Peaceweaver

by Rebecca Barnhouse

  Hild caught her mother’s eye and smiled. Aunt Var, her father’s older sister, was as prickly as her chin and elbows were sharp, and her eyes were the same color as her iron-gray hair. Only her voice belied her features; it was low, warm, and melodious.

  “I’m sure the puppy won’t come near you, Aunt Var,” Hild said. “And look, there’s Brynjolf. He’ll keep it under control.”

  As the young warrior stepped out of Odin’s house, Hild lowered her chin and pouted in apology for getting him into trouble earlier. When he saw her, he laughed, then bowed to them all before kneeling in the dust to play with Inga and the puppy.

  Aunt Var glared at both boy and dog before she entered the temple.

  Hild followed her, ducking under the lintel, and paused, blinking, while her eyes adjusted.

  “Watch out,” Skadi said, bumping into her as she came through the door, and Hild took a step forward. There was scarcely enough room for all four of them in the temple, especially when the slave girl who accompanied them came in to hand them their tools. Hild grabbed the sheepskin before Skadi could get to it, leaving her cousin the whisk, while her mother and Aunt Var began to take down the summer tapestry that hung on the wall.

  While Skadi stooped to sweep dust from the corners, Hild polished the small altar, starting on the edges and working her way toward the center, where a metal bowl sat in front of the stone statue of Freyja. As they worked, Aunt Var began to hum. She kept a vast hoard of lays in her head. Women’s songs, Bragi scoffed when he heard them. When he chanted in the hall before the king’s hearth companions, he chose the histories of the tribes and lays of feuds and wars and heroes. Aunt Var’s songs told the other side of things, the side that said there were no feuds or wars or heroes without women sorrowing in the background.

  “Sing about the baby in the boat,” Hild said. “Please, Aunt Var?”

  Her aunt made a coughing sound that was the closest she ever came to laughing. “I’ve sung that one so often for you the goddess herself is tired of it.”

  “Don’t anger the goddess,” Skadi said, looking around in mock terror.

  Aunt Var hummed again, but instead of Hild’s favorite lay, she began one about a woman waiting without hope for her lover to return from war.

  Hild picked up the metal bowl from the altar and rubbed it until she could see the light from the open door reflected in it. She was glad Siri wasn’t here—ever since Wonred had been killed and Sigyn had sunk into her grief, Siri had taken to creeping away whenever Aunt Var sang this song. Especially when her husband wasn’t home. It wasn’t the sort of thing Aunt Var noticed, but Hild did.

  Her aunt shifted into a song about a woman who had been married to the enemy in order to bring peace between two feuding tribes. Hild shut her ears to it; she’d never liked this lay, with its emphasis on just how many kinsmen the lady had lost when the peace she’d been sent to weave couldn’t withstand the men’s hunger for vengeance. Her husband, her son, and her brother had all perished in the bitter swordplay. Hild wondered if there were any lays about successful peaceweavers. She’d have to ask her aunt to sing one of those next time.

  For now, though, she was relieved when Aunt Var cut the song short and started a harvest chant. Hild’s mother joined in as the two women lifted the tapestry, with its images of Freyja blessing the sheaves—a tapestry Hild’s great-grandmother had woven—onto its hooks on the wall. Seeing its craftsmanship made Hild hunger for her own loom. Half listening to the chanting, half picturing the tapestry she was working on, Hild turned from the bowl to the stone figurine. She ran the sheepskin over its surface, brushing away dust from the carved features. As her palm covered the top of the goddess’s head, sudden dizziness made her sway. Holding on to the edge of the altar to steady herself, she waited for the sensation to pass, but it didn’t. Instead, the light-headedness became an impression of warmth and power—tinged with something else. Then it was gone.

  Hild stood unmoving. What had happened? It seemed familiar, like a memory that hovered just beyond her reach. She had felt comfort, perhaps, and strength—the kind of strength she’d experienced earlier when she and Fleetfoot had galloped across the field so fast her eyes had watered from the wind. Warmth, too; she’d felt warmth like a stone heated in the ashes and tucked under the blankets on a winter’s night. And light. Light like a stream of golden mead poured from the drinking horn, pierced by the glow of the hall fires. But snaking behind it all were the tendrils of smoke that invaded her dreams.

  For an instant, the sensation returned.

  “Are you finished?”

  The words brought her back to the world. Hild looked up to see her mother handing the rolled-up summer tapestry to the slave. They were all watching her: her mother, Aunt Var, Skadi.

  She looked back down at the statue and swallowed. “I’m ready.”

  The others went out, but her mother lingered for a moment, giving Hild a searching look. Hild met her eyes, but she didn’t speak. Finally, her mother turned and Hild followed her out of the temple, emerging from the shadowy interior into the afternoon sun. Momentarily blinded, she stepped directly into the path of a man walking down the lane.

  “Watch where you’re— Oh! Forgive me, my lady,” the man said, and she looked up to see one of the Bronding noblemen, the one who had offered her his hand in the hall.

  She curtsied to him and his companions and felt the other women dropping into curtsies, as well. The Brondings responded with curt bows before they resumed their conversation and walked on. Although the Shylfings were at peace with the Brondings, the queen’s illness had made their alliance fragile. Hild’s mother had told her the Brondings wanted their interests expressed in the hall, which was why they’d sent the queen’s kinsmen to Gyldenseld. Few Shylfings agreed that the Brondings should have any say in the kingdom’s affairs. And although the queen was well liked, her kinsmen, with their ostentatiously fur-edged cloaks, were not.

