Hild: A Novel

by Nicola Griffith

To our men! The hall bulged with their roar. They drank.

  Hild smiled. Drank. Smiled again. Sat. The musicians played.

  To Cian, she said to herself.

  * * *

  After the feast, people smiled at Hild when they passed. Gwladus stopped rubbing at her neck, and Hild began to treat her as she always had. Better: She fed her and clothed her as before, only now she gave her more presents, and now Gwladus didn’t come to her room in the afternoon. It occurred to Hild that she would have to teach her to ride—only slaves were expected to run alongside the horses. She should probably teach Morud, as well. Morud, after all, had given his oath. Perhaps Gwladus would want to swear, too.

  That first morning after the feast, Hild and the queen and the queen’s women gathered in the little wooden chapel, now overshadowed by the half-built walls of the new church, to pray. They knelt silently. Hild tried to talk to the Christ, imagined casting her mind-voice up and up to fall into the sky. Breathe upon them. Give them strength. Give them courage. Silence. No one was listening. She thought instead of the pattern, of birds and foxes, the ripple of wind in the grass, the spreading ring of a salmon breaching in an Elmet pool …

  On the second morning, a dozen housefolk joined them, standing quietly in the back. On the third, the chapel was full, and Hild felt their eyes on the back of her neck. Soon, she had said. Soon, with news that will make our faces split with smiling and our throats ache with song.

  That night, lying naked next to Begu—it was too hot for a blanket—she half dreamt, half imagined a blue sky, bright with banners, and Cian looking at her, angry, rubbing his lip with a mailed fist. You’ll be sorry. I’ll die wrapped in glory. The scops will sing of me for a thousand years, and boys with sticks will scream my name as they attack each other in the wood: Boldcloak!

  Angry. Keeping him ignorant keeps him safe. But angry was better than dead. Better than lying with his back broken across a ruined wall, with another man’s ear between his teeth, mouth frozen in a snarl.

  All the next day, and the next, the worry never left her. Cian shitting his bowels out in a ditch. Cian with a gaping head wound, not knowing his name. Cian with his eyes pecked out, buried with thirty others in a grave so shallow the dogs would dig him up as soon as the king rode on … On and on, like a cat licking her mind.

  * * *

  The flax was hacked and stacked and she was dressing a sickle cut when Morud ran into the yard shouting that two messengers had arrived: the scop and a priest, Hrothmar. The king had swept Gwynedd into the sea!

  She stared at the split skin. Closed her eyes. God, if you can hear me, let his skin be whole.

  Then she opened her eyes and finished the dressing.

  * * *

  Hrothmar was happy to let Luftmaer get the glory and play scop to the queen in her chambers. He was exhausted and filthy, too tired to stand up and too sore to sit comfortably. He slumped on a stool in the deacon’s room, sipping beer, wishing the seer wasn’t there. She took up all the air, like a smouldering fire. He couldn’t breathe. And he didn’t like the way she kept gripping the hilt of her seax and the muscle that jumped in her neck. He’d spent enough time with gesiths in the last three weeks to guess at her mood. He’d heard the songs. He just hoped the deacon could control her.

  She loomed over him. “Tell me.”

  Just like the king in a bad mood. Oh, if only he’d never heard of the Christ. If only he’d fallen off his horse and died.

  “Lady,” said the deacon, “I think you’re frightening the good father.”

  She turned on the deacon. She actually bared her teeth at him, like a hound lifting its lip. The world turned grey around the edges.

  The deacon was saying something. “Don’t faint, Hrothmar. Breathe. Heaven preserve us. Lady, please sit down. Over there, as far away as possible. Please don’t make any sudden moves or he’ll fall off his stool. Now, Hrothmar. Take a deep breath. Look at me. Tell us what happened, in your own words. The lady will sit quietly until you’re finished.”

  Hrothmar doubted the lady would do any such thing.

  The deacon sighed and stepped between them, blocking his view of her. “I’ll ask questions, then. Answer them as you can.”

  He found that if he kept his eyes fixed on the deacon he could manage.

