Nicola Griffith - Hild

They walked on. Fursey was still silent, still smiling when they reached the sunken weaving hut where today she would work with her mother. Her mother, who hadn’t said a word when Hild came back without Onnen.

Hild stopped by the southwest corner of the low roof where the door, like a trapdoor, lay open. “You can’t come inside,” she said.

“Well, no. But you’ll both be coming out soon enough.”

“Not today. We’ve a deal of work.”

“Oh, yes. Today. Today most definitely.”

She paused with her palm on the first rung of the short elm ladder leading down to the weaving floor, but Fursey just smiled at her. She shook her head, not wanting to play his game today, swung herself onto the ladder, and climbed down.

The hut was small and square, with a beaten-earth floor and brightly coloured loom weights stacked by size on narrow shelves. The loom was in the northeast corner, flooded with light. Beside it stood her mother.

Breguswith blazed with triumph. She shivered with it. Her eyes flashed brighter than the blue-glazed loom weights, brighter than the lapis on her veil band, brighter than the hilt inlay on her edgeless Kentish sword, thrust through her belt, which she used as a weft beater.

“Rædwald is dead!”

Hild stood very still. Rædwald. Overking of all the Angles, who had helped Edwin kill Æthelfrith and drive the Idings into exile. Sulky Eorpwald, Rædwald’s second son, who had been too young to fight at Edwin’s side. Eorpwald, who would step into the kingship of the East Angles—but Edwin would inherit the mantle of overking, the most powerful Angle in Britain.

Hild saw immediately what this meant for them. “Hereswith,” she said. Hereswith. So soon.

Her mother nodded. Hereswith was now an overking’s peaceweaver. This was Breguswith’s chance to build for the family power and kinship beyond Northumbria, beyond her own kin in Kent. They would need it. All kings fell, even overkings; it was their nature. And Edwin had many enemies, not least of them his own kin—though no one spoke of Tinamutha and Bebbanburg, and cousin Osric’s betrayal, not even Hild and her mother: Never say the dangerous thing aloud. Hereswith’s marriage would give them a second power holding. But it meant she would leave.

“Eorpwald is married, of course, but he’s weak. And when he topples, his sons will be too young for kingship. The power then would fall sideways to the sons of Eni.”

Eni, Rædwald’s dead brother. “Æthelric Short Leg,” Hild said. The eldest, already subking and lord of the North Folk, who called him Ecgric. Hereswith and Æthelric. “How does she feel about marrying a man with the same name as granfa?” How does she feel about leaving her family? But it was always her wyrd.

“We’ll find out. After the king has the news.”

Mother and daughter considered each other. Different hair, different eyes, different hearts. Both tall enough that people whispered of etin blood. Both with bright, pattern-making minds.

Hild said, “When will she leave us? Or…” Hereswith needs training. Hereswith was the eldest, the best path to power. “Will you… will you go with her?”

“Oh, we’ll all go. If I know Edwin. A royal progress. The king, the æthelings. All the royal family. Even Osric.”

Especially Osric. You didn’t leave powerful kin of questionable loyalty at your back. But who would stay in East Anglia?

Breguswith slid her beater up and down in her belt, thinking. “The overking must show his wealth, the loyalty of his men. Every belt buckle must be gold, every chape silver, every veil like gossamer. Shoes will be new, rings heavy, horses proud. We will shine. We must move swiftly. I’ve sent messages, and I have people whispering in Eorpwald king’s ear and those of his ealdormen, but Eorpwald’s mind is as shallow as a milk tray, easily swayed by gold closer to hand. Others will be bidding for Æthelric. Even though your sister is now the overking’s peaceweaver, we must show our strength and make our persuasions in person.”

Someone at the top of the ladder sneezed.

Breguswith smiled. “He may come, too.” She raised her voice slightly. “Only tell him he must find more subtlety in his messengers. I had word of this one’s coming long, aye long, before his arrival, and could have seen to it that his message never arrived.”

Hild said nothing. She knew Fursey, knew the sound of his sneeze; that one had been deliberate. Her head was full.

“We’ll finish setting up this pattern, but the weaving we’ll leave to others. We must bend our minds to our plans.”

But it was nearly middæg and the weaving hut was brimming with buttercup light when they tied off the last loom weight. Breguswith tested the tension of the warp. “We’ve been too long here. I don’t know what’s wrong with you today.”

Hild nodded. She hadn’t said a word for hours. Her mouth felt turned to stone. Hereswith. Hereswith and Begu and Cian and Onnen.

“You’ll talk to Coelgar on your own. Or take that clever priest of yours. He likes to dicker. I must see the king.”

Hild nodded again. She would be glad not to attend Edwin. She had her father’s hair, more so every day. When her uncle was thinking of power and dynasty it was best not to come to his attention. And she had a lot to think about.

Already middæg. She had no time to find the hornbeam over the river, her preferred thinking perch. She made for the kitchen garth. At this time of day, the herbs would already have been snipped and the rhubarb pulled, and in the shadow of the south wall, overhung by the orchard apples and plums, it would be cool and quiet.

But when she got there, she found a young wealh with thick eyebrows and pretty black hair spreading manure from a loosely woven brown willow basket. The garden stank.

“You,” she said, and the wealh dropped the basket and ran to where Hild stood by the gate. “You know Fursey the Christ priest?”

The wealh bobbed her head.

“Find him. Bring him.”

When the wealh had gone, Hild moved to the bed of lavender, for the smell, and sat on the grass. Bees bumbled from bloom to bloom. Such clumsy creatures, always bumping into things. She followed the progress of one from the lavender to the foxgloves, which her mother said was good for the faint of heart. Would Hereswith quail? Or would she blaze with triumph like their mother and walk away without a backward glance? The king would never let Hild go, not now. Not until she was dead or of no more use.

The furry bee crawled inside the flower bell, emerged a moment later covered in gold, like a triumphant queen. She didn’t want to think about queens. Its legs looked thicker, too. She stood and followed as it bumbled over to the pots of weld growing near the kitchen door. She knelt and waited for the bee to emerge.

Behind her, the gate creaked. Hild turned: the wealh, now looking pale. Hild realised she was kneeling in shit, and the wealh, wise in the ways of the world, knew she would most likely be blamed. But then the gate creaked again, and Hild dismissed the wealh from her thoughts.

Fursey walked carefully. She could smell the white mead from here.

He smiled at her expression. “It’s a big day: Edwin, overking. It’s important for a foreigner to drink the overking’s health and life with enthusiasm, to show loyalty.”

Hild just pointed at his cross, which hung twisted. While he fumbled with it, she went back to the lavender and sat. The bees were still bumbling about. Stupid bees. They were all stupid. Or maybe just her.

“You let my mother know what you’re about,” she said, in Irish, just in case. “On purpose. My mother knows this. And you two are deep in your game, and I am one of those bees, sent by the queen bee to buzz from hive to flower, not knowing what’s really going on.”