Nicola Griffith - Hild

“What do we care?” one man called. Hunric.

Paulinus kept talking: “The gesiths who now flocked to Christ’s banner—”

“Aye, and got the shit kicked out of them in Gwynedd!”

“—the king’s heir, Wuscfrea, there, to the king’s right, born into a marriage blessed by God.”

“He’s still sucking his thumb!” shouted a man behind Hunric. Some of the thegns laughed, but more nodded. Hild had told her uncle it was madness to let Paulinus speak—did he not remember last time? But Edwin had smiled that smile with too many teeth and said didn’t she see the world was changing? Besides, the Crow was chief priest of the Yffings and entitled to speak.

Hunric stood. Paulinus’s cheeks mottled, but before he could start foaming, Edwin shouted cheerfully, “Bishop, let the thegn speak! Haven’t you learnt anything yet? Sit down. Let him have his say.”

Paulinus sat down just a little too quickly.

Hild glanced about her: Cian, as surprised as she was. Paulinus, angry, yes—a bishop of Rome to be interrupted by a barbarian!—but underneath that a glint of… satisfaction? Then Coelfrith, face showing nothing; not surprised. The queen, her face composed.

This was planned. Hild’s heart moved from a walk to a trot.

Hunric bent his head. Straightened. “He looks like a fine boy, King. Strong, lusty. But a boy. We have Idings in the north, Rheged and Gwynedd to the west, and Penda to the south. We need a strong man in Elmet. We need Cadwallon crushed. Will you call your grown sons to you?”

Hild’s gaze locked on Æthelburh. The queen was examining her cuff. She looked at Begu, who was frowning slightly, puzzled. At her mother, who wore her usual enigmatic expression.

Edwin didn’t even bother to stand. “I hear you, good Hunric. You are wise, as always. I will think on it. Come to the feast tonight and hear my word.”

The hall was packed. The mead flowed. Hild, wearing her best clothes and jewels, didn’t drink a drop. She couldn’t eat. She kept smiling, kept raising her cup, kept meat in her hand, and when no one was looking, tossed it to the dogs. No one noticed. Noise rose like the tide.

Hild’s ears rang. Something was coming.

Speeches. Toasts. Songs. It passed like a dream, or like the charge into battle. Unreal. And in the centre of it all, Edwin, her uncle, sitting, chin in one hand, smiling, eyes half-lidded, watching, in no hurry. Her mind whirred, but this time her lathe was blunt, and the world simply spun and made no sense. This time, all the people she loved were here, in a row, at the king’s board. This time her mother didn’t have her back to anyone. She was laughing with Cian.

This time there was no Osric, staring about him with beetled brow. This time it was just her, searching face after face, trying to understand.

Her mother caught her glance and smiled. That smile she had smiled when Hild was seven years old and preparing to carry the great gold welcome cup: Be brave, be strong.

Then she saw Coelfrith stand and leave the hall, nod to the scop on the way out. She caught Edwin’s gaze, and he smiled that smile with too many teeth. For her.

Gwladus leaned in, filled her cup unnecessarily, murmured, “Pinch your cheeks. You’ve gone white as milk.”

Hild wasn’t listening. She was watching Coelfrith come back into the hall with two men, one bearing a sack made not of hemp but of fine white linen, one a keg of polished oak, bound with copper.

She was vaguely aware of Gwladus on one side, Begu on the other, but she couldn’t pay attention. She was caught in what felt like a dream, one of those endless dreams that turned on itself, one she couldn’t escape. It unfurled with dreadful lack of surprise. It had all happened before.

Edwin stood.

The scop played a dramatic chord.

Edwin took his time catching the gaze of all his people: the beady black of the Crow, Uinniau’s open hazel, Breguswith’s bright, bright blue, Cian’s darker blue, and her own moss agate.

She felt the weight of gold around her neck, the wink of carnelians at her wrist, the seax at her waist, the fine dress with stiffly worked gold borders. A sacrificial cow.

Edwin poured the white mead with his own hand. Smiled at her again.

Then he turned to Cian, held out the cup.

Cian rose. Hild, still in a dream, half expected to hear the hiss of surf, see Mulstan grinning and holding out a sword. But it was Edwin, with a cup.

Cian took the cup.

“Cian Boldcloak. Hero of Gwynedd. Chief gesith. Queen’s godson. Son, so it is said, of Ceredig, king of Elmet.”

Cian’s hand began to shake.

“Hunric has said we need a strong man at our border. A loyal man. Hunric is wise. Cian Boldcloak, you have proved your oath beyond doubt. You saved my life. You saved the ætheling’s life. You love our son. You are brave in battle. You’re strong. You’re baptised. You are royal through your father. Your father whom I bested in fierce and honourable battle.” Men began to beat on the benches. Cian looked as though he were facing a strong wind. Edwin raised his hand. “Cian Boldcloak, will you and your lady wife take Elmet? Will you hold it as ealdorman until Wuscfrea comes of age?”

Cian blinked, said, “Lady wife?”

“My niece, the lady Hild.”

Every head in hall turned. Hild felt the weight of their regard. Like a gold crown. She regarded them back.

“Don’t faint,” her mother murmured, one hand under her elbow. Where had she come from? “Take a breath. Take another. Stand.” The ground was a long way down, and heaving. “Breathe. Straighten your back. Smile. Step forward. Step now, child.”

She walked with her mother at her elbow. Palms beating on tables followed her like surf.

Then she was standing with Cian before the small oak table carved and inlaid with Edwin’s emblem. The red-gold boar’s head flickered and swam in the torchlight as though it was running. Coelfrith’s men placed the sack and the keg on the table, opened the sack to spill a handful of hazelnuts over the oak. Mead and hazelnuts. Fruit of Elmet.

“Bishop,” Edwin said, and Paulinus stepped forward with the white cloth in his hand.

Edwin smiled at her, that spreading, lard-melt smile of a king roping his subject, harnessing her to his purpose. Paulinus smiled at her. Cian smiled at her and held out his left hand.

Cian, with his chestnut hair. Cian, with his bold cloak. Cian who didn’t know the truth. You can’t have him.

His hand was still out. Cian, the six-year-old with the stick, the fourteen-year-old with the boy’s sword, the gesith with the ringed sword.

You can’t have him. But now she must. The Yffings would fall. She’d seen the pattern. And now, at last, she also saw a way, when that time came, to keep them both safe. To keep her people safe.

She put her hand in his.

They put their hands on the table. Edwin and Æthelburh laid theirs on top, and the Crow draped the cloth over all.

Paulinus spoke for a long time—of loyalty, of a marriage to be witnessed before God in Elmet, of sacred oaths—but Hild hardly heard him. All she could see was the triumph on his face, the satisfied articulation of his lips: Sinner, his mouth said, doomed sinner and no more my rival. He knew the truth. Æthelburh knew. And Edwin. But now the lie, Cian, son of Ceredig king , would be sealed over the truth. Edwin thought the lie would make him safe without having to call in the sons Æthelburh wanted to keep far away. Without having to let his seer go.

But that was like a tiny piece of grit in a loaf of pure white bread. It was nothing. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the truth, rising like birdsong, like the scent of flowers opening to the sun, of her wyrd. Cian’s hand beneath hers. It always had been so. It had always been meant to be so. Fate goes ever as it must.