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?”
Cian blinked, said, “Lady wife?”
“My niece, the lady Hild.”
Every head in hall turned. Hild felt the weight of their regard. Like a gold crown. She regarded them back.
“Don’t faint,” her mother murmured, one hand under her elbow. Where had she come from? “Take a breath. Take another. Stand.” The ground was a long way down, and heaving. “Breathe. Straighten your back. Smile. Step forward. Step now, child.”
She walked with her mother at her elbow. Palms beating on tables followed her like surf.
Then she was standing with Cian before the small oak table carved and inlaid with Edwin’s emblem. The red-gold boar’s head flickered and swam in the torchlight as though it was running. Coelfrith’s men placed the sack and the keg on the table, opened the sack to spill a handful of hazelnuts over the oak. Mead and hazelnuts. Fruit of Elmet.
“Bishop,” Edwin said, and Paulinus stepped forward with the white cloth in his hand.
Edwin smiled at her, that spreading, lard-melt smile of a king roping his subject, harnessing her to his purpose. Paulinus smiled at her. Cian smiled at her and held out his left hand.
Cian, with his chestnut hair. Cian, with his bold cloak. Cian who didn’t know the truth. You can’t have him.
His hand was still out. Cian, the six-year-old with the stick, the fourteen-year-old with the boy’s sword, the gesith with the ringed sword.
You can’t have him. But now she must. The Yffings would fall. She’d seen the pattern. And now, at last, she also saw a way, when that time came, to keep them both safe. To keep her people safe.
She put her hand in his.
They put their hands on the table. Edwin and Æthelburh laid theirs on top, and the Crow draped the cloth over all.
Paulinus spoke for a long time—of loyalty, of a marriage to be witnessed before God in Elmet, of sacred oaths—but Hild hardly heard him. All she could see was the triumph on his face, the satisfied articulation of his lips: Sinner, his mouth said, doomed sinner and no more my rival. He knew the truth. Æthelburh knew. And Edwin. But now the lie, Cian, son of Ceredig king, would be sealed over the truth. Edwin thought the lie would make him safe without having to call in the sons Æthelburh wanted to keep far away. Without having to let his seer go.
But that was like a tiny piece of grit in a loaf of pure white bread. It was nothing. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the truth, rising like birdsong, like the scent of flowers opening to the sun, of her wyrd. Cian’s hand beneath hers. It always had been so. It had always been meant to be so. Fate goes ever as it must.
* * *
On the slow journey from Yeavering to Elmet, during the day, riding one on either side, Cian and Hild talked to Edwin of revenues and tithes, of plans and obligations; of how Edwin would bring Wuscfrea to learn the land and how often seer and ealdorman would visit the court. At night they separated, Cian to the fireside among his gesiths, Hild to her wagon, with her mother and Begu and Gwladus.
Her mother spoke to her alone just once. “This keeps you safe, both of you. It keeps us all safe. We think it’s for the best.”
We. Æthelburh and her mother, protecting their children.
As they rode south the weather softened to full spring. James the Deacon joined them outside York with his choristers. At Caer Loid, the night before the wedding, he heard her confession.
“There can never be too much love in the world,” he said. “You do it to save two lives. More than two. God blesses you. God blesses your land. Pray, every day, and find peace.” Then he smiled and looked around the small, plain church. “Also, give the place a bit of gilding. A beautiful house makes God happy.”
The small church was packed: Paulinus and Stephanus officiated, embroidered robes swinging as stiff as dragonfly wings through the incense smoke, jewels winking in the bright candlelight—white wax candles, lots of them. Lots of wax from lots of bees; her bees; her church; her people. James and his two choristers sang, though the wooden church packed with people was not the best sound board he could have chosen. The Latin flowed over her like smoke.
The front was packed with those who would leave soon: Edwin and Æthelburh, Wuscfrea and Eanflæd, Wilnoð and Bassus, Breguswith and Luftmaer. She would never live with them again. She would never follow the court to Bebbanburg and Yeavering, Derventio and Goodmanham, Sancton and Brough and York. She would only visit. At the end of the second bench, Begu and Uinniau. Strange, to think she was marrying before Begu.
The back rows were dense with her people: Oeric and Hild’s gesiths—a formal gift now, from the king. Pyr and Saxfryth. And behind them Morud and Gwladus, Lweriadd and Sintiadd, Rhin and a knot of Menewood folk.
Onnen wasn’t there. There had been no time. But perhaps they could visit the bay after the harvest. She shied away from that, the world where she was married. Not yet. Not just yet. She gripped her seax for courage. Now she knew how Hereswith had felt. She wished Hereswith were there. But there were scores of people. Elmetsætne. Her people. Faces she didn’t know, not yet. But she would. She would know them all.
She looked left and right. She couldn’t see as much as she’d like; the unfamiliar veil got in the way. No doubt she’d learn how to manage that, how to use it to her advantage, as her mother did.
Paulinus droned on. James sang some more.
And then Paulinus was giving them the blessing, “… Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Blessed by God. You can’t have him. She had to. God blesses you.
