Nicola Griffith - Hild

Spotted woodpeckers, half a dozen, swooped into the wych elms, and all started hammering at once.

“They do that every spring,” he said. He stopped. “Like a gang of tree cutters.”

The birds fell silent, then one tapped, fell silent, another tapped, fell silent, another.

“More like Witganmot,” she said.

“But shorter!” they said together, and laughed.

They walked some more.

“After you left, I came here a lot,” he said. “I missed you showing me things, making them magic. So I decided to find them myself. Like this.” He reached up into the newly fledged birch and pulled down a handful of tiny leaves, pale as a new kitten’s eyes. He popped some in his mouth, offered the rest to her. “They taste like sorrel.”

They walked on to the smithy, where the fire wasn’t yet quite hot and the smith was happy to talk steel and edge with the thegn’s foster-son. He kept looking at Hild’s seax as he talked, and eventually she took pity on him, drew it, and offered it hilt-first over her forearm.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Northern work, that. I’ll just put a fresh edge on it, shall I?”

On the way back, kingfishers hunted where the bats had been, and morning held full sway.

Cian sighed.

“You’ll miss it so much?”

He didn’t say anything, then he shook himself. “We’ve three more days. Begu will want to show you every last cow.”

“Winty’s calf’s calf.”

“And I want you to see me spar with Mulstan. He’s a wily old bull. I bet you couldn’t get him to drop his shield.”

“I bet I could.” And she pushed him, and he pushed her back, and he slung his arm over her shoulder and she rested her hand on his belt and they walked that way, close together, all the way back to the hall.

Onnen, who was berating a houseman about cobwebs she had found in some dark corner, broke off when they entered.

“Mam, is Mulstan about? I want Hild to watch us cross swords.”

“He’s walking Celfled’s son along the bounds.”

“I thought they’d sorted that.”

Onnen folded her arms. “You know Celfled. Nothing’s ever sorted.” She nodded to the houseman to be on his way, then said to Hild, “Guenmon made some of those pasties you like. You and I will take them up the south cliff, to the beacon.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Hild insisted that they all go. Onnen was wise to her ways, though, and knew how to deal with that. She handed the girl little Onstan and picked up Mulfryth herself.

Little of course wasn’t the right word. Each twin weighed more than a spring lamb.

As Hild had intended, Cian, carrying the sack of Guenmon’s pasties—which he kept shifting from one side to the other—the chattering Begu, and Breguswith moved ahead of them up the steep cliff path, pulling themselves up using the stunted, still-leafless saplings along the path.

As Onnen and Hild fell farther behind and Begu’s chatter faded, the only sound was the wind in the furze and the grass and the thistles and, a long way down, the steady roll and crash of the incoming tide.

Hild, with her long, strong legs and young lungs scrambled faster. Onnen climbed as fast as she could. By the time she got to the top, she was breathing hard. Hild reached down one-handed and hauled her up.

The girl still had manners, at least. She might look longingly at the church weathering into the dirt and the repaired thorn hedge but she stayed with Onnen while the older woman caught her breath. The others, Begu in the lead, were already halfway to the old beacon tower, which looked to have lost a few more stones since she last climbed this way.

They stood side by side, facing south and east, away from the wind, looking half out to sea, half at the figures in the distance. Begu had stopped and now seemed to be shrieking and laughing and pointing at something. The air smelt of salt.

Hild shifted Onstan to her other arm. He stayed fast asleep, thumb in his mouth. “He’s big for his age,” she said.

“Mulfryth’s bigger. She takes after her father. Sadly, she also has his nose.”

Hild leaned over to peer at Mulfryth’s little face. Her eyes flicked open. Pale brown, almost amber, and fierce. “Hawks,” Hild said. “Begu said they were like geese. But they’re not.”

“They’re my centre now, these two.” Onnen reached over and tucked Onstan’s blanket more securely beneath his chin. “Begu’s no longer my responsibility. She’s yours.”

“Yes.”

The wind shifted, and Onnen thought she heard the clank of cowbells.

She’d said many hard things to the girl over the years, but this might end up being the hardest. The girl was too young to understand the depth of it, but she had to understand the importance.

She nodded to where, in the distance, Cian was shifting his sack yet again. “He always did hate carrying anything that wasn’t a sword.”

The girl nodded.

“You two are very close,” Onnen said.

The girl glanced at her. “Yes.”

Onnen wanted to hug her, smooth her hair, make it better. She hardened her heart. “You can’t have him.”

The girl frowned. “What—”

“You don’t understand. But you will. For now, take heed.”

The girl’s gaze fastened on hers: clear, clever, stubborn. But Cian was her son.

“You can’t have him. And you can’t tell him why. Keeping him ignorant keeps him safe. Whatever he knows always did shine out of him. Like a beacon.” Now the girl’s eyes changed. That part at least she understood.

Below, waves rolled in long easy lines onto the beach. The girl, watching them, said, “I’ve never told him. I never will.” A black-headed gull wheeled overhead, crying. She lifted her face to follow it. “But my mother says gossip flows into gaps.”

“She’s not wrong.” That was the problem. Mother and daughter were both so rarely wrong they thought they never could be. “Yes. I’ll start telling the stories again, the story of Cian taking the sword from Ceredig. I’ll tell Guenmon. She already knows, but I’ll remind her. And what Guenmon knows, all the wealh will know. Including the visitors. Then the king will know.”

“He already knows that one. I told him.”

“But this way, he’ll know that everyone else knows. And the story will crowd out any other that might arise. And being thought as Ceredig’s son, now that Elmet is wholly Edwin’s, makes Cian useful to him. Useful men stay alive.”

Hild found her way to the kitchen, and thanked Guenmon for the pasties.

Guenmon said, “Was there something wrong with them?”

“No. I liked them.”

“Well, no need to sound surprised.”

“It’s not…” But she had no idea how to explain the puzzling conversation she’d just had with Onnen. “I’m glad you remembered I like tarragon.”

“Well of course I remember. Reach me down one of those cups, now.” Hild did. “I remember when you had to stand on a stool, too. Now don’t go away. I want a word with you.”

Another word. Hild hoped she would at least understand this one. She watched as Guenmon measured and ground spices, tipped them into two copper cups.

“Now.” Guenmon handed Hild a cup of spiced wine. “It’s about your bodywoman.”

“Gwladus? Why? Where is she?”

“Poorly. I gave her something to drink.”

“What—”

“What you should have given her a fortnight ago.”

“She’s—”

“Not anymore.”

“Did it, was it—”

“The baby doesn’t matter. It would only have been a slave, anyway. But it hurts to lose them. It hurts.” Guenmon looked lightless for a moment, then huffed, impatient. “It’s done. But you’re to see it doesn’t happen again. That lass is yours. Protect her.”