Nicola Griffith - Hild

She looked at Æthelburh.

“Edwin Yffing, overking of the Anglisc, will return dark with sun and unscratched by anything but brambles.”

She looked at Begu.

“Uinniau, prince of Rheged, will return wreathed in glory and glittering with spoil.”

She looked at her mother.

“Luftmaer the scop will come home. He will come soon, with news that will make our faces split with smiling and our throats ache with song.”

The housefolk began to move through the hall filling cups.

“So let us drink to our men, who will sit by us once again. To our men, who will be here for the corn harvest. To our men, oh, our shining men, who will sing with us at our next feast.” She lifted the great guest cup. It still took two hands. “To our men!”

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.