  Yes, he said, they’d swept through Gwynedd, taken Deganwy. The king had driven the enemy into the sea. Right into the waves. Then they’d besieged Cadwallon on Glannauc, Puffin Island. But when they’d taken the fort on Glannauc—hard fighting, horrible, such noise, so many men wailing and weeping and bleeding on both sides, why did men do such things? Yes, yes. Thank you, just one more sip …

  On Glannauc? Well, they’d found Cadwallon gone. Where, they weren’t sure. The king was very angry. He’d ordered Luftmaer and him, miserable sinner that he was, to report the news to York without delay. Why him, he didn’t know, perhaps … Why, yes, the bishop had given him a letter. Addressed to the deacon. A list of the dead.

  “Give me the letter,” the demon said in a voice as harsh as two boulders grinding together.

  He shivered. He took the letter from his pouch and, trembling, held it out in the general direction of the deacon. If he met the demon’s eyes he was lost.

  The door slammed open.

  * * *

  “What’s wrong with him?” Begu asked Hild while James fussed over the fainted priest. “He looks even whiter than usual. Did you hurt him? Well, never mind. I have a message! I have two. Luftmaer brought them. What’s that?”

  “A letter,” Hild said, and broke the seal.

  “Never mind that. I had a message from Cian.”

  The world sharpened. The weave on Begu’s dress stood out as clear as knife cuts. The priest on the floor suddenly stank of horse.

  “A message from Cian.” Not dead. “To you?”

  Begu nodded. “To ‘Begu, my foster-sister.’”

  “Give it to me, word for word.”

  “‘To Begu, my foster-sister, Mulstan’s daughter, from Cian Boldcloak. Greetings. I am well. Uinniau is well.’ That’s it.”

  Hild stared at her. I am well. Uinniau is well.

  “Uinniau sent a message, too. He said, well he said all sorts of things.” Begu blushed. “But mainly he said he has a slash on his forearm, nothing really, and that he’s bringing me a blue enamel bracelet. Just as you said! Decked with spoil! Oh, and he said Cian had a twisted knee. He’s limping but fine.”

  Limping.

  “So what’s in it?”

  Hild looked at the paper in her hand. “A list of the dead.” She unrolled it. Tiny words. Long and dense and black. Many dead. But not Cian. Not Cian. “Lintlaf is dead.” She sighed. She had liked the Lintlaf who made the ride to Tinamutha.

  The priest moaned. James helped him back onto his stool. While Hild read the list, Begu found Hrothmar’s beer cup and refilled it.

  Gwrast, too, was dead. Brave Bryneich.

  When Hild crossed the room the priest moved his head back, like a cat trying to avoid a hit in a fight. She pulled a ring off her finger and held it out. “Say a Mass for Gwrast. Say a Mass for every man. Say two Masses. One for those who are coming back, and one for those who are waiting for us beyond this life.”

  * * *

  Hild kicked the stool by the window so hard it hit the other wall and fell on its side. “Don’t even think about nagging me about giving away good rings,” she snarled at Gwladus. “Limping. Limping! Poor thing. A message for Begu, ‘his foster-sister.’ I hope his bowels turn to water.”

  Gwladus righted the stool, tipped the jewels in the box onto the bed, started sorting through them. “Ah, the moss agate. Well, it’ll be hard to replace that exact shade to match your earrings. But it could have been worse.”

  “I should never have freed you,” Hild said.

  “Oh, well,” Gwladus said. She pondered the jewellery. “I’ll have a word with the white priest. That ring’s worth more than a pair of Masses.”

  “Why di
dn’t he send me a message?” Hild said.

  “His pride’s hurt.” Gwladus poured the rings back in the box. “And now your pride’s hurt, I expect.”

  “I’m the king’s seer. A gesith can’t hurt my pride.”

  “No? Well, that’s good then. Because men can be cruel when their pride hurts. Like Lintlaf. He was a fine boy, but then he was a man.”

  Cian was a boy; now he was a man. “Are you sorry he’s dead?”

  “The boy died long ago. We all die. Here.” She held out a big ring of flawed jet. “Give this away next time.”

  Hild slid it onto her finger, felt its weight. It would leave a good bruise on Cian’s cheek when he came back.

  * * *

  But Cian didn’t come back. The king left Eadfrith at Deganwy to watch for Cadwallon and settle the countryside, and Cian stayed with him. Oswine came back, and Uinniau—bringing a bracelet fit for a princess for Begu, which she immediately slid onto her wrist, and a blue glass cup for Hild.

  “There was a plate, too,” he said, as he and Oswine ate with them in the sunny courtyard outside the women’s wing. “But it broke.”

