Hild: A Novel (80 page)

Wilnoð, with an apologetic look at Hild, left the room. Hild wished her mother was there. She murmured to Gwladus, “Find Begu.” She was probably with Uinniau. “If you can’t find her, get Cian, and tell Arddun to bring Eanflæd and Wuscfrea.”

Æthelburh would see that Cian loved her children, all of them, like his own. He was her godson. If he said baptism could kill them, she’d listen to him, surely.

But she didn’t. And in the middle of the shouting and pleading and Eanflæd’s wailing, Paulinus and Stephanus arrived, breasting the night in their robes like ships in full sail, unstoppable. “Keep trying,” she said to Cian. “Do what you can. I’ll talk to the king.”

But it was no use. Edwin pointed out that the totem had come down, the weather had broken, and Paulinus was his chief priest. The queen was the queen. If she thought the babies should be baptised, then they would be.

*   *   *

Cian, who had tried til the end to change the queen’s mind, came to find her under the daymark elms. “They’re dead,” he said. “Both of them. Still in their baptismal robes. The girl had black hair.”

He didn’t even sway, just folded down on his knees,
thump
, like a butchered bullock, and for a moment Hild saw blood, red as a mummer’s sheet, falling from his throat and running over the grass.

She folded him in her arms, as she had Angeth, as though he were small enough to carry, and he shook, and she stroked his hair, over and over. His arms crept around her. He wept.

He wept for an hour. He wept as the elms shivered and the shadow changed and her back began to ache, but she didn’t let go.

27

A
UTUMN IN ELMET
. At Caer Loid and then Aberford, Edwin watched while the Elmetsætne bent the knee and brought their children to the lady seer and Prince Boldcloak for blessing. Then it was Christ Mass in York, the turning of winter to spring in Bebbanburg, and the wind-whipped grass of Yeavering while the chief men gathered and brought their tribute.

Æthelburh had not apologised for calling Hild hægtes; queens never did. Instead she gave her presents—oil of jessamine, blue silk the colour of periwinkles on a dark day, a beautiful string of pearls and moss agate that would buy three warhorses—and gifted Begu and Uinniau, and Breguswith and Luftmaer as well. Small things, mostly, combs and pretty eating knives. More precious, she included them in all she did: her weaving circle, her Masses, apportioning the yarn, and consulting on supplies. She discussed sending Breguswith to Arbeia to sort out the cloth trade flowing through the Tine valley. She had in mind a place called Redcrag, not far from Tinamutha. Perhaps Breguswith could find Osfrith a nice wife while she was at it. Some northern princess. If the Picts and Irish got restless, it would be good to have the Gododdin and Alt Clut bound to the Yffings.

Begu and Uinniau could not be promised in marriage until the Rheged situation was settled, but they behaved as though they were and lived as part of Hild’s household.

One afternoon Begu spooled the last of the yarn into her skein, twisted it neatly. “I wish Rhoedd would marry Rhianmelldt off to someone. Anyone. I don’t care. I want Uinny. I want him safe. When will that be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I want it settled before there’s another war. Just tell me there won’t be war for a while. Tell me Eadfrith is charming that horrible Penda.”

“I’m sure he’s doing all he can,” Hild said. She reached for another heap of yarn. War with Penda would come, one day. The Yffings would fall, one day. She would make sure it was not soon. But Mercia was strong and getting stronger, and Edwin, instead of spending time giving away gold and attracting gesiths, was letting the Crow fill his head with nonsense about God and divine kingship and true marriage.

“What?” Begu said, pausing mid-spool. “Is there going to be war?”

Hild shook her head. “It’s not that.” Edwin was planning something. She just didn’t know what.

*   *   *

Spring at Yeavering. They cantered into the wind at the top of Ad Gefrin: Hild on Cygnet, Eanflæd on a dun pony she called Nettle, and Cian on Acærn, cloak streaming behind him, with little Wuscfrea tucked in the crook of his right arm. He galloped with his head thrown back, laughing, and Wuscfrea crowed at the wind.

Eanflæd rode ferociously, fearlessly, as though she were twenty feet tall and her mount straddled the world. She hated Hild to get ahead. She wanted to be first. Today Hild indulged her.

