Nicola Griffith - Hild

On the slow journey from Yeavering to Elmet, during the day, riding one on either side, Cian and Hild talked to Edwin of revenues and tithes, of plans and obligations; of how Edwin would bring Wuscfrea to learn the land and how often seer and ealdorman would visit the court. At night they separated, Cian to the fireside among his gesiths, Hild to her wagon, with her mother and Begu and Gwladus.

Her mother spoke to her alone just once. “This keeps you safe, both of you. It keeps us all safe. We think it’s for the best.”

We. Æthelburh and her mother, protecting their children.

As they rode south the weather softened to full spring. James the Deacon joined them outside York with his choristers. At Caer Loid, the night before the wedding, he heard her confession.

“There can never be too much love in the world,” he said. “You do it to save two lives. More than two. God blesses you. God blesses your land. Pray, every day, and find peace.” Then he smiled and looked around the small, plain church. “Also, give the place a bit of gilding. A beautiful house makes God happy.”

The small church was packed: Paulinus and Stephanus officiated, embroidered robes swinging as stiff as dragonfly wings through the incense smoke, jewels winking in the bright candlelight—white wax candles, lots of them. Lots of wax from lots of bees; her bees; her church; her people. James and his two choristers sang, though the wooden church packed with people was not the best sound board he could have chosen. The Latin flowed over her like smoke.

The front was packed with those who would leave soon: Edwin and Æthelburh, Wuscfrea and Eanflæd, Wilnoð and Bassus, Breguswith and Luftmaer. She would never live with them again. She would never follow the court to Bebbanburg and Yeavering, Derventio and Goodmanham, Sancton and Brough and York. She would only visit. At the end of the second bench, Begu and Uinniau. Strange, to think she was marrying before Begu.

The back rows were dense with her people: Oeric and Hild’s gesiths—a formal gift now, from the king. Pyr and Saxfryth. And behind them Morud and Gwladus, Lweriadd and Sintiadd, Rhin and a knot of Menewood folk.

Onnen wasn’t there. There had been no time. But perhaps they could visit the bay after the harvest. She shied away from that, the world where she was married. Not yet. Not just yet. She gripped her seax for courage. Now she knew how Hereswith had felt. She wished Hereswith were there. But there were scores of people. Elmetsætne. Her people. Faces she didn’t know, not yet. But she would. She would know them all.

She looked left and right. She couldn’t see as much as she’d like; the unfamiliar veil got in the way. No doubt she’d learn how to manage that, how to use it to her advantage, as her mother did.

Paulinus droned on. James sang some more.

And then Paulinus was giving them the blessing, “… Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Blessed by God. You can’t have him. She had to. God blesses you.

The church bulged with the people’s Amen . Cian was beaming. Beaming at Paulinus, the king, the people. Her.

This was the sum of all his dreams. Greater than his dreams. This was honour, respect, riches. Belonging. Ealdorman was not so different from king, and he was to be ealdorman in his very own Elmet wood, ealdorman for a strong king. For a while.

She took his hand.

Beef and mutton, salmon and eel. Good bread and mead, an astonishing quantity of mead.

Gwladus filled her cup often. Cian filled her cup. She filled Cian’s. They drank a lot and didn’t talk much. The space between them slowly filled with awareness, like a honeycomb, thick, dense, holding them in their place.

No one noticed. Wedding feasts were for the guests, not the newlyweds.

Night was for the newlyweds.

Hild sat on the borrowed blanket on the borrowed bed in the bower, wearing nothing but her thinnest, finest undershift, while Gwladus hung her overdress and veil in the nook and pondered where to hang the belt and seax.

“Here, over the corner post,” Hild said.

Gwladus looked at the slaughter seax, then at Hild. “It’s a wedding night, lady, not a war.”

“I’m used to it. He’s used to it. It’s just a knife.”

Gwladus sighed, hung the belt over the post, and carried the bucket of soapy water through the curtain. When she came back she brought a tiny bottle and a gold comb from Hild’s box. She dabbed a drop of jessamine on her little finger, ran it over the comb’s teeth, and combed Hild’s hair. Hild closed her eyes, enjoying the pressure of the hand on her crown, the tug of the comb, the firm strokes.

“There.” Gwladus tipped Hild’s chin up, examined her critically, tucked a fall of hair behind Hild’s left ear. Nodded. She put the comb and bottle away, then spent a while fussing with the placement of the taper, trying the table, then the niche, back to the table, the windowsill. Hild couldn’t see what difference it made.

Eventually Gwladus settled on the table by the corner.

Hild picked at the blanket. Gwladus cleared her throat. “So. I beat the mattress. The sheets are clean and warmed. That is, they were warm, and I’ve no doubt you’ll warm them up again soon enough. And I found some dried lavender for your pillows. There’s water in this pitcher, beer in this, and cheese here under the cover.”

“Gwladus…”

Gwladus ignored her. “I won’t be outside the curtain, not tonight, but I’ll be in Begu’s room next door. If you need me. Not that you’ll need me.”

“Gwladus…” She heard voices outside.

Gwladus stood before her, close enough for Hild to smell. Hild didn’t look up. If she did, she would pull Gwladus close and never let her go. “Enjoy him, lady. I can hear them outside now. I’ll send him in. Only him.”

The curtain swished. The door beyond opened. Raucous laughter. Hild reached for her belt, arranged the seax so its handle would be towards the bed, an easy draw.

“No,” Gwladus said clearly from the other room. “No, I mean it. You, and you. Not a foot past this door or the lady will turn you into a toad. A prickless toad. That’s right, you clutch at it while it’s still there.” More laughter. Muffled comments. “Now, my lord. This way. I’ll run these oafs off.”

The door closed. She stared at her knees. The curtain swished.

He sat on the bed next to her.

She stared at his knees. Blinked. Looked up at his face. “You’re wearing your cloak. Are you cold?” It came out as a challenge.

Even in the shadowed light, she saw his pupils tighten to pinpricks. “You’ve got your seax to hand. Are you frightened?”

Silence. Voices outside slowly faded. She tried again. “Really, are you cold? I am.”

He jumped up, flung out his left arm, and settled back down with his arm and cloak around her. Around her shoulder. They sat stiffly. The thin linen between her breasts trembled. Was she scared? This was Cian. She had knocked him down half a hundred times.

She touched her cheek to his. It prickled, a little. A muscle in his jaw jumped. He had knocked her down half a hundred times. But his jaw still jumped. She reached around his waist. Closed her eyes.

Silence. She breathed, in and out, in and out. He breathed, as fast as she did. She felt the muscles sliding over his ribs. He smelt of thyme and mead and that iron-and-salt tang that made her nostrils flare.

She knew what he looked like. Knew how his prick bobbed free, that his nipples looked like red currants. Knew the feel of his tongue. Knew him alive and alert and ready. But she didn’t know this man.

She put her other hand on his belly. Hit his buckle. She pulled back. “That buckle!” The knife buckle.