Nicola Griffith - Hild

Even if she had something good to offer, he wasn’t in the mood to hear it. What he wanted was to shout and stab. After a moment she said, “Coifi was no better. But he at least isn’t here.”

“Ha. Tell me something I don’t know. I wish Osric joy of him. And speaking of our cousin, is the Gododdin folly his doing? It was once his job to keep them quiet.”

“Once,” Hild said.

“Maybe he’s meddling, sending men to stir them up.”

She said nothing. Her uncle saw plots under every bench but it didn’t make him wrong. Besides, Osric was a fool. Those who bet on the behaviour of fools lost.

Edwin’s eyes glittered. “He could be plotting with any of them: Cadwallon, Penda, Dál Riata, Gododdin, Rheged. Any of them. All of them.”

“We need a spy in his hall, someone in his counsel.”

“I’ve a better idea. I’ll take his son.”

Pointy-toothed Oswine. She turned that in her mind. War was coming, it didn’t take a seer to foresee that. They needed Craven’s iron ore, its willing men. “Cloak it as an honour. Send an honourable man to say…” She saw it, sudden and complete. “To tell Osric that Oswine is to be groomed for a great task. To win renown and position.”

“It better not cost me money.”

“Rheged,” Hild said. “Rhoedd needs to marry off Rhianmelldt. Why not to Oswine?”

“Are you quite mad?”

She saw the opening. She could twist the sword up and away. “Rheged can’t stand alone anymore. It must choose a protector. Let it be Northumbria. Oswine isn’t Osric, he wasn’t raised to believe Deira was his. Rheged will seem a plum. Much better than Craven. Bring him here, smother him in gold and flattery, and he’ll be yours. So will Rheged.” The vision trembled before her, like a drop of rain on an outstretched fingertip, brilliant, beautiful, perfect.

“Oswine, king of Rheged?”

“Ealdorman of Rheged. Your man.” Couldn’t he see? Northumbria from sea to shining sea. “Think of the ports. Northumbria from coast to coast. Cadwallon will be cut off from the north Britons.”

She imagined the tufa, the boar banner, cracking in the wind, the weight of the red ring.

She took a breath, dropped her shoulders, smoothed the impatience from her voice.

“Bring Oswine here, Uncle. And Prince Uinniau. They can make friends under your eye, sword brothers, sworn to you. And Uinniau would be a hostage for Rhoedd’s good behaviour. They would both come, if you sent the right man.”

“Eadfrith Sweet Tongue is with his brother, bringing the Gododdin to heel.”

“Not Eadfrith. A man the wealh might trust.”

“And who might this totem of trust be?”

“Cian Boldcloak.”

A midsummer with no sun. Hild felt wrapped in cloud, suffocated, as though the air were wool. She sat with the king’s counsellors, listening but not speaking, tolling her beads, lingering on the yellow. Christ, the most important of all. He is everywhere. She was missing something. And the queen swelled every day.

She longed to clear her head, stride the moors above Mulstanton, lean into the wind on the cliff by the Bay of the Beacon. She envied Cian riding in Craven with his gesiths, one of many, free to laugh, to shout, to sing. To do, not be stared at and whispered over. Not waiting for the sun, not waiting for the queen to give birth.

A message came from Rhin: Bandits were preying on the people of Elmet. Saxfryth. Lweriadd. Her people. Her Elmet.

“Where’s the king?” she asked Gwladus.

“Hunched in his hall like a moulting hawk, I expect.” She already had out Hild’s favourite earrings, the moss agate and pearl, suitable for delivering bad news to a king. “Keep still or they’ll end up hanging off your nose.”

Hild moved her head, impatient. She wished she hadn’t sent Cian to Craven. She needed him for this.

“Keep still.”

She was tired of being still . She batted Gwladus’s hand away. No, she wouldn’t wait. Why should she? What could Cian do that she could not? “Put those away. Give me my staff instead.”

At the east doorway, Lintlaf saw her coming, folded his arms, and leaned against the doorpost.

The chief gesith glittered; he was growing rich. For most people, a nod to his gesiths to step aside cost something pretty, something precious. He was just another kind of bandit, one who had gripped Gwladus’s wrist hard enough to leave marks.

She met his gaze, then looked him up and down. He had too much weight on one leg. One swing at his knees would have him on the floor before he’d even unfolded his arms. Neither of his gesiths was paying attention: She was the king’s niece, and she didn’t even have a sword.

Cian was better than any of them, and she didn’t always lose against him. They wouldn’t get their blades free before her staff heel took them in the face. Yes. Long sweep to the knees. Snap of heel to one mouth, snap of tip to another. Scatter-patter of teeth. Sharp warmth of blood. Flipping the end of her stave up with her left hand, legs bent. Both hands pulling the length down in a whistling overhead arc. The splitting crack of oak on kneecap. Then kneeling, and the seax to Lintlaf’s balls. The smell of shit.

Should I make a prophecy about spilt yolk and no sons, Lintlaf? No gesith would gallop to war with a doom on his head.

She smiled a creamy smile.

Lintlaf stepped aside.

Edwin was brooding in the shadows at the end of his hall, alone but for a few housemen standing against the wall. A small fire burnt, but the air was damp. She relayed Rhin’s message.

He stared at her for a long moment after she’d finished. “Bandits? What do I care about a few bandits on the Whinmoor?”

“They’re becoming bold. Farmers fear for their lives and livestock.”

“Am I nursemaid to the world? I’m sick of men holding out their hands and bleating.” He slapped the board. His cup jumped. “A man must hold his own steading.”

“At least send men to Pyr at Caer Loid.”

He lifted the cup. A houseman glided over, filled it, and faded back against the wall. “I’m spread thinner than a miser’s butter. Who should I send? My sons are in the north. Coelfrith’s with the Crow in York. I’ve Idings in the north plotting with Scots at one end of the far wall and Picts at the other. Rheged and the Bryneich rumbling below that. In the west Cadwallon’s gathering an army. Nithing!” He slapped the board again. Wine slopped. “Baying at our arse from the middle of the isle, we’ve Penda and his Mercians. In the south and east—”

“Send me.”

Silence. “You?”

“Me, and twelve gesiths.”

“For bandits?” He picked up his cup, eyed her over the rim. “It would be… messy.”

“Needs must.”

“Well, well.” They faced each other, gazes locked. Yffing to Yffing. He sipped, swallowed, put his cup down with a decisive click . “Six gesiths.”

“Eight, and your token to show Pyr in Caer Loid.”

“My token.” He flexed his hand—open, closed—studying her, watching her watch his ring. He opened his fist. Smiled. Nodded once. “Six. And my token. Though you’d better not have to use it.” He pulled the great carved garnet off his pointing finger, and leaned forward. “You’ll ride straight for the Whinmoor. No meddling with Pyr’s work.”

She held out her hand. “Yes.” He dropped it in her palm. She hefted it. She slid it onto her thumb and made a fist.

“King’s fist.”

She felt rather than saw the ripple of attention run through the housemen standing along the wall. King’s fist.

“It suits you, Niece. But I’ll want it back.” He sat back, then swore and turned his arm to look at his elbow. His jacket was sodden with wine. “Someone clean up this mess!” Two housemen leapt to obey. “That goes for you, too, Niece. Clean it up.”