Nicola Griffith - Hild

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 didn’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.”