winty—”
“The one caught with thorns,” Begu said to Hild.
“He thinks Winty might be in season and he wants to be sure before he begs the prize bull. Besides, I’ve not mended the hedge.” He unfolded his arms, took the bell and then the book. After a moment Cian sheathed his sword and slung his shield onto his back, then stooped to search for the fallen stone.
Cædmon unwrapped the book. He opened it upside down. “What does it say?”
“God things. Prayers.”
“Like songs?”
“Yes,” Hild said, surprised. “Like songs.”
He held the Psalter out. “Tell them to me.”
Hild stared at the black letters. “They are in Latin.”
“Then speak them to me in Anglisc. Here.” He pointed with his thick finger. “Tell me that.”
Hild remembered some of the words and could puzzle out others. She mouthed the Latin phrases to herself carefully, then thought about it. It would be easier in British, but then Begu wouldn’t understand. “And I am needy and poor. God, hurry for me. You can help me and save me. Lord, don’t dawdle.”
“God sounds like Guenmon,” Begu said. “Or your mam, Cian. Don’t dawdle! Hurry up!”
“Or was that his lord, not his god talking?” Cian said, picking up his painted stone.
“Lord and god are the same in this book, Fursey says.”
“A lord would never say don’t dawdle,” Cædmon said. He looked at Begu. “Would your da say that?”
“Not in hall. Up here he might.”
“Then”—Cædmon squinched his face up, thinking—“then maybe he would say, ‘And I am needy and poor. God, hasten for me. You are my help and saviour. O Lord, do not delay.’” He pointed again. “Tell me this bit.”
Hild traced the words with her finger, muttered the Latin to herself, and tried again. “Praise Him, sun and moon. Praise Him, shiny stars. Praise the Lord, you kings of the land and everybody, princes and judges, here.”
Everyone looked at Cædmon. He shook his head. “No.” No? He had no idea how difficult it was to read. To read in another tongue. To turn that tongue into Anglisc. She would never again make a difficult thing look easy. For a moment she missed being the bringer of light and having people truckle to her.
“No,” he said again. “Like this. ‘Praise Him, sun and moon. Praise Him, all you stars of light. Praise Him, you kings of the earth and all you peoples, you princes and all you judges of the earth.’ You have to say it like a hoofbeat. Like a song.”
Cian and Begu nodded. After a moment, so did Hild.
“Keep the book a while. Come up here at times and tell it to me. Once I get the hedge mended.”
* * *
The next morning Hild sought out Fursey and found him in hall eating oyster stew, drinking ale, and complaining to the young servingman about the size of the fire: “… so small it wouldn’t keep a rat’s arse warm, never mind a man about God’s work, and why are you gawping like that, you dim-witted spawn of a toadstool? More wood for the fire. More wood!”
He was talking in Irish of course, something he did on those days when he was still suffering from the night before but not yet drunk again.
“Father Fursey,” Hild said, also in Irish, for Anglisc at these times made him snappish. “Give you a good day. Might you be willing to talk to me, at all, about the worth of this priest’s breviarium psalterii?”
Fursey snorted, slurped up another mouthful of oysters, chewed and swallowed, and scratched his birthmark. “It’s worthless. A poor hand, and the text is corrupt, taken from an old, outmoded, and discredited translation of the Septuagint. And the old priest or, rather, someone who had gone before him made a personal and, might I add, eccentric selection of Psalms. Singularly without use or ornament.” Another slurp, more chewing, a noisy swallow followed by shouting for more ale, which the servant only understood when Fursey shook the empty leather cup in his face. “However, as a palimpsest—though it would take work and some pumice, which no doubt my lord Mulstan could acquire, him being so good at that and, ah”—he rubbed his hand over his chin—“pumice would be so welcome. Now what was I…? Worth. Yes. Well, as a palimpsest
it could be worth as much as … Ach, give it to me.” He flipped through the pages, counting, measuring with his hands against the scarred board of the table. “Hmmn. Perhaps the skin of two lambs or one particularly small calf.”
“Thank you. Do you happen to know where Mulstan might be found?”
“I do so happen to know. And as soon as the misbegotten mushroom brings me more ale, I’ll be finding him, for it seems himself has need of my skills.”
“Perhaps you might be willing to name to me the place, so that I might find him and ask him a pressing question without taking up your most valuable time, and may god smile upon the rest of your day.”
“Does God ever smile, except perhaps at His more extravagant jokes?” Here he smiled mockingly, though whether at himself or the servingman refilling his ale cup, Hild could not tell. He took a long, long drink and shrugged. “Howsomever, Mulstan might be found at the dock house by and by, for there I’m to meet him and make record of some exotic shipment, but where he’ll be til then, the hairy creature, I couldn’t begin to say.”
* * *
Guenmon could say, and she did, and a lot more besides. She told Hild that if she hurried Mulstan might be found at the smithy, probably with Onnen. “And if you see that great boy skulking about tell him I have an errand or two. Hanging about his mam’s skirts like an unweaned calf…”
Fursey and Guenmon were both right, Hild saw, as she walked downstream beside the beck to the roaring furnace and stinking smoke of the smithy. Mulstan stood with Onnen just outside, out of range of the heat and sparks, watching whatever was happening within, while the smith’s hammer rang in that steady bang-bing-bing rhythm of a man intent upon his work. Mulstan was indeed hairy: His bushy hair, held back by a great gold ring inset with tortoiseshell, glinted red-gold in the sun, and his arms were furred like a fox. And Cian was, in fact, hanging about, standing a few dozen strides from Mulstan and his mother, out of earshot, pretending to be absorbed in a twig he was stripping, the twig he threw into the beck when he saw her.
Hild: A Novel Page 12
