Peaceweaver (27 page)

The young man nodded. “The coronation takes place tomorrow,” he said, and added, “You will be our honored guests.”

Hild had accepted the fate that had been woven for her, knowing the sorrow it would bring. But she’d made her decision believing the king of the Geats was a proven warrior, someone who faced danger when others fled. She’d pictured a dragon-killer—she’d thought he was a man.

Yet this clean-faced youth no older than she was, wearing a mail shirt too big for him—this
boy
—was the king of the Geats.

She had been tricked.

And she had no choice but to marry him.

TWENTY-EIGHT

N
OTHING FELT REAL
. M
ORD AND THE YOUTH CONTINUED
speaking, but Hild barely heard them. “… peace pledge between nations,” Mord was saying, but the words swam away like minnows Hild was trying to catch with her fingers.

Then he signaled her to step forward.

Woodenly, she moved, remembering belatedly to push her hood back from her face. As Mord said, “Hild, our king’s sister-daughter,” she sank into a low, stiff-backed curtsy. She would have stayed there forever if the young man hadn’t taken a step toward her and reached for her hand.

As he raised her, he said, “Be welcome, Hild,” in that drawling Geatish accent she’d grown accustomed to.

She should speak; she knew she should. But she couldn’t. Instead, she looked at him, trying to read the expression in his dark eyes and failing. The two of them were matched for
height, she realized, and he was still gripping her fingers in his shield hand.

He spoke again. “Be welcome, all of you. Sit and rest after your journey.”

Then he guided her to the woman who had been standing beside him.

Hild dropped into another curtsy, glad of the custom, which took away the need for words. The woman, who must have been Hild’s mother’s age, her head crowned with a coil of braids, curtsied as well. As she did, the young man left the two of them together.

Hild glanced back to see him approaching the warrior who had led them to the hall, speaking to him, and shaking his head as the warrior grinned broadly.

She stiffened. Was he talking about her?

“Come and have a seat by the fire,” the woman said. “I’m Thora, Wulf and Wake’s mother.”

Hild looked at her. She could see the resemblance in her eyes and the lines of her brows. She swallowed, searching for her voice. “Your sons have been kind to me.”

Thora nodded without smiling and Hild remembered that her husband had been killed by the dragon. What relief she must feel to have her boys back again. Hild wondered if the sister Wake had mentioned was in the hall, but the only other women she saw were slaves.

She sat on a bench and watched as Thialfi led Mord and the others to a table on the other side of the fire. A slave
hurried in with a load of logs, followed by another with a board full of meat and bread.

Thora had disappeared from view, but moments later, she emerged from behind the dais, a drinking horn in her hands, firelight reflecting off its silver rim. Was Thora the highest-status woman among the Geats? Her clothes were ordinary working-day wool, but the set of her shoulders, her measured step, the lift of her head—they all signaled her pride.

As Hild watched, Thora approached the dark-haired youth and held out the horn to him. He seemed surprised. Thora’s lips moved as if she was whispering to him. Finally, he took the horn, drank, and returned it to her.

She moved on to the other high-ranking men, then to Thialfi—and then to Mord, who flicked his eyes over to Hild before taking the horn and drinking.

Hild knew she should be paying close attention, remembering the faces of the men Thora had taken the horn to so she would know their ranks—information that could be vital to her well-being—but she couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she kept picturing the riverbank, where she had left behind any hope of freedom. What a fool she’d been. If she’d followed Unwen, she would be free by now. Instead, she’d squandered her chance, leaving her with nothing but bitter regret.

She looked up as someone approached her, but it was only slave girls, the two she had seen standing near the door, the older one with a bright blond plait down her back, the
other with curls fighting to escape her braid. They curtsied to her, but she didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t they know enough to wait until she summoned them?

“Welcome,” the older girl said, and this time Hild did look at her, unable to hide her anger. Did the seaweed-eaters not even bother to train their slaves?

“Perhaps you would like to bathe after your journey. If you come with us …” The girl held out her hand to Hild, as if she were inviting her to join the two of them. It took Hild a moment to realize she
was
inviting her. Both slaves had started for the door, assuming Hild would follow them. She shook her head in exasperation. Although she hadn’t expected much from Geatland, she had expected a great deal more than this. Even the slaves didn’t know their places. Well, she could hardly teach them now.

Wearily, she rose and followed them.

In the antechamber, she retrieved her sword, strapping the belt around herself. She saw the slaves raising their eyebrows at the idea of a girl wearing a sword, but she pretended not to notice.

When they stepped through the door, the wind whistled around the corner of the hall, sending snow into Hild’s face. She pulled her hood up, happy to be able to hide behind it again. The older slave directed somebody to bring Hild’s saddlebags, and they hurried along a narrow lane, their heads bent into the sharp wind, until they came to a small house and ducked inside.

Hild stood beside the door as one of the slaves built up the fire and the other went out again for water. The anger that had gripped her was gone, replaced by numbness.

The fire flared and the slave girl looked up at her. “Sit, if you’d like,” she said, gesturing toward the bed.

Hild was too tired to be affronted by the familiarity the slave showed her. She crossed to the bed and lowered herself onto the mattress. Straw, not feathers—no surprise in that.

“Did my brothers treat you well?”

Hild looked at the girl. With sudden clarity she saw the line of her brows and the shape of her eyes that linked her to Wulf and Wake. “You’re not a slave,” she said.

“A slave?” Now it was the girl’s turn to be affronted. She stared at Hild, her lips parted.

“You’re Thora’s daughter.”

The girl nodded, her gaze wary.

“Forgive me,” Hild said. “In my uncle’s kingdom, slaves wear their hair as you do.” As she spoke, she realized why she’d misunderstood. It wasn’t just the braid; it was the blond hair and something about the girl’s features that made her think of the slaves at home, so many of whom had been captured from the land of the Geats. Yet her bearing and her behavior should have told Hild the girl’s status. She lowered her face into her hand. How else could this day go wrong?