  Begu swatted him on the back of the head. “Glass does that, fool.” He beamed at her. She poked him in the arm. Hild didn’t know why they didn’t just get down in the grass and go at it like dogs.

  She looked from one to the other. “No message from Cian?”

  Uinniau assumed the earnest face all men used when lying for their friends. “He said to say he was well. That he’d be back as soon as Gwynedd is settled.”

  We’ll speak the truth, you and I. Boy, then man.

  “That won’t be long, surely,” Begu said, stroking her bracelet, turning it this way and that in the sunlight. “Cadwallon’s run away and his army’s broken.”

  “It might be months,” Oswine said. “Clemen in Dyfneint has heard rumours of Penda preparing to march. Eadfrith has taken half the remaining war band south to Caer Uisc to stiffen his resolve. Cian doesn’t have as many men as he should. Gwynedd’s army might be broken, but they’re not dead.” He realised Uinniau and Begu were both giving him looks. “What? It’s true.”

  “Months,” Hild said. “And he volunteered for this?”

  “It’s a great honour.”

  “You smell of horse,” she said, and walked away.

  * * *

  The court moved to Derventio. Breguswith, who had been giving Hild speculative looks in York, was now busy once more with wool. The king, unhappy about Cadwallon still being alive somewhere, consoled himself with the thought of controlling all Gwynedd’s trade with Ireland and Less Britain. He spent his time with the queen and her trade master, or plotting with Paulinus about how to extend their reach into Rheged. He didn’t ask for Hild. Paulinus had been with him in Gwynedd; the campaign had gone well. Paulinus was now his sun and moon.

  Hild knew Edwin would change his mind soon enough; it was his nature. She would be ready. Meanwhile, she spent her days with Begu. Begu was the only person who didn’t make her angry. With Begu she didn’t have to think.

  They were making a new baldric for Uinniau, as they had long ago for Cian. This would be in a green-and-brown dart pattern. They were good at it now, after years of practice, and it was pleasant work: sitting in the sun, cooled by a light breeze, listening to the sound of housefolk not worried about war and fieldfolk pleased with the ripening corn, to birds singing and children who spent more time playing than chasing them off or pulling weeds. She could pretend it was enough to sit with a tablet weave between them, as women had for generations, and sometimes talk, sometimes fall into a half trance, mind floating free.

  Begu hummed the gemæcce song to keep the rhythm of the back-and-forth: One to hold and one to wind, one to talk and one to mind, one to beat and one to load, one to soothe and one to goad …

  A team, taking it in turns. Like her and Paulinus, though he didn’t know it.

  She followed the shuttle, back and forth, pondering her worth if Edwin didn’t change his mind. Her worth as not-seer, as the king’s niece. For Cadwallon or Penda, Eanflæd would be the great prize, but Eanflæd was too young. Lady Hild, the king’s niece and seer, had kin ties almost as good. And her advice was gold.

  But Edwin would rather die with his guts spread over three fields than see Cadwallon himself wed to an Yffing. Cadwallon’s children, perhaps. Children were much more biddable. Cadwallon had two daughters by his first wife. She couldn’t remember if they were marriageable but thought the eldest—Angharad? Antreth?—probably was. If Cadwallon had any wit, he’d be trying to marry the daughter to Penda.

  Edwin couldn’t allow an alliance between Gwynedd and Mercia. She couldn’t allow it.

  They are our enemies. We marry them.

  And there it was. So simple. Her and Penda.

  “Tighter,” Begu said. Hild blinked. Begu nodded at the sagging weave, then more closely at Hild. “You look … I don’t know. Are you too hot? Come on, we’ll go inside. Wilnoð says Arddun found someone who knows of a patch of strayberries. You like those. I want to talk to your mother, anyway, about that brown cloth she got in from Aberford yesterday. It has a lovely hand, truly fine—better than that tunic the king got from the pope, I bet. Though not as lustrous; you need those foreign goats for that. But the colour would suit Uinniau, don’t you think? Besides, if we’re to be married, there’s half a hundred things I need to be making.”

  Married. What would be, is. But there was no harm in being cautious and making sure of her fallbacks. And Cian’s. What had happened between them had been a mistake born of her fear for his safety. Just fear. She could mend that.

  “Ask Wilnoð to save some strayberries for me. I must speak to the king.”