The church bulged with the people’s Amen. Cian was beaming. Beaming at Paulinus, the king, the people. Her.
This was the sum of all his dreams. Greater than his dreams. This was honour, respect, riches. Belonging. Ealdorman was not so different from king, and he was to be ealdorman in his very own Elmet wood, ealdorman for a strong king. For a while.
She took his hand.
* * *
Beef and mutton, salmon and eel. Good bread and mead, an astonishing quantity of mead.
Gwladus filled her cup often. Cian filled her cup. She filled Cian’s. They drank a lot and didn’t talk much. The space between them slowly filled with awareness, like a honeycomb, thick, dense, holding them in their place.
No one noticed. Wedding feasts were for the guests, not the newlyweds.
Night was for the newlyweds.
* * *
Hild sat on the borrowed blanket on the borrowed bed in the bower, wearing nothing but her thinnest, finest undershift, while Gwladus hung her overdress and veil in the nook and pondered where to hang the belt and seax.
“Here, over the corner post,” Hild said.
Gwladus looked at the slaughter seax, then at Hild. “It’s a wedding night, lady, not a war.”
“I’m used to it. He’s used to it. It’s just a knife.”
Gwladus sighed, hung the belt over the post, and carried the bucket of soapy water through the curtain. When she came back she brought a tiny bottle and a
gold comb from Hild’s box. She dabbed a drop of jessamine on her little finger, ran it over the comb’s teeth, and combed Hild’s hair. Hild closed her eyes, enjoying the pressure of the hand on her crown, the tug of the comb, the firm strokes.
“There.” Gwladus tipped Hild’s chin up, examined her critically, tucked a fall of hair behind Hild’s left ear. Nodded. She put the comb and bottle away, then spent a while fussing with the placement of the taper, trying the table, then the niche, back to the table, the windowsill. Hild couldn’t see what difference it made.
Eventually Gwladus settled on the table by the corner.
Hild picked at the blanket. Gwladus cleared her throat. “So. I beat the mattress. The sheets are clean and warmed. That is, they were warm, and I’ve no doubt you’ll warm them up again soon enough. And I found some dried lavender for your pillows. There’s water in this pitcher, beer in this, and cheese here under the cover.”
“Gwladus…”
Gwladus ignored her. “I won’t be outside the curtain, not tonight, but I’ll be in Begu’s room next door. If you need me. Not that you’ll need me.”
“Gwladus…” She heard voices outside.
Gwladus stood before her, close enough for Hild to smell. Hild didn’t look up. If she did, she would pull Gwladus close and never let her go. “Enjoy him, lady. I can hear them outside now. I’ll send him in. Only him.”
The curtain swished. The door beyond opened. Raucous laughter. Hild reached for her belt, arranged the seax so its handle would be towards the bed, an easy draw.
“No,” Gwladus said clearly from the other room. “No, I mean it. You, and you. Not a foot past this door or the lady will turn you into a toad. A prickless toad. That’s right, you clutch at it while it’s still there.” More laughter. Muffled comments. “Now, my lord. This way. I’ll run these oafs off.”
The door closed. She stared at her knees. The curtain swished.
He sat on the bed next to her.
She stared at his knees. Blinked. Looked up at his face. “You’re wearing your cloak. Are you cold?” It came out as a challenge.
Even in the shadowed light, she saw his pupils tighten to pinpricks. “You’ve got your seax to hand. Are you frightened?”
Silence. Voices outside slowly faded. She tried again. “Really, are you cold? I am.”
He jumped up, flung out his left arm, and settled back down with his arm and cloak around her. Around her shoulder. They sat stiffly. The thin linen between her breasts trembled. Was she scared? This was Cian. She had knocked him down half a hundred times.
She touched her cheek to his. It prickled, a little. A muscle in his jaw jumped. He had knocked her down half a hundred times. But his jaw still jumped. She reached around his waist. Closed her eyes.
Silence. She breathed, in and out, in and out. He breathed, as fast as she did. She felt the muscles sliding over his ribs. He smelt of thyme and mead and that iron-and-salt tang that made her nostrils flare.
She knew what he looked like. Knew how his prick bobbed free, that his nipples looked like red currants. Knew the feel of his tongue. Knew him alive and alert and ready. But she didn’t know this man.
She put her other hand on his belly. Hit his buckle. She pulled back. “That buckle!” The knife buckle.
He blushed.
“Take it off. Take your cloak off. Take it all off.”
“Not until you throw your knife in the corner.”
They sounded like six-year-olds. “I won’t throw it.”
She stood and carried it carefully to the nearest corner, by the table. Turned. Saw how his gaze fastened on her as she stood outlined by candlelight. Trust Gwladus. She let him look. It was a very thin undershift. He could probably see right through it, right to her. Her nipples sharpened.
He took off his cloak. She folded it carefully while he pulled off his shoes, then his belt, then his tunic. She laid them in a pile on the cloak, then carried it to the corner, next to her knife, out of reach. She turned, looked deliberately at him, at the lines of tight muscle under his hose. The baggy part, tented now. Growing, pointing a little to the left.
