Nicola Griffith - Hild

She folded him in her arms, as she had Angeth, as though he were small enough to carry, and he shook, and she stroked his hair, over and over. His arms crept around her. He wept.

He wept for an hour. He wept as the elms shivered and the shadow changed and her back began to ache, but she didn’t let go.

AUTUMN IN ELMET. At Caer Loid and then Aberford, Edwin watched while the Elmetsætne bent the knee and brought their children to the lady seer and Prince Boldcloak for blessing. Then it was Christ Mass in York, the turning of winter to spring in Bebbanburg, and the wind-whipped grass of Yeavering while the chief men gathered and brought their tribute.

Æthelburh had not apologised for calling Hild hægtes; queens never did. Instead she gave her presents—oil of jessamine, blue silk the colour of periwinkles on a dark day, a beautiful string of pearls and moss agate that would buy three warhorses—and gifted Begu and Uinniau, and Breguswith and Luftmaer as well. Small things, mostly, combs and pretty eating knives. More precious, she included them in all she did: her weaving circle, her Masses, apportioning the yarn, and consulting on supplies. She discussed sending Breguswith to Arbeia to sort out the cloth trade flowing through the Tine valley. She had in mind a place called Redcrag, not far from Tinamutha. Perhaps Breguswith could find Osfrith a nice wife while she was at it. Some northern princess. If the Picts and Irish got restless, it would be good to have the Gododdin and Alt Clut bound to the Yffings.

Begu and Uinniau could not be promised in marriage until the Rheged situation was settled, but they behaved as though they were and lived as part of Hild’s household.

One afternoon Begu spooled the last of the yarn into her skein, twisted it neatly. “I wish Rhoedd would marry Rhianmelldt off to someone. Anyone. I don’t care. I want Uinny. I want him safe. When will that be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I want it settled before there’s another war. Just tell me there won’t be war for a while. Tell me Eadfrith is charming that horrible Penda.”

“I’m sure he’s doing all he can,” Hild said. She reached for another heap of yarn. War with Penda would come, one day. The Yffings would fall, one day. She would make sure it was not soon. But Mercia was strong and getting stronger, and Edwin, instead of spending time giving away gold and attracting gesiths, was letting the Crow fill his head with nonsense about God and divine kingship and true marriage.

“What?” Begu said, pausing mid-spool. “Is there going to be war?”

Hild shook her head. “It’s not that.” Edwin was planning something. She just didn’t know what.

Spring at Yeavering. They cantered into the wind at the top of Ad Gefrin: Hild on Cygnet, Eanflæd on a dun pony she called Nettle, and Cian on Acærn, cloak streaming behind him, with little Wuscfrea tucked in the crook of his right arm. He galloped with his head thrown back, laughing, and Wuscfrea crowed at the wind.

Eanflæd rode ferociously, fearlessly, as though she were twenty feet tall and her mount straddled the world. She hated Hild to get ahead. She wanted to be first. Today Hild indulged her.

In hall, the king watched them. Paulinus watched them. She thought perhaps the queen watched them, but more subtly. She took care to wear her gold cross prominently outside her dress, took care that her every public word supported her uncle. Care, always care. Meanwhile, she sent a message to Fursey: Get someone inside Mercia. Tell me who leads, Penda or Cadwallon. But Penda’s hall was not Christian. She sent a message to Rhin: Get someone inside Gwynedd. Get someone to Rheged. Get me information.

Cian had a woman in Yeavering, the sister of the goatherd he had taken up with before. He’d had one in Bebbanburg and, before that, York. She had smelt her on him as he’d laughed and swung Eanflæd around in the rain by the great hedge. She’d smiled, gone to Linnet’s, helped her wring the neck of three chickens, and told herself she was glad he was healing. That night, when she held out her wrist for Gwladus to unfasten the carnelians, Gwladus stroked her hand and stood, breasts forward, mouth parted, and Hild understood she was offering herself: a gift, a solace. Hild swallowed and didn’t move, didn’t touch.

She hadn’t touched anyone. Every day the chief men arrived in Yeavering with their proud young sons and daughters: soft skin, hard muscles, challenging eyes. Every day, Hild found a way to step to one side of her yearning. It was too dangerous. Every day, Paulinus and his priests watched her. Every day, the king watched her.

Sometimes she rode with some laughing girl or strong young man. She drank with them, she played tug-of-war, she sat hip to hip with them on spread cloaks to watch the mummers perform by roaring bonfires while cattle lowed, and she knew what it meant when sometimes one of them took that extra breath or held her eye for that extra heartbeat, but she turned them aside with a smile. And with Cian she always remembered to turn in time to hide that same look in her own eyes; grew practiced in dropping her shoulders when he leaned past her for beer and she smelt another woman on him; learnt to pretend she didn’t notice when he sometimes paused and looked at her, puzzled, then turned away.

She stepped to one side of her yearning but didn’t step outside herself, didn’t close down. She simply pruned those parts that might reach out, that could damage her. Like pollarding an oak. One day, she would no longer need to train her growth, one day she would be free to spread as she wanted. Then she would grow very like the others, very like: though, as with all pollards, with the marks there for those who knew to look. For now, she was the light of the world. She wanted to keep the Yffings in power for a while, keep herself—and Cian and Begu and her mother—safe until she could find another way. She sent a second, longer message to Rhin: Here is silver. Have your man sow discord between Rhoedd and Cadwallon. Discord would weaken the British, perhaps make the west look ripe for Penda to pluck instead of allying with them. War between the Mercians and the British would weaken them both and delay the clash of stags.

In the south, plague spread. In East Anglia, Bishop Felix began a great abbey for Sigebert. In the west, Cadwallon quarrelled with Rheged and Alt Clut. Hild smiled.

Eadfrith sent a messenger with news of gifts sent to York from Penda.

“What gifts?” Hild asked.

“Gold,” the messenger said. “Eadfrith weighed it at a stone, exactly.”

“What kind of gold?” Why would he send tribute? It didn’t make sense.

“Hackgold.”

“Describe it.”

“Pommels,” he said. “Strap ends. Hilts.”

Cian was coming alert now. “War gear!”

Hild nodded, said to the king, “These aren’t gifts. They’re taunts. Probably stripped from the gesiths he killed in Gwynedd.” Penda was feeling stronger.

Edwin flushed and something moved behind his eyes. Some decision.

The high wooden sides of Edwin’s Romish talking stage sheltered the thegns from the wind. The chief men assembled on the benches were glad to fling off their cloaks and soak up the sun.

The Yffing totem, recarved with a cross and repainted in crimson, blue, and green, with the boar in bronze and gold, gleamed. Paulinus stood before it, on the platform, the other king’s counsellors, including Hild and Cian, ranged behind him. Hild was the only woman. The queen sat with her women, including Begu and Breguswith, on the side benches.

Paulinus spoke of the great church rising in York, the church in Craven, the Christian king of the East Angles and their king-to-be, the king’s great-nephew.