Nicola Griffith - Hild

“She does like you.” He smiled, but tiredly. “And you’re both blood. She’s trying to protect you.”

From the king. From Paulinus. From Cadwallon and all the conspirators who wanted her dead for no other reason than she was an Yffing.

“Child, I’m weary to the bone and I must leave again soon enough, so—”

“You can ride with me to Sancton. As we travel you can tell me about baptism.”

“I’ll tell you everything you could possibly wish to know about the holy rite of baptism, but I won’t be going to Sancton.”

Silence.

He said, more gently, “I must leave. For good. Your king can’t trust me.”

“I don’t understand. You didn’t do anything wrong. I can explain—”

“My king is dead. Fiachnae mac Báetáin, king of the Dál nAriadne, was slain by Fiachnae mac Demmáin of the Dál Fiatach. At Lethet Midind. Three of the Idings fought at my king’s side.”

Idings. The friend of my enemy is my enemy.

Hild stood. “I’ll find you a horse.”

“Oh, sit, for pity’s sake. I’ve a night’s grace. As long as I’m not seen.”

One night. “I’ll send at least for food.”

“I would like that. Have your three-scilling wealh bring it for me. She knows how to keep her mouth shut. And I’d like to see her wicked face one more time before I trudge my weary way into the unknown.”

“I won’t be long.”

When she got back, Fursey was curled on the straw, asleep. His face twitched as he dreamt; a gold fleck of straw glinted by his nostril. Priest, prince of Munster. A shabby man without a king. Without a home. Fursey. Who had taught her her letters.

He stirred when she sat on the bale next to his.

“Gwladus is bringing cold mutton, bread, and cheese.”

He scratched his stubbled tonsure.

“You need a shave.”

“What I really need is a drink.”

“Gwladus is bringing heather beer—everything else is packed.”

His lip curled, but his scorn was halfhearted.

“Fursey?” He looked at her. “What will you do?”

“Drink the jar dry.”

“No, I mean—”

“I know what you mean, child.” He rubbed his chin. It made a dry scritching. “I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ve a fancy to see your sister again. She’d welcome me, do you think?”

“My sister? Hereswith?”

“You have another?”

“No. I mean, yes. Oh, yes.” Of course she’d welcome him. He was Fursey .

“And she needs to learn to read. Once the overking’s daughter is named for Christ, it won’t be long before Paulinus is forcing the whole island to dip their heads and kiss his ring. Hereswith will need advice.”

Fursey and Hereswith. Hereswith and Fursey. If she knew where he was, if she could write to him, he wouldn’t be gone. And she could write to her sister. They wouldn’t be lost to her.

Gwladus brought the food. Fursey was too tired to do more than smile, and Gwladus seemed to catch his mood. She put the tray on the ground, nodded, and left.

Hild sat down next to him. “Tell me about baptism.”

He talked as he ate. Hild was content to watch, to try to carve the picture of him on her mind.

Baptism, he said, a lamb bone in his hand, was getting your sins washed away.

“What’s a sin?”

“It’s… well now, it’s a kind of stepping from the path. A wrongdoing.” At Hild’s blank look he said, “An oath-breaking against God.”

“A sinner is a nithing?” Cian wouldn’t want to be thought of as a nithing.

Fursey drank more deeply of his beer, clearly wishing he had not embarked on an explanation.

Another thought occurred to Hild. “But if you haven’t taken an oath to the Christ, how can you break it? How can you have sins?”

“We’re all born sinners. All born with a stain on our soul.”

“A stain?” Like a birthmark?

“Some more than others. Perhaps that’s why the queen suggests—” He shook his head. “Ah, but don’t worry about it. Paulinus will explain everything to you long before your own baptism.”

“I don’t like Paulinus.”

“No one does but Paulinus.”

“If I get baptised, I want you to do it.”

Fursey paused, cup halfway to his mouth. “You don’t want me to baptise you, child—hush, now. You had best get used to being called child. It’s what priests do with their flock because we represent God on earth, and you are God’s children.”

“So are you.”

“Don’t interrupt. Paulinus won’t take kindly to being interrupted. Listen to me now. When the time comes to be baptised, let Paulinus do it. He’s a bishop, perhaps to be an overbishop. And baptism is like…” He drank his beer, wiped his mouth, refilled his cup, considered. He switched to Irish. “Baptism is very much like a sword in this way: that the man whose hands the sword or the soul passes through adds his lustre. Just as an overking’s sword is more noble than a thegn’s, a bishop’s blessing is more holy than a priest’s, which in turn is better than a deacon’s. It’s the way of the world, which is to say, the way of men—who, being created in God’s image, reflect His intentions for the world.”

“You were baptised by Brendan himself, so why aren’t you a bishop?”

“Well, now, perhaps I will be. Just not today, and not here.”

A little after dawn the next day, she walked with him as he led his mare down the path to the daymark elms. They stopped.

“Well,” he said, and hitched at his belt.

Hild didn’t know what to say.

“This time it will be long and long before we meet again.”

Her throat closed.

“Well,” he said once more, and he looked small and tired and she couldn’t bear it. She opened her arms and hugged him, hard. He patted her back. Patted her again. “Child, I can’t breathe.”

She let go. It was like letting go of the world.

His eyes glistened. “Help me up now.”

She made a stirrup for him. His shin was dirty. It would be dirtier before the end of his travel. Such a long way to go. All alone.

She heaved.

He looked down at her. “Goodbye, now, Hild, daughter of Yffings. Fare well.”

Yffings didn’t weep. But she watched him, watched the path until even the dust of his passing had fallen.

In the predawn light, thin and grey as skimmed milk, mist rose from the river, cool and smelling of secrets. A bittern boomed from the marshy plash downriver but fell silent at the approach of thirty people, eleven in white wool robes—twelve if you counted little Eanflæd, fast asleep in her swaddling and snug in the queen’s arms. Ducks rose in a flurry of wings and honked into the distance. Something splashed hurriedly into the water, out of sight.

Stephanus led the procession, swinging a brass censer. It kept going out. It was out now, but no one mentioned it. Getting to the baptism place on the river was the important thing, not stopping to fuss with burning Frankish resins. Few of them knew what to expect, but they all knew rivers flow with sidsa, especially near dawn. The air trembled with it, like the skin of a colt standing still but longing to run, run, run over the rich new grass.

James the Deacon led his six-man choir in a low spoken chant. One of them, the straw-haired youth with the freckles, kept stumbling over the words. Everyone ignored that, too.

Someone’s belly rumbled. Berhtnoth nudged Berhtred and whispered. Berhtred hitched at a sword belt that wasn’t there, then wrapped his arms tightly around his wool-draped middle. Their hair, like Cian’s, glistened. Everyone was hungry. Paulinus had insisted that those to be baptised not eat in order that their bodies be empty and pure enough to receive the grace of the Holy Spirit, and the queen had suggested that the whole party forgo food.