Nicola Griffith - Hild

Hild watched her mother from the corner of her eye. She seemed to have swelled and hardened. Dunod had declared for Edwin. But if Edwin accepted Ceredig’s death, Elmet now lay in Edwin’s gift. Twelfth night was the traditional time for such things.

The morning of twelfth night, over a breakfast of hot spiced bread and mulled cider, the queen gave all her women gifts. Hild’s was a tiny vial of jessamine oil.

At a formal feast, kin sat in strict order of precedence. Hild was seated to the right of the æthelings on the king’s right. Breguswith sat to her right rather than with Osric. When Hild took her place, her mother’s nostrils flared. “You’ve been busy while I was away. Good.” But then Edwin and Æthelburh entered. “We’ll speak of this later.”

The king and queen and Coelgar held hands over the great war horn of the Yffings, which sat on a beautiful square of calfskin, dyed blue, and a hank of white wool—symbols of the leather and wool goods of Lindum—and swore Lindsey to Coelgar as ealdorman.

The king and queen swore to be generous, just, and vengeful of his honour, as need occasioned. “By our breath we swear this, by our blood we swear this, by our lives we swear this.” And Coelgar swore to be loyal and true to his king, and to be just to his people in turn. “May every river hide its face from me, may my food fall to dust and my kin turn their backs if I be false.”

And then the roasted meat from the sacrifice was carried in, the ritual cup drunk, and the feast begun in earnest.

Osric, sitting to the king’s left with a face like curdling milk, shouted for more white mead. Breguswith saw Hild watching him. “His day will come, little prickle. Our day. Coelgar might have Lindsey but Elmet is the key. And soon Edwin will see that he must lean on kin.”

THE DERWENT coursed steely and dark under a scudding sky. Every now and again the sun broke through and shone on a daffodil, early bumblebee, or dangling catkin. Hild walked along the bank with Æthelburh, stepping around puddles so their just-healed chilblains did not get wet and flare again. Bassus and Lintlaf followed behind at a discreet distance.

The queen walked very slowly and, despite her best efforts, with a waddle. She was due to drop anytime. She was frowning.

The queen’s first embroidery had been greeted with such pleasure and confident covetous words from Æthelburh’s trade master that fourteen women were now working on three others. That morning Burgen had declared, louder than a honking goose, that the queen was obviously carrying a girl. She’d never seen such a clear case in her life—and they had to admit she’d had a long and full life. Well, hadn’t she? Indeed, several women murmured. Oh, be quiet you old fool, Æffe said, we’ve all had interesting lives, even the roof-brushing young barehead, there. No, Burgen said, loud enough to override her gemæcce, it was clear: The queen was carrying a girl. You’d only to look at her. Carrying high like that, and nipples pink as a maid’s. Why, probably even bareheaded and ungirdled Hild had nipples darker than that. And look at the width of the queen’s hips…

“It isn’t a girl,” Æthelburh said to Hild. “It isn’t.”

Hild didn’t see why she was worried about it. Her uncle would be pleased to have a peaceweaver—then he could keep Hild as seer. “He already has sons.”

“Not my sons,” Æthelburh said. “Let’s stop here.” She indicated a fallen poplar. Four months ago, Hild would have sat immediately, but she had learnt from watching the queen. So while Lintlaf stripped off his warrior jacket and hurried towards them she examined the fine-downed shoots and unfurling leaves on the poplar. It must have fallen in the recent storm.

Æthelburh smiled at Lintlaf as he laid his jacket on the knurled trunk then withdrew.

“He looks ready to die for you,” Hild said as she helped Æthelburh lower herself gently.

“Even though I lumber like a pregnant sow?”

She knew better than to agree. She sat next to the queen, picked at the heavy burr under her thigh. She wondered why poplars had so many.

“Hild. Does your mother speak to you of women’s things?”

“No.” In the distance a pair of shovelbill ducks rose in a tight flurry of feathers. She wondered what had disturbed them.

“Are you ready for your veil band? A blind man can see you’ll need it soon.”

Hild watched the ducks as they settled back to their eggs. Probably not otter. Perhaps nothing. Nesting ducks could be unpredictable.

“Yet you’re not wearing bindings. Does your mother even have a girdle prepared? A weft beater?”

Hild had no idea. She didn’t want to think about her mother.

“You have no sister here. Your mother, well, she’s busy. You need a gemæcce.”

Hild remembered working on Cian’s tablet weave with Begu, the shadows in Mulstan’s hall all falling one way in the stream of sunlight.

“Hild?”

Hild shook her head. The memory of Begu was hers.

“Child, you need a gemæcce. Would you like me to choose one?”

“No!”

“Ah. So you’ve made your choice. Is she so very unsuitable? No? My dear, I can’t help you if I don’t know. And unlike you’re reputed to be able to, I can’t read minds.”

“I can’t read minds.”

“No. But there are those who say you can.” She nodded down the path to where Lintlaf was scratching his back against an oak tree and Bassus was cleaning his fingernails with a knife. “I warned you that if you didn’t speak for yourself others would speak for you. And they are doing so. It’s dangerous. You must learn to listen to me. But for now, I’m telling you, you must have a veil band and girdle prepared and a gemæcce chosen soon. Very soon. If neither you nor Breguswith take care of it, I will. I’m your aunt.”

Cousin, Hild thought. But perhaps it might be a fine thing for the queen to be her aunt. “She wants me to marry Oswine and have Osthryth as gemæcce. My mother.”

The queen didn’t quite hide her surprise at this burst of confidence. “This doesn’t please you?”

“They look like pointy-faced ermine.”

Æthelburh laughed—then went white around the lips. She put her hands on her belly and, after a moment, said, “He’s impatient.” The pinched look eased. “Help me up.”

Hild hauled the queen to her feet. Lintlaf hurried to retrieve his jacket while Bassus remained to guard the path. As they passed Bassus, the queen went white again and leaned for a moment against the oak tree.

“He wants to come into the world very soon.” She panted. “So much wants to happen soon. Too soon. Think on what I’ve said.” She pushed back against the tree, straightened, and took Hild’s arm. “Look at all these oak apples. Remind me of it when we get back. Stephanus will be grateful for them, for his ink.”

When they got back, Hild forgot about oak apples. Fursey stood by the gate, grinning. But it wasn’t Fursey Hild saw, it was the two who stood beside him: Cian and Begu.

Hild stopped so abruptly that the queen, still leaning on her arm, slewed to one side.

Begu wore a veil band. A veil band and girdle. She was a woman grown. And Cian stood like a young gesith, a thegn’s foster-son: tall, muscled, a hint of moustaches, cloak thrown back from his shoulders, hair greased, sword hilt tall over his left shoulder.

Bassus thought so, too. He stepped in front of his queen and put a hand on his sword. Cian crouched.

“No!” Hild said. “They’re friends.” And, heedless of manners, she abandoned the queen and ran to Cian, and the world filled with hugs and questions and the abrupt, bright laughter of relief and friends well met.