Authors: Nicola Griffith
Everywhere there was unrest. From Tinamutha, Osfrith sent word of blood and mud-soaked raids by young Gododdin. Hild wondered if Coledauc pondered taking his Bryneich to join them. She rested her hand on her seax: Would he risk breaking her prophecy of friendship?
Men murmured: Wights walked the world under the uncanny sky, and moonless nights sent bats and birds mad; nets strung in the usual alleys caught only air. Wildcats and wolves came down from the hills and out from the weald and slunk into farmsteads at night. Eagles snatched sheep from the hillside in what passed for daylight. The king offered a bounty on wolfskins and eagle wings, but bowmen complained of slack strings and warped arrows, and spearmen threw awry.
Christ, folk whispered, was an unchancy god.
They were at Yeavering when Oeric returned with a letter from Fursey, so circumspect as to be brow-furrowing.
Your niece is a Noble Joy.
It took Hild several reads to determine he meant her name was Æthelwyn.
S brings incense of the kind your sister enjoys to drive vermin from the room.
That was easier: Sigebert had pledged allegiance to the Franks in return for arms and men. Edwin wouldn’t like that.
Your humble correspondent bids you to remember the road to Lindum and our conversation about the brightest bead of all. He is everywhere.
She turned her beads half the night, thinking about that. The little yellow bead, the brightest of all: Christ. He wasn’t talking of the priests—that would be like explaining that the sun rose in the east. What did he mean? She fell asleep holding the beads and dreamt of damp. They all dreamt of damp. The weather was more like autumn than early summer. Rain-lashed seas heaved. Shipping was uncertain. Trade fell.
They moved to Derventio. Edwin fumed in his splendid mosaic-floored hall, guarded at every entrance by a pair of gesiths. Gesiths did not make good guards: guarding wasn’t fighting. Lintlaf told them they’d have real fighting soon enough, and made sure the men changed places four times a day.
Æthelburh, swollen as a drowned ewe and not due for another two months, prayed in her splendid gilt and vermilion-painted chapel. James’s choir sang bravely, but their song seemed to reach only as far as the high roof then fell back to earth, unheard. Hild, seer and prophet, repeated that the king’s son would be strong and healthy. But she made no promise about the rain. The king shouted at her. Men muttered as she passed. Women drew aside their skirts.
Morud brought news of worried men in Rheged and a desperate message from Uinniau: Rhoedd was beset by envoys from the north—Dál Riata and Alt Clut—husbandmen driven from their farms by bad weather and a cattle murrain. He would have to make an alliance soon. Hild still had no one to suggest to Edwin for Rhianmelldt.
She slid her seax in and out of its sheath, thinking, then jammed it home and picked up her staff. Good oak, solid. She hefted it, balanced it in her hands, wondered how it would be to fight Idings. Then she rested it in the crook of her arm and smoothed her hair. The Idings weren’t here, and she had news to take to Edwin in his hall.
Paulinus was there, with Stephanus. Edwin heard her out in silence and then began to rant. With no wheat and no barley harvest likely, he’d had to trade with the queen’s brother in Kent for grain. He’d raised the tithe at his York w
ī
c and Tinamutha. He’d pressed Mulstan for greater revenue from the Bay of the Beacon. He’d sent word to Coelgar in Lindsey, to their cousin Osric in Craven hiding in his birch-clad hills and iron-rich streams, and to Pyr in Elmet: They must be stern; their king needed what could be spared, and more. But what did he get back? Whining, nothing but whining and news of more problems. He wanted to hear some useful suggestions for a change from his so-called counsellors.
Paulinus stepped forward and suggested the king might force the Gododdin and the men of Rheged to pay higher tribute because they didn’t worship Christ through the right priests.
Edwin screamed at him and stabbed the table to tatters: Had his nithing, criminal god stolen his brains in the night? Did he not understand that, in Gaul, Sigebert was kissing the ring of the Franks for aid against the East Angles? The Franks! What was he, Edwin: fried tripe? You’d think so the way the Gododdin were becoming so bold. And now Rheged was mulling an alliance with the Dál Riata. On top of that, Cadwallon was readying Gwynedd for war, and Penda marching his Mercians to meet the West Saxons. He’d win. And then anything could happen, anything, and it was the priests’ job to pray to their mighty god and bring some fine weather and a good end to the queen’s term. And failing that, he should shut his mouth or by the gods he, the king, would pull his bishop’s guts through his belly button and nail them to a tree. And the bishop of Rome could shove that up his arse and shit around it.