  * * *

  The king put his chin on his fist. “It seems we’ve been here before, Niece. If you’re so in love with your bog, by all means go slog about in it.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  The Crow never smiled, but she felt the intensity of his regard drop a notch. He was reassured by the king’s indulgent tone. Rivals weren’t indulged; counsellors weren’t indulged. Nieces, mere maids and marriage counters, were indulged.

  “Just try not to spike anyone important.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “And if you should happen to hear or see anything interesting, I’d be happy for a message.”

  “Yes, Uncle. May I take some men along for the purpose?”

  The Crow’s gaze sharpened.

  “There are men leaving tomorrow for Caer Loid and Aberford, as you well know.”

  “Yes, Uncle. But Pyr, I’m sure, will have a use for every one of them.”

  “Oh, very well, pick your usual faithful hounds. But you’ll ride without my token.”

  The Crow’s attention eased.

  “Yes, Uncle.” She would have refused the token if offered. The point of the visit was to find out what kind of token she did or didn’t need.

  * * *

  She travelled with her household, a score of Edwin’s men to bolster the garrisons at Caer Loid and Aberford, and a wagon of goods those garrisons—and her own Menewood—couldn’t produce on their own. Some of the gesiths had recently healed wounds; she set an easy pace.

  When they hit the old army street heading into Elmet, she turned in her saddle and said to Oeric, “Sing something! Something jaunty!” And so they marched into the cool wood singing about the Curly-Haired Cat from Caer Daun, who involved herself in an improbable number of adventures with an impressive variety of men.

  When they left the shelter of the trees and crested the rise, she braced herself. But the new hall and tidy huts looked nothing like Ceredig’s palace, nothing like the long ago with Cian. The orchards might never have been, and the great gouge where the thorn had been torn from the earth was grassed over and partly hidden by a stout stockade. The old oak was still there, but next to a new church. The smoke seeping from the eaves was wood smoke, not peat, and a cow lowed where the geese had cackled. This
was a royal vill, thoroughly Anglisc.

  Arrayed before it, spear blades glittering in the sun, a row of armed men drawn up to greet her. She smiled. Clearly it didn’t matter to Pyr whether or not she bore a token.

  * * *

  Pyr and his new wife, the daughter of a local thegn, welcomed them with a feast, and every time Hild complimented him on a dish, he explained exactly where it came from and how he had made it possible. The swan? From the bywater north and east, which he knew about because of his careful survey last year. The salmon? Oh, yes, he’d not let the gesiths piss in the river east of the weir, so their breeding ground was clear. The medlar butter? Well, that was a lucky trade just this spring, though not really lucky because of course it was careful cultivation of the trade web the wealh—beg pardon, the Loides—had had since Ceredig was king. It had taken some patience to set up again, and careful negotiation …

  Careful was his favourite word, and as she studied him from beneath half-lowered lids she wondered if he used it so often to counter the wealh reputation for recklessness and improvidence. What would it be like to grow up with that burden? But it was Pyr’s wealhness that made it possible for him to be steward of such an important vill without the king worrying too much. Even if Edwin didn’t visit often and mark it as his own, the local thegns wouldn’t follow a wealh. At least not a common wealh.

  Pyr’s wife, Saxfryth, filled her cup anxiously. Hild reminded herself to guard her expression. They watched everything she did. She might not bear the token but they knew the songs, and she was still the king’s niece and seer. No doubt they wanted to be reeve and steward to whomever Edwin named ealdorman, and her word carried weight. She smiled at the woman and said, “I know another woman called Saxfryth who lives south and east of Aberford. She’s a fine weaver but could learn a thing or two from you when it comes to brewing. This is good mead.”

  The woman blushed.

  “Pyr, you and your wife are stewarding the king’s vill well. He’ll hear that from me.” Perhaps he blushed, too, but his skin was too sun-browned to tell.

  She spent three days by the Aire, talking to everyone at the vill, spilling fulsome praise: for the sturdy stockade, the fine carving in the hall, the black earth and healthy coleworts in the kitchen garth, the strong hum of bees in the skeps along the garth’s edge. She listened to the groom talk about pasture for horses and the unwillingness of the local thegns to part with the right feed. She discussed with Saxfryth the best way to recruit more women; the hall was still sadly lacking in fine linens. She suggested to Pyr’s garthman that the place really did need an orchard and that, yes, she knew from experience apples and pears both would grow well just east of the stockade.