Nicola Griffith - Hild

Cian, like Breguswith, like the four members of James’s choir, like Burgmod and Eadric the Brown, Grimhun and the brothers Berht, had been persuaded of the political advantages of baptism. Hild and Edwin’s other kin—the æthelings, Osric, and Oswine and Osthryth—must follow Edwin’s example, and Edwin, before making a decision, wanted to see with his own eyes what happened when some finger of Christ’s spirit took up residence in a body.

Hild walked with Begu behind the candidates in white: all treading carefully, unwilling in the strange mist-wrapped half-light to break a twig in passing; they didn’t want to attract the attention of any ghosts, holy or otherwise. Fursey had been a little vague about the Holy Ghost; Hild thought perhaps it was some kind of godly cousin, an otherworldly ealdorman of the Christ. She wondered if she would see it. The morning was certainly uncanny enough.

Begu leaned in to whisper, “Eanflæd wouldn’t be sleeping like that if she was hungry.”

Hild said nothing. She didn’t want to talk. Fursey had told her that today would be the feast of Pentecost, which commemorated tiny tongues of flame dancing on saints’ heads. She wanted to see that. No wonder they did this by a river. She hoped Cian wouldn’t get burnt.

She had warned him about the flames. He had wetted his head as a precaution. The brothers Berht had followed his lead.

She hadn’t cried when Fursey left. Yet now, as they trod solemnly towards Sancton’s river for this Christ mystery, she found she had to swallow and blink fiercely and try not to listen for his mocking Irish voice that made everything seem less important, less frightening.

At the great curve in the river where the north bank was low and the current slow, a swath of reeds, recently cut, was laid in a green path over the mud to the water. Paulinus, resplendent in his jewelled cope and carrying his gilded shepherd’s crook in his left hand, stopped and raised both hands. Stephanus stopped swinging and clanking. James quieted his chant.

Hild and her mother raised their heads, alert to the pattern. They were about to meet their new god.

There was no sound now but the river.

Paulinus cried out, a great shout in Latin. Another great shout, something about eternal life and the seal of God, and Stephanus, James, and the choir all shouted in unison.

The river poured.

“Then the eleven disciples went away into Galilee,” he shouted in Anglisc, “into a mountain where Jesus had appointed them. And when they saw him, they worshipped him: but some doubted. And Jesus came and spoke unto them, saying, All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.”

“Amen,” said the priest and the choir and Æthelburh.

Paulinus shouted some more, and his normally waxy face began to flush as he warmed to his theme. He spoke too fast, and his accent was too strange for Hild to follow every word, but he seemed to be talking to someone called Satan. He sounded like a herald provoking an opposing army, taunting them with their imminent defeat, boasting of his champion’s skills and the worthlessness of his enemy.

Paulinus’s cheeks grew mottled. He waved his crook. Hild wondered if it was a good idea to provoke an uncanny enemy when the sun was not quite risen. She glanced to her left, to the north and east—she wasn’t the only one—but there was no sign of Satan and his army in the shadowed woods.

The sky began to pale in earnest; a blackbird sang, then stopped abruptly.

Paulinus stopped, too. He smiled and gestured to Æthelburh—who glanced at Edwin and took his left arm with her right—and then to Stephanus, who came forward with a white-and-gold stole and laid it around his neck. Hild found herself, along with everyone else, leaning forward.

Paulinus and Stephanus waded thigh deep into the river and turned. The king and queen followed.

The spot was carefully chosen. The water was not still—for that would be dangerous; sprites liked quiet water—nor was it swift enough to sweep a mother off her feet. Even so, and even with her husband to steady her, Æthelburh stopped when the river lapped at her knees.

For a moment, Hild thought Paulinus would refuse to step closer, but Stephanus stepped first and the Crow had no choice but to follow. Stephanus uncapped one of the tiny silver pots at his waist and held it out.

If Satan were to come, it would be soon. Hild longed for her seax, or even Cian’s hidden buckle knife.

“Face west,” Paulinus said. The king and queen turned cautiously to face upstream. Paulinus dipped his thumb in the pot. It glistened a little. He traced a cross on baby Eanflæd’s forehead. She opened her eyes and made a questioning sound. Stephanus stowed the pot in his belt and brought out a different one.

“Do you, Æthelburh, on behalf of your daughter, renounce Satan and all his works?”

Hild tensed. She was so aware of the position of her mother and Cian and Begu that she could feel them like firelight on her skin.

“I do,” Æthelburh said in a clear, strong voice.

“Face east,” Paulinus said, as a king would speak to a wealh.

Edwin narrowed his eyes but the Crow did not blink. Edwin turned. The river pushed at the back of their knees.

Paulinus bent and scooped a double handful of water. “In the name of the Father”—he dribbled water on Eanflæd’s head—“and the—”

The rest was lost in the baby’s piercing shrieks.

The gesiths all crouched—Hild very nearly did—then straightened. The shrieks seemed to break the spell: It was just a river before dawn, with people getting wet. Hild saw her mother’s shoulders drop at the same time as she herself realised this was not unlike one of Coifi’s blessings—and they had never met Woden.

Paulinus trickled more water and raised his voice, though no one could tell what he was saying. He wiped at the struggling child’s head with his stole, then dipped his thumb in the second pot and touched her head, then nose, then breast. The outraged shrieks grew louder. Paulinus, unmoved, signed the cross in the air over father, mother, and daughter just as light broke over the river.

“Oh, you should have seen it!” Begu said later to Gwladus. “The baby never shut up, and the Crow scowled at James, and James nodded at his choir to sing, but they started on different notes and it sounded like the cows at Mulstanton when they haven’t been milked! And then James waded into the river at the head of the others to be baptised, and he bumped into the king. They nearly went down, splosh . Wonder if the Christ would have saved them then? If the king’d had a sword at least one priest would be headless now. But the big surprise was Cian. The queen stood for his godmother! Took even the Crow by surprise.”

It had taken them all by surprise, especially Hild. She didn’t know much about baptism, but she knew royal favour.

“Cian’s mouth dropped so wide I thought he’d drown when Stephanus and James dipped him backwards in the river. They did it three times. Once for the Father, once for the Son, and once for the Holy Ghost. But the sun was up by then so we didn’t see any ghosts. Not that they might not all be ghosts by next week. You should have heard their teeth chattering on the way back!”

She was exaggerating. The sun had been high as they walked along the river, the choir singing and censer swinging. It had glinted on the wet hair of the gesiths and Breguswith—who had not been forcibly bent backwards like the men, but held at an angle while Paulinus dribbled water on the crown of her head.