“At least Coifi knew his place!” he shouted at his retreating bishop, and followed it with a hurled bowl, which clipped Stephanus on the back of the head.
Hild watched the elm bowl roll in a tight circle on its silver rim, then settle upside down. She knew how it felt: round and round, everyone watching. She longed to throw something: at Paulinus, at Cian, at the king. Or stab something. Anything but stand calm and still and wait, always wait for things over which she had no control but had predicted boldly. A son. And healthy. But no one would know for a month or two.
“Wooden-headed, skirt-wearing lily-livers. Someone bring me another drink. And you,” he said to Hild, “tell me something good.”
Even if she had something good to offer, he wasn’t in the mood to hear it. What he wanted was to shout and stab. After a moment she said, “Coifi was no better. But he at least isn’t here.”
“Ha. Tell me something I don’t know. I wish Osric joy of him. And speaking of our cousin, is the Gododdin folly his doing? It was once his job to keep them quiet.”
“Once,” Hild said.
“Maybe he’s meddling, sending men to stir them up.”
She said nothing. Her uncle saw plots under every bench but it didn’t make him wrong. Besides, Osric was a fool. Those who bet on the behaviour of fools lost.
Edwin’s eyes glittered. “He could be plotting with any of them: Cadwallon, Penda, Dál Riata, Gododdin, Rheged. Any of them. All of them.”
“We need a spy in his hall, someone in his counsel.”
“I’ve a better idea. I’ll take his son.”
Pointy-toothed Oswine. She turned that in her mind. War was coming, it didn’t take a seer to foresee that. They needed Craven’s iron ore, its willing men. “Cloak it as an honour. Send an honourable man to say…” She saw it, sudden and complete. “To tell Osric that Oswine is to be groomed for a great task. To win renown and position.”
“It better not cost me money.”
“Rheged,” Hild said. “Rhoedd needs to marry off Rhianmelldt. Why not to Oswine?”
“Are you quite mad?”
She saw the opening. She could twist the sword up and away. “Rheged can’t stand alone anymore. It must choose a protector. Let it be Northumbria. Oswine isn’t Osric, he wasn’t raised to believe Deira was his. Rheged will seem a plum. Much better than Craven. Bring him here, smother him in gold and flattery, and he’ll be yours. So will Rheged.” The vision trembled before her, like a drop of rain on an outstretched fingertip, brilliant, beautiful, perfect.
“Oswine, king of Rheged?”
“Ealdorman of Rheged. Your man.” Couldn’t he see? Northumbria from sea to shining sea. “Think of the ports. Northumbria from coast to coast. Cadwallon will be cut off from the north Britons.”
She imagined the tufa, the boar banner, cracking in the wind, the weight of the red ring.
She took a breath, dropped her shoulders, smoothed the impatience from her voice.
“Bring Oswine here, Uncle. And Prince Uinniau. They can make friends under your eye, sword brothers, sworn to you. And Uinniau would be a hostage for Rhoedd’s good behaviour. They would both come, if you sent the right man.”
“Eadfrith Sweet Tongue is with his brother, bringing the Gododdin to heel.”
“Not Eadfrith. A man the wealh might trust.”
“And who might this totem of trust be?”
“Cian Boldcloak.”
* * *
A midsummer with no sun. Hild felt wrapped in cloud, suffocated, as though the air were wool. She sat with the king’s counsellors, listening but not speaking, tolling her beads, lingering on the yellow.
Christ, the most important of all. He is everywhere.
She was missing something. And the queen swelled every day.
She longed to clear her head, stride the moors above Mulstanton, lean into the wind on the cliff by the Bay of the Beacon. She envied Cian riding in Craven with his gesiths, one of many, free to laugh, to shout, to sing. To do, not be stared at and whispered over. Not waiting for the sun, not waiting for the queen to give birth.
A message came from Rhin: Bandits were preying on the people of Elmet. Saxfryth. Lweriadd. Her people. Her Elmet.
“Where’s the king?” she asked Gwladus.
“Hunched in his hall like a moulting hawk, I expect.” She already had out Hild’s favourite earrings, the moss agate and pearl, suitable for delivering bad news to a king. “Keep still or they’ll end up hanging off your nose.”
Hild moved her head, impatient. She wished she hadn’t sent Cian to Craven. She needed him for this.
