Nicola Griffith - Hild

“Indeed,” Cian went on, “I heard the Lindseymen were so fearsome that even a maid killed half a dozen.”

He knew what she’d done at Lindum.

Berhtred flushed dull red. Lintlaf leapt to his feet. “You insult the lady Hild!”

“No.” Cian deliberately took back the bowl of ale and sipped. “I believe I’m insulting the Lindseymen.”

Grimhun hooted and hurled a chunk of bread at Coelwyn.

Cian grinned at Lintlaf. “Perhaps you will honour me with a bout.” He turned to Berhtred. “After I’ve crossed swords with Berhtred. Unless, sir”—another grin, this time exaggerated for effect—“you feel the need to rest here in the sun to warm your old bones.”

More hooting, catcalling, and thrown objects. Now they understood the shape of things.

Berhtred looked at Lintlaf. “What do you think? Me or you?”

Lintlaf waved one dismissive hand, and sat. “I’ll take the winner.”

“This ring on Lintlaf,” Berhtnoth said, slapping a chunk of gold and topaz on the bench, which earned him a reproachful look from his brother.

“I’ll take that bet,” Cian said. “But only if I try your brother first. No shields.”

No , Hild wanted to shout, you’re too young! But they were all young.

Cian stood, unbuckled his belt—Hild recognised the gold tongue and garnet eyes—and saw the girls.

“Come and watch!” he shouted. “I’m going to show them how we do it in Mulstanton!”

He’s drunk, Hild thought. But, no: His eyes were brilliant, his cheeks hectic, but it was joy. This was what he’d been looking for all his life, to be a gesith and do as gesiths do, and here he was, at the hall of the overking of the Anglisc, about to test his mettle against the king’s own.

“It’s for fun,” she said to Begu. “They won’t hurt him.”

“Of course not,” Begu said. “He won’t let them. He’ll beat those silly boys.”

Those silly boys had disembowelled men and played kickball with children’s heads.

“Come on, let’s sit and watch!”

The gesiths greeted them cheerfully and made room on the sunniest bench. Betting and drinking and rude comments resumed.

Cian stripped off his jacket and threw it to Begu, who folded it lumpily. Hild took it, refolded it, set the package on her knee. It was a blue so dark it was almost black, embroidered in gold and green about the shoulder seams and hem by a hand Hild would recognise anywhere. She imagined Onnen working over it, dreading sending her son away. As it warmed in the sun, it released Cian’s familiar scent, overlain with the tang of iron and copper—a man’s smell.

Cian drew his sword with that slithering ring that set her heart pounding. “Not for blood!” Cian shouted, and tossed the sheath aside.

They circled in the sun. Hild recognised Cian’s familiar stance, left foot leading, at an angle to his opponent, right foot and arm back, sword held back and high. She imagined how hard it was to hold a sword like that. Several gesiths shook their heads: without a shield his left side was exposed. Hild’s heart squeezed. Was he trying to prove something to her, because Begu had teased him?

It was a risky stance, one that relied entirely on timing and joint strength: shoulder, elbow, wrist. And reach. Like Hild, he had the reach. He had the muscle, too, whippy rather than plump, veins like worms coiled around his wrist.

The scar she had noticed in the chapel showed ruched and red. About a year old. An ugly wound. A spear?

Berhtred chose the usual stance: right foot and right arm forward, sword held low. He was a badger of a man, thick body, short arms and legs, built for wrestling, for pushing with a shield at close quarters.

Perhaps Cian wasn’t being foolish after all.

“Hai!” said Cian, and feinted, a fast jab with the point. Berhtred swung his blade up, like a horizontal bar, expecting a hard clash of iron, but Cian’s blade was already back, waiting, and Berhtred met air, and teetered very slightly.

The Cian Hild had known, the Cian with the wooden sword and wicker shield, dreaming of Owein, would have yelled and hurled himself into the attack. This Cian, the one with corded muscles and a half smile, simply kept circling. Then, when Berhtred had the slanting morning sun in his eyes, Cian thrust.

Once for the feint with the tip, which Berhtred expected and so raised his sword only partway, then back and once more forward in a full stepping lunge, right foot leading now, and blade snaking over Berhtred’s in a wrapping leftwise twist that flung Berhtred’s sword up and away and into the grass. Cian stood with the tip of his sword against a curl of black chest hair while his opponent blinked, then he grinned and lifted the sword away in salute.

“My fa taught him that,” Begu said. The gesiths hooted and slapped the bench. “He said it takes a strong, supple wrist. He says not one man in a hundred can do it leftwise like that. He says rightwise, sunwise, is easy but widdershins is special. Though most gesiths think it bad luck. And in a real battle it would get you killed.”

Hild hardly heard her. Cian, her Cian, had disarmed a king’s gesith, blooded in the battle of Lindum, without a scratch or a bruise or even breaking a sweat.

“I’ll take that ring,” Cian said to Lintlaf, voice vibrant with his own power. “Or we could go for double or nothing, you and me.”

“I’ll take that bet. With shield and spear.”

Hild stood. Most of the friendly blood she’d seen spilled had been in spear games. A sharp leaf of iron at the end of a long pole of ash was not easy to control. “Cian, come away with us. Your foster-sister is lonely.”

“You lied!” Begu said, when the three of them were out of earshot. The gesiths were singing again.

“Yes. I want to talk to Cian. It’s easier if his guts are inside his skin.”

Cian gave her a lazy smile. “He wouldn’t have touched me.”

Hild ignored him. She didn’t know how to deal with this confident young lord. She focused on Begu.

“I know, I know. You want me to go away so you can talk to Cian.”

“Ask for Gwladus. My bodywoman. She’s probably in the kitchens.”

When she was out of earshot, Hild turned to Cian. “You have a message.”

“Mam said you were to take care. She said I was to watch you like a hawk. She said not to trust anyone, no one at all. She’s heard rumours.”

“What rumours?”

“I don’t know. All I know is she doesn’t trust you to anyone but me, and I’m to stick to you like honey on bread.”

“Even here, in the vill?”

“Especially. She said especially when you think you’re safe. She said your whole family should look behind them. But she reckons your mam can look after herself and your uncle has his gesiths.”

“I have men, too.”

“Truly yours?”

She thought about that. “They saved my life, near Lindum. Or Eamer did. The red-haired man. But they’re the king’s gesiths.”

Cian nodded. “Their will is not their own. They have given their oath.”

He said oath with the same breathy reverence he had once used to speak of the hero Owein.

Hild studied him. He blushed. He would have to lose that habit if he didn’t want to be teased, though the girls no doubt would like it. She wondered how long it would take Gwladus to snare him, and how she could persuade him and Lintlaf not to fight.

“You want to swear to the king.” He tucked his head down like an ox trying to refuse the yoke and said nothing. “So what would you do if the king orders me dead?”

“It’s not the king who wants you dead.”

“Not today.”

They were both quiet. The gesiths were singing again. “About the king. I could never— I wouldn’t—”