In hall, the king watched them. Paulinus watched them. She thought perhaps the queen watched them, but more subtly. She took care to wear her gold cross prominently outside her dress, took care that her every public word supported her uncle. Care, always care. Meanwhile, she sent a message to Fursey:
Get someone inside Mercia. Tell me who leads, Penda or Cadwallon.
But Penda’s hall was not Christian. She sent a message to Rhin:
Get someone inside Gwynedd. Get someone to Rheged. Get me information.

Cian had a woman in Yeavering, the sister of the goatherd he had taken up with before. He’d had one in Bebbanburg and, before that, York. She had smelt her on him as he’d laughed and swung Eanflæd around in the rain by the great hedge. She’d smiled, gone to Linnet’s, helped her wring the neck of three chickens, and told herself she was glad he was healing. That night, when she held out her wrist for Gwladus to unfasten the carnelians, Gwladus stroked her hand and stood, breasts forward, mouth parted, and Hild understood she was offering herself: a gift, a solace. Hild swallowed and didn’t move, didn’t touch.

She hadn’t touched anyone. Every day the chief men arrived in Yeavering with their proud young sons and daughters: soft skin, hard muscles, challenging eyes. Every day, Hild found a way to step to one side of her yearning. It was too dangerous. Every day, Paulinus and his priests watched her. Every day, the king watched her.

Sometimes she rode with some laughing girl or strong young man. She drank with them, she played tug-of-war, she sat hip to hip with them on spread cloaks to watch the mummers perform by roaring bonfires while cattle lowed, and she knew what it meant when sometimes one of them took that extra breath or held her eye for that extra heartbeat, but she turned them aside with a smile. And with Cian she always remembered to turn in time to hide that same look in her own eyes; grew practiced in dropping her shoulders when he leaned past her for beer and she smelt another woman on him; learnt to pretend she didn’t notice when he sometimes paused and looked at her, puzzled, then turned away.

She stepped to one side of her yearning but didn’t step outside herself, didn’t close down. She simply pruned those parts that might reach out, that could damage her. Like pollarding an oak. One day, she would no longer need to train her growth, one day she would be free to spread as she wanted. Then she would grow very like the others, very like: though, as with all pollards, with the marks there for those who knew to look. For now, she was the light of the world. She wanted to keep the Yffings in power for a while, keep herself—and Cian and Begu and her mother—safe until she could find another way. She sent a second, longer message to Rhin:
Here is silver. Have your man sow discord between Rhoedd and Cadwallon.
Discord would weaken the British, perhaps make the west look ripe for Penda to pluck instead of allying with them. War between the Mercians and the British would weaken them both and delay the clash of stags.

*   *   *

In the south, plague spread. In East Anglia, Bishop Felix began a great abbey for Sigebert. In the west, Cadwallon quarrelled with Rheged and Alt Clut. Hild smiled.

Eadfrith sent a messenger with news of gifts sent to York from Penda.

“What gifts?” Hild asked.

“Gold,” the messenger said. “Eadfrith weighed it at a stone, exactly.”

“What kind of gold?” Why would he send tribute? It didn’t make sense.

“Hackgold.”

“Describe it.”

“Pommels,” he said. “Strap ends. Hilts.”

Cian was coming alert now. “War gear!”

Hild nodded, said to the king, “These aren’t gifts. They’re taunts. Probably stripped from the gesiths he killed in Gwynedd.” Penda was feeling stronger.

Edwin flushed and something moved behind his eyes. Some decision.

*   *   *

The high wooden sides of Edwin’s Romish talking stage sheltered the thegns from the wind. The chief men assembled on the benches were glad to fling off their cloaks and soak up the sun.

The Yffing totem, recarved with a cross and repainted in crimson, blue, and green, with the boar in bronze and gold, gleamed. Paulinus stood before it, on the platform, the other king’s counsellors, including Hild and Cian, ranged behind him. Hild was the only woman. The queen sat with her women, including Begu and Breguswith, on the side benches.

Paulinus spoke of the great church rising in York, the church in Craven, the Christian king of the East Angles and their king-to-be, the king’s great-nephew.

“What do we care?” one man called. Hunric.

Paulinus kept talking: “The gesiths who now flocked to Christ’s banner—”

“Aye, and got the shit kicked out of them in Gwynedd!”

“—the king’s heir, Wuscfrea, there, to the king’s right, born into a marriage blessed by God.”

“He’s still sucking his thumb!” shouted a man behind Hunric. Some of the thegns laughed, but more nodded. Hild had told her uncle it was madness to let Paulinus speak—did he not remember last time? But Edwin had smiled that smile with too many teeth and said didn’t she see the world was changing? Besides, the Crow was chief priest of the Yffings and entitled to speak.

