Nicola Griffith - Hild

Hild shook her head. “No more of that.”

Begu tilted her head. “Only Cian will do?”

“No!”

“So anyone will do?”

“I can’t. Not with Cian.”

“Well, no,” Begu said. “He’s not here.”

“Not ever. You don’t understand.”

Begu laughed, but it was the same old hurt laugh she’d laughed a year ago over Uinniau. “I can recognise foals from the same stallion, even if I never met the stallion.”

Hild stared at her.

“I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid. Though a lot of other people seem to be. But he’s my foster-brother and you’re my gemæcce. So, this once, we will speak of it.”

Hild said nothing.

“So. Cian’s father is your father. But if that was common knowledge, his life would be worth nothing next time the king gets nervous. Even Cian himself doesn’t know, and you don’t want him to because he’d give it away and get himself killed. Yes?”

Hild looked at nothing in particular for a while.

Begu sighed. “But I know, just from looking at him. Your mother knows, and Onnen, of course. And you. Who else?”

Eventually Hild said, “Fursey.”

“That priest? Well.” She tilted her head, thinking. “I think the queen wonders. And what the queen knows or suspects, so does Wilnoð.”

“Bassus?”

Begu waved her free hand dismissively. “He’s just her husband.”

“The Crow.”

“Ah. Yes. He’s not stupid either, more’s the pity.”

Hild felt sick.

Begu nodded. “Too many people. One day it’ll come out.”

So many things to keep hidden. It would be easier to go to war, to charge with spear and shield, to fight in the open.

“Well, we can no more control that than we can control the birds. We can only control what we can control.”

Control. Yes. Not of the thing itself but of the understanding of the thing. That’s what she did. Nudge. Guide. Control.

“… control yourself, at least. Me, I’ll just continue to pretend I am both blind and stupid, and brightly say the things other people find foolish, and so make the truth foolish.” She squeezed Hild’s hand and let go. “Tidy your hair now, go talk to Gwladus, and set this house in order. Do rethink those bed duties. You’d only be punishing yourself and you can’t be distracted. We’re at war. You’re the king’s seer, the king’s fist in all but name. Hold your head high and tell everyone it’s going to be all right.”

Silence.

“Hild, gemæcce, we all have men at war. So tell us it will be all right. Make us believe it. Please. Tell the queen. Tell your mother. Tell me.”

Uinniau. Luftmaer the scop. The king himself. Every one of those thousand men had women waiting for news. But news would be a while. She would have to bridge the gap. She would have to do it alone. She was the king’s seer. This was her path.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll feast.”

It was a great feast. The fat of a fecund land at midsummer. Fruit, meat, bread, rich butter and sweet cream, fresh mead, the scent of roasting rosemary and thyme. At Hild’s bidding, the scop sang only glad songs, songs of hearth and home, children and harvest.

Women wore their finest, children ran between benches, laughing, and if the dogs were too few and the din of conversation lacking the deep bass rumble of the war band, no one chose to notice.

The queen moved from bench to bench with the guest cup—not white mead but the gentler, sweeter yellow summer mead—offering it to traders and drovers, sailors and farmfolk who might never drink from such a thing again.

Hild had suggested to James that he give a blessing. He should wear bright robes, and speak only of grace and good fortune, speak simply and not at length; a hall was not a church, a feast not a Mass. James, more used to supervising fellow religious and attending to administrative detail, seemed thankful for the advice.

When he rose to give the blessing, the din quieted a little. His face seemed more ash than charcoal, his hair less bouncy than usual, and he tugged the collar of his robe from his neck; perhaps the thick embroidery itched. He lifted both hands, as Paulinus or Stephanus would but without the conviction.

Hild made a slight movement of her shoulders, a rolling, to draw his attention. When he looked at her, she lifted her cup and mouthed behind it Food! Wine! and nodded at the scop, who strummed a chord.

The din fell to a hum.

“Let us be thankful for our blessings!”

A few Ayes! and scattered thumps on the board set a muscle in his cheek twitching. Choirs didn’t do that when he exhorted them. Hild smiled at him reassuringly.

“He brings us this food. He gives us this wine.”

Then he seemed to lose the thread. Hild mouthed Grace, good fortune, God’s blessing .

“And let us ask for His grace and favour for our army, whose cause is just.”

Calls of agreement. Short , Hild mouthed. Simple .

“May His light shine upon them. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Amen!” Hild said loudly. Amen , said the queen and Breguswith. Amen , said the Gaulish stonemasons.

Amen , said the folk hesitantly. Then again, Amen! Amen!

James sat. Hild stood and spread both arms like an incantation.

“I had a dream!”

Silence settled into every corner of the hall. Every movement ceased. Every eye fixed on her.

“I had a dream. And in my dream the enemy gathered on a cold, wet heath. The men of Gwynedd tucked their helmets under their arms to listen to their treacherous king. But in my dream, they heard only the cawing of crows and ravens sitting wing to wing on a withered tree. Cadwallon Twister spoke but the men of Gwynedd heard nothing. For the crows rose like a black cloud and stooped on them. They flew and flapped about their bare heads, clutched at their skulls, and tugged at their hair. Black eyes, black beaks, black wings beating, beating. And when the enemy could look past the flurry of feathers, what did they see?”

Not a sound.

“The enemy saw, on the roof ridge of the hall, a raven with a red thread in its beak. And the enemy lost heart. For they knew, for we all know: They ride to disaster and ruin. The pulling of human hair means death. The perching on a withered tree means no food or drink. The red thread brings fire. I have seen it. Our enemies will starve in the saddle, they will fall before us, and behind them their homes will burn.”

She lifted a hand and the drummer began a soft, slow beat.

“I say to you: The very trees and stones and sods of the earth will be against the men of Gwynedd. Every stream will run foul or hide its face from them. Their horses will stumble blind with terror and fall over shadows. Their army will scatter like birds before a thrown stone. Their bones will break, their wounds rot, and their children cry out. And with every cry, courage will leave them.”

She looked at the women and men and children one by one. Up one bench. Down the next.

“But our men, oh, our fine men, every breath they draw will increase their courage. Every swing of the sword will multiply their strength. Every river will make itself known to them and its waters will be sweet.”

The drumbeat quickened.

“No Anglisc spear will separate from its shaft, no sword break in battle. No spear will miss its cast, no shield fail. I say to you: Our men will reap the enemy like corn. I say to you: Our men will drive Gwynedd into the sea. It is their wyrd. I have seen it. Our gesiths, with their shining mail and inlaid helmets, with their swords and arm rings, with their bright cloaks and painted shields, our menfolk mounted on horses with glittering headstalls and chased-leather saddles, our husbands and sons and brothers will come home to us.”