“Keep still.”
She was tired of being
still
. She batted Gwladus’s hand away. No, she wouldn’t wait. Why should she? What could Cian do that she could not? “Put those away. Give me my staff instead.”
At the east doorway, Lintlaf saw her coming, folded his arms, and leaned against the doorpost.
The chief gesith glittered; he was growing rich. For most people, a nod to his gesiths to step aside cost something pretty, something precious. He was just another kind of bandit, one who had gripped Gwladus’s wrist hard enough to leave marks.
She met his gaze, then looked him up and down. He had too much weight on one leg. One swing at his knees would have him on the floor before he’d even unfolded his arms. Neither of his gesiths was paying attention: She was the king’s niece, and she didn’t even have a sword.
Cian was better than any of them, and she didn’t always lose against him. They wouldn’t get their blades free before her staff heel took them in the face. Yes. Long sweep to the knees.
Snap
of heel to one mouth,
snap
of tip to another. Scatter-patter of teeth. Sharp warmth of blood. Flipping the end of her stave up with her left hand, legs bent. Both hands pulling the length down in a whistling overhead arc. The splitting
crack
of oak on kneecap. Then kneeling, and the seax to Lintlaf’s balls. The smell of shit.
Should I make a prophecy about spilt yolk and no sons, Lintlaf?
No gesith would gallop to war with a doom on his head.
She smiled a creamy smile.
Lintlaf stepped aside.
Edwin was brooding in the shadows at the end of his hall, alone but for a few housemen standing against the wall. A small fire burnt, but the air was damp. She relayed Rhin’s message.
He stared at her for a long moment after she’d finished. “Bandits? What do I care about a few bandits on the Whinmoor?”
“They’re becoming bold. Farmers fear for their lives and livestock.”
“Am I nursemaid to the world? I’m sick of men holding out their hands and bleating.” He slapped the board. His cup jumped. “A man must hold his own steading.”
“At least send men to Pyr at Caer Loid.”
He lifted the cup. A houseman glided over, filled it, and faded back against the wall. “I’m spread thinner than a miser’s butter. Who should I send? My sons are in the north. Coelfrith’s with the Crow in York. I’ve Idings in the north plotting with Scots at one end of the far wall and Picts at the other. Rheged and the Bryneich rumbling below that. In the west Cadwallon’s gathering an army. Nithing!” He slapped the board again. Wine slopped. “Baying at our arse from the middle of the isle, we’ve Penda and his Mercians. In the south and east—”
“Send me.”
Silence. “You?”
“Me, and twelve gesiths.”
“For bandits?” He picked up his cup, eyed her over the rim. “It would be … messy.”
“Needs must.”
“Well, well.” They faced each other, gazes locked. Yffing to Yffing. He sipped, swallowed, put his cup down with a decisive
click
. “Six gesiths.”
“Eight, and your token to show Pyr in Caer Loid.”
“My token.” He flexed his hand—open, closed—studying her, watching her watch his ring. He opened his fist. Smiled. Nodded once. “Six. And my token. Though you’d better not have to use it.” He pulled the great carved garnet off his pointing finger, and leaned forward. “You’ll ride straight for the Whinmoor. No meddling with Pyr’s work.”
She held out her hand. “Yes.” He dropped it in her palm. She hefted it. She slid it onto her thumb and made a fist.
“King’s fist.”
She felt rather than saw the ripple of attention run through the housemen standing along the wall. King’s fist.
“It suits you, Niece. But I’ll want it back.” He sat back, then swore and turned his arm to look at his elbow. His jacket was sodden with wine. “Someone clean up this mess!” Two housemen leapt to obey. “That goes for you, too, Niece. Clean it up.”
* * *
In the queen’s guardroom, Bassus frowned—not at the king’s niece, the king’s fist, but at her question. What did she want with bandits?
He waved the houseman out and threw a log on the fire himself. She poured them both wine, unbidden. She wore the Yffing token. She didn’t need anyone’s permission.
Bandits.
“I hunted them in Kent, when Eadbald was ætheling.” He immediately felt foolish. The girl—not girl, king’s fist—wouldn’t care who’d been ætheling. He lifted his cup and sniffed it. Iberian. His favourite. The same colour as her ring. “It’s hard and filthy work. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
The log caught, setting shadows dancing along the wall and the Yffing token glinting blood-red. He wished his words back: She was the king’s fist. It didn’t do to use the word
enemy
in the same room.