She raised her head again and stood, then moved to
stand directly in front of the girl and spoke to her in the formal language appropriate to someone of the highest rank. “I give you greeting. I am Hild, sister-daughter to Ragnar, King of the Shylfings.” She curtsied low, her back straight; it was the kind of curtsy she would use for her uncle.

The girl watched her for a moment, as if she was trying to make up her mind. Then she said, “I am Wyn, daughter to Finn and Thora, sister to Wulf and Wake. Be welcome, Hild.” She, too, curtsied. And then she smiled.

Hild tried to smile back, but to her horror, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She turned away, but not before Wyn saw.

“Here, sit while we wait for the water,” Wyn said, touching Hild’s arm lightly. “You must be hungry—we’ll eat just as soon as you’ve bathed.” She busied herself, turning to the fire.

Hild knew she was being given time to recover. She swallowed back her tears and took a shaky breath, followed by another, this time not as shaky. Finally, she felt her chest relax.

Hild rose again as the door opened and the other girl entered, escorting two men—real slaves this time—who carried buckets of water, which they set by the fire before they departed silently.

Wyn pushed the second girl forward. “This is my cousin, Gerd.”

There was something about Gerd—her unruly hair,
perhaps, or the way her emotions played freely across her face—that made Hild think of Beyla. The thought warmed her. Again, she curtsied formally. When Gerd scowled in confusion, Wyn pushed her cousin into a curtsy of her own. This time when Hild met Wyn’s eyes, her smile was genuine, and it extended beyond her lips. There was no denying that Geatland was more backward than she had ever dreamed possible, but at least she’d found an ally. And she knew that if she was to survive here long, she would need all the allies she could get.

•   •   •

A meal—a real meal, eaten indoors before a fire—followed the bath. Wyn and Gerd chatted companionably while the three of them ate, allowing Hild to sink into silence. She watched with amused detachment the way Wyn shepherded Gerd, not allowing her to ask the questions she really wanted to, especially about the terrible bruise she’d seen on Hild’s side from when the creature had carried her. It didn’t hurt very much anymore, and Hild had almost forgotten about it until she removed her shift and heard Gerd gasp. As she’d bathed, she’d seen Wyn give her cousin a stern look that forbade her from asking about it—just as Wyn was doing again now, while they ate.

The older girl was doing her best to make her feel welcome, Hild could tell, and she knew she should try harder to be sociable, but doing so was difficult. She kept slipping into her own thoughts, as if she were watching shadows on
a wall.
Pay attention
, she scolded herself, and then was glad she had.

“Did you see how scared Rune looked in the hall?” Gerd said.

Hild saw the consternation on Wyn’s face, and how much she wanted her cousin not to have spoken such words, but it was too late.

“She means King Wiglaf,” Wyn explained. “That’s his nickname—Rune.”

“Rune,” Hild repeated, in what she hoped was a non-judgmental tone. Not only was he younger than she’d thought he’d be, but his people called him by a
nickname
? She tried to imagine anyone using a nickname for her uncle, and failed. Didn’t these people value honor?

“He wasn’t scared,” Wyn said to Gerd. “He just doesn’t know all the protocol yet.”

“And why doesn’t he?” Hild asked.

“He wasn’t brought up in the hall,” Wyn said.

Hild waited.

“He was raised on a farm.”

The cheese she had just swallowed hardened in her throat. It was even worse than they joked about back home. The king of the Geats really
was
a country bumpkin.

“He was raised by a far-minded woman,” Gerd added.

Hild looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Wyn said, giving her cousin an angry glance. “She means nothing. Pay her no mind.”

“No, I’d like to know,” Hild said. When neither of them spoke, she added, “I … I, too, am far-minded.”

“You are?” Gerd said. “So was Amma, the old woman who raised Rune. And she could interpret dreams, too.” She got the words out in a rush before Wyn could stop her.

But rather than quiet the younger girl, Wyn took up the story. Being far-minded seemed to carry no stigma here. “Amma wasn’t from the farm,” Wyn said. “She wasn’t even a Geat. She came here a long time ago seeking refuge from a feud. They say she was a peaceweaver, but—”

Wyn stopped. She didn’t need to say more for Hild to know what had happened—that the peaceweaving had failed. Just like it would now. She ran her thumbnail along a crease in the wooden tabletop, stopping when she reached a dark knothole. Had the tribe who married Amma to their enemy truly intended peace? Or had they been full of treachery, like Bragi and her uncle?

“She died, though,” Gerd added, her voice a whisper. “The dragon killed her.”

Hild nodded and turned to Wyn. “Like your father.”

Wyn looked down as if she was steadying herself. Then she met Hild’s eyes. “Yes. Like my father.”

“Thialfi told me,” Hild said. She reached out to touch the other girl’s hand. The fire snapped, but there was no other sound. “My father was killed when I was young,” she said. “I remember when they brought him home.”

They fell silent, and Hild knew Wyn was working to
control her grief, still recent and raw. When the other girl raised her head again, her eyes were bright.

“Come. You must be tired. Let us take you to the guest quarters.”

Hild nodded, even though her exhaustion had fled. The king had been raised by a far-minded woman? A peaceweaver? As Wyn and Gerd escorted her down the narrow lanes, she couldn’t stop her mind from working.

At the cottage where they left her, a fire had been laid, and her baggage brought inside. She blinked in the flickering firelight, then walked across the small room to test the bed. It might not have been a cabinet bed, whose doors she could close for warmth, but this mattress was stuffed with feathers, not straw. She was almost ready to sink into it when she heard men’s voices outside the door. Mord’s voice.