They both swallowed.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
That made no sense. “But you’ve had lots of women.”
“I know what to do with women. I don’t know what to do with you. No, I don’t mean— You’re not housefolk. You’re highfolk. And Anglisc.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“And I don’t know if you want me. I don’t know why you didn’t want me before.”
She took his hand, laid it on her breast. She knew how that would feel, knew the line of fire that would run to his belly, to his loins. “Of course I want you. I’ve put my hand on your belt since I could say my name. I’ve shown you magic, I’ve made magic for you. Drop your shield now, and we’ll give each other magic.”
She stepped against him, so his nose touched the arch of her ribs, so he could smell her, smell that earth and honeysuckle and sharp sap of woman running out of her. She put a hand on his shoulder—the fillet of muscle running from his neck to the bone at the point—and one on the back of his head. And it leapt between them, like the understanding between gesiths locked in combat, like the awareness running between a school of fish, a flock of birds, a herd of horses: We are us.
She did want him. She wanted all of him, everything, wanted to fill herself with him until she couldn’t breathe. Wanted to pull him through her from the outside, to pull his skin through her skin, his muscle to hers, his bone to her bone. She could squeeze him, crush him to her, flex, strain, and reach, fight without blood, without bruises.
And she did.
She closed tight around him, tight as a fist, tighter, and his eyes were the bluest blue she had ever seen, bluer than the sky, bigger than the sky, wide, endless, the horizon of home.
* * *
On the day after her wedding she lay at the edge of the hazel coppice, one cheek pressed to the moss that smelt of worm cast and the last of the sun, listening: to the wind in the elms, rushing away from the day, to the jackdaws changing their calls from “Outward! Outward!” to “Home now! Home!” In a while she would follow.
Author’s Note
Hild was real. She was born fourteen hundred years ago in Anglo-Saxon England. Everything we know about her comes from the Venerable Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation, the foundational text of English history.* The first half of her life can be summed up in one short paragraph:
She was born circa 614, after her mother, Breguswith, had a dream about her unborn child being a jewel that brings light to the land. Hild’s father, Hereric, of the royal house of Deira, was poisoned while in exile at the court of Ceredig, king of Elmet. Her older sister, Hereswith, married a nephew of Rædwald, king of East Anglia. Hild, along with much of Edwin’s household, was baptised by Paulinus circa 627, in York. She then disappeared from the record until 647, when she reappeared in East Anglia about to take ship for Gaul to join her sister—at which point she was recruited to the church by Bishop Aidan.
We don’t know exactly where Hild was born and when her father died—or her mother. We have no idea what she looked like, what she was good at, whether she married or had children. But clearly she was extraordinary. In a time of warlords and kings, when might was right, she began as the second daughter of a homeless widow, probably without much in the way of material resources and certainly in an illiterate culture, and ended up a powerful adviser to statesmen-kings and teacher of five bishops. Today she is revered as Saint Hilda.
So how did Hild ride this cultural transformation of petty kingdoms into sophisticated, literate states? We don’t know. I wrote this book to find out. I learnt what I could of the late sixth and early seventh centuries: ethnography, archaeology, poetry, numismatics, jewellery, textiles, languages, food production, weapons, and more. And then I re-created that world and its known historical incidents, put Hild inside the world, and watched, fascinated,
as she grew up, influenced and influencing. (The deeper I go, the more certain I become that I’ve caught a tiger by the tail. I’m writing the next part of her story now.)
While people in Hild’s time may have understood their world a little differently from how we understand ours, they were still people—as human as we are. Their dreams, fears, political machinations, fights, loves, and hesitations were shaped by circumstance and temperament, as are ours. Hild, though singular, was singular within the constraints of her time. Her time was occasionally brutal.
I don’t pretend to be an historian. Although I did my utmost not to contravene what is known about the early seventh-century material culture, languages, natural world, power politics, and individuals of the British Isles, this is a novel. I made it up.
A NOTE ON PRONUNCIATION
Hild would have encountered at least four languages on a regular basis: Old Irish (Irish), Ancient British (Brythonic), Latin, and Old English (Anglisc).
I won’t attempt to codify the pronunciation of Old Irish; it’s defeated better than me.
Ancient British is easier. If you think of it in the same terms as modern Welsh, you’ll get a sense of how to proceed. Every letter is sounded, c is pronounced k, dd as th, ff as v, rh as hr, and u, g, and w can be … mercurial. So:
Cian: KEE-an
Gwladus: OO-la-doose
Arddun: AR-thun
Rhroedd: HRO-eth
Urien: IRRI-yen
Uinniau: oo-IN-NI-eye (the short form sounds very like Winny)
Latin sounds much as it looks with the exception of v, which sounds like w. Consonants are hard (g as in go, and c as k).
Old English is a particular and deliberate tongue, with every consonant and vowel sounded, r’s trilled, and dipthongs accented on the first element. Some simplified rules include pronouncing:
æ: like the a in cat
sc: sh, as in ship
g: sometimes y, as in yes
īc: usually as itch
f: sometimes as v, as in very
ð: th, as in then
So:
Hild: A Novel Page 64