Hunric stood. Paulinus’s cheeks mottled, but before he could start foaming, Edwin shouted cheerfully, “Bishop, let the thegn speak! Haven’t you learnt anything yet? Sit down. Let him have his say.”

Paulinus sat down just a little too quickly.

Hild glanced about her: Cian, as surprised as she was. Paulinus, angry, yes—a bishop of Rome to be interrupted by a barbarian!—but underneath that a glint of … satisfaction? Then Coelfrith, face showing nothing; not surprised. The queen, her face composed.

This was planned. Hild’s heart moved from a walk to a trot.

Hunric bent his head. Straightened. “He looks like a fine boy, King. Strong, lusty. But a boy. We have Idings in the north, Rheged and Gwynedd to the west, and Penda to the south. We need a strong man in Elmet. We need Cadwallon crushed. Will you call your grown sons to you?”

Hild’s gaze locked on Æthelburh. The queen was examining her cuff. She looked at Begu, who was frowning slightly, puzzled. At her mother, who wore her usual enigmatic expression.

Edwin didn’t even bother to stand. “I hear you, good Hunric. You are wise, as always. I will think on it. Come to the feast tonight and hear my word.”

*   *   *

The hall was packed. The mead flowed. Hild, wearing her best clothes and jewels, didn’t drink a drop. She couldn’t eat. She kept smiling, kept raising her cup, kept meat in her hand, and when no one was looking, tossed it to the dogs. No one noticed. Noise rose like the tide.

Hild’s ears rang. Something was coming.

Speeches. Toasts. Songs. It passed like a dream, or like the charge into battle. Unreal. And in the centre of it all, Edwin, her uncle, sitting, chin in one hand, smiling, eyes half-lidded, watching, in no hurry. Her mind whirred, but this time her lathe was blunt, and the world simply spun and made no sense. This time, all the people she loved were here, in a row, at the king’s board. This time her mother didn’t have her back to anyone. She was laughing with Cian.

This time there was no Osric, staring about him with beetled brow. This time it was just her, searching face after face, trying to understand.

Her mother caught her glance and smiled. That smile she had smiled when Hild was seven years old and preparing to carry the great gold welcome cup:
Be brave, be strong.

Then she saw Coelfrith stand and leave the hall, nod to the scop on the way out. She caught Edwin’s gaze, and he smiled that smile with too many teeth. For her.

Gwladus leaned in, filled her cup unnecessarily, murmured, “Pinch your cheeks. You’ve gone white as milk.”

Hild wasn’t listening. She was watching Coelfrith come back into the hall with two men, one bearing a sack made not of hemp but of fine white linen, one a keg of polished oak, bound with copper.

She was vaguely aware of Gwladus on one side, Begu on the other, but she couldn’t pay attention. She was caught in what felt like a dream, one of those endless dreams that turned on itself, one she couldn’t escape. It unfurled with dreadful lack of surprise. It had all happened before.

Edwin stood.

The scop played a dramatic chord.

Edwin took his time catching the gaze of all his people: the beady black of the Crow, Uinniau’s open hazel, Breguswith’s bright, bright blue, Cian’s darker blue, and her own moss agate.

She felt the weight of gold around her neck, the wink of carnelians at her wrist, the seax at her waist, the fine dress with stiffly worked gold borders. A sacrificial cow.

Edwin poured the white mead with his own hand. Smiled at her again.

Then he turned to Cian, held out the cup.

Cian rose. Hild, still in a dream, half expected to hear the hiss of surf, see Mulstan grinning and holding out a sword. But it was Edwin, with a cup.

Cian took the cup.

“Cian Boldcloak. Hero of Gwynedd. Chief gesith. Queen’s godson. Son, so it is said, of Ceredig, king of Elmet.”

Cian’s hand began to shake.

“Hunric has said we need a strong man at our border. A loyal man. Hunric is wise. Cian Boldcloak, you have proved your oath beyond doubt. You saved my life. You saved the ætheling’s life. You love our son. You are brave in battle. You’re strong. You’re baptised. You are royal through your father. Your father whom I bested in fierce and honourable battle.” Men began to beat on the benches. Cian looked as though he were facing a strong wind. Edwin raised his hand. “Cian Boldcloak, will you and your lady wife take Elmet? Will you hold it as ealdorman until Wuscfrea comes of age?”