  “Ugh, no mustaches,” Skadi said.

  “Hush, they’ll hear you,” Hild’s mother said, but Hild heard the amusement in her voice.

  Skadi ignored her. “It makes their lips look like slugs. Can you imagine kissing that?”

  Her cousin irritated her beyond all bearing, but Hild had to admit that she could be funny. She and her mother laughed, and even Aunt Var looked like she was suppressing a smile as the little party broke up, Skadi and Aunt Var heading in one direction, Hild and her mother in the opposite.

  Now that the two of them were alone, Hild steeled herself for what her mother had withheld in the presence of the others. If she didn’t scold her for the dirt on her gown, she would at least ask her questions about what had happened in the temple. But Hild was wrong.

  “I must attend the queen,” her mother said, touching Hild’s arm lightly before she turned down the path that led to the royal quarters.

  Relieved, Hild headed for home. It was past time for the midday meal and she was hungry. Now that the flurry of attention to her behavior in the hall had died down, she could eat and weave in peace.

  But peace, it turned out, had to wait until Unwen had made known her opinion about the condition of Hild’s gown. Although she didn’t say a word, her expression made up for Hild’s mother’s silence on the matter.

  “It will come clean,” Hild said as Unwen fastened the brooches on her everyday gown.

  Unwen grunted her disapproval so low that if Hild hadn’t grown up hearing it, she might not have recognized the sound.

  Finally, having eaten the bread and salty cheese Unwen prepared for her, Hild sank onto the stool in front of her loom. Images from the lay she had tried to get Aunt Var to sing, the story of the baby in the boat, were beginning to emerge in the threads. In the weave, the top of the mother’s head was just coming into view: she was running from danger, her infant in her arms. On the left side, enemy warriors with spears were already beginning to threaten her, and in the foreground, the boat rocked on the waves. Hild recalled the boat she had seen earlier,
out at the lake. Yes, she decided, running her fingers over the fabric; she could make those same graceful curves appear on her boat’s prow.

  It was still too early to tell, but Hild thought this might be the best tapestry she’d ever made. And that was saying something.

  She bent to her work, a ray of sun turning the cloth to gold under her fingertips.

  FIVE

  A SHADOW FELL OVER THE LOOM. HILD FROWNED BUT SHE didn’t stop working. Freyja was with her, guiding her hands, taking the threads places she wasn’t aware she wanted them to go until she got there. She didn’t want to lose her concentration.

  The shadow moved, this time blocking even more of her light. She looked up in irritation—which turned to laughter.

  Her cousin Arinbjörn leaned against the doorpost, smiling.

  “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at training?” Hild asked.

  “My father granted us a holiday for the rest of the day.”

  His father, the king.

  “Well, not a holiday. We’re supposed to be helping get a bonfire ready for the festival, but there were too many of us.” He sank to the floor beside her loom, wrapping his arms around his long legs. For an instant, Hild was transported to an earlier time, before her cousin had begun training with the boys, when the two of them had been inseparable. After his mother had fallen ill, Arinbjörn had spent most of his time with Hild. She might be three winters older, but he was good company. He could listen quietly while Aunt Var wove stories and Hild wove threads, but he was always ready for fun, too, joining in their adventures when Hild and Beyla allowed him to.

  “Come help me,” he said.

  She looked at her loom, but her concentration was gone and she knew it wouldn’t return while her cousin was here. Spending time with him was a rare treat now that he was part of the boys’ troop. Still, she had to make a show of resistance. “I can’t, I’m busy.”

  “Please?” He gazed at her beseechingly with his wide gray eyes, the lashes thick as a girl’s.

  Finally, judging that she’d made him wait long enough, she turned to him and smiled.

  “Hurry,” he said, standing and pulling her up with him. Laughing, they emerged into the light.

  “Look how tall you are!” Hild said, making Arinbjörn stop so she could measure herself against him. “You must have grown overnight—you’re almost as tall as me.”

  “But not as tall as Garwulf,” he said, giving her a sly look, and she knew he must have seen them riding together earlier.

  If he meant to embarrass her, it didn’t work. “Not nearly as tall as him. You’re no Garwulf, youngling,” she said, and tried to tousle his hair, but he ducked out of the way. “Where are we going?”

  Without answering, he led her toward the path that wound behind the hall. They passed the smithy and the cheerful ringing of hammer on anvil as the blacksmiths shaped weapons of war. Just beyond the smithy’s well, Arinbjörn ducked off the path and headed down a weedy trail where rows of smelly sheepskins were stretched out to dry. Hild hurried to keep up with him as he picked his way around a trash heap. Her cousin could get anywhere he wanted to without using the stronghold’s main pathways; he had shown Hild and Beyla so many shortcuts over the years that they were almost as good at it as he was.

  When they came to a wooden wall, Arinbjörn put his finger to his lips, looked both ways, leaned down to pick up something that had been hidden behind a rock, and then beckoned Hild forward. She stifled her laughter as he moved a loose board aside, stepped through the wall, and ended up on the dusty lane that led out the East Gate, the one hardly anybody used except farmers bringing their grain to the stronghold.

  They could have gotten here directly in half the time, but Hild had to admit that her cousin’s way was more fun. Once they were on the lane, she looked to see what he had picked up. A sheathed sword. “You’ve already got a sword,” she said, gesturing to the weapon that hung from his belt.

  “But you don’t.” He looked back at her and laughed. “Hurry up!” His voice squeaked on the word up.

  Although she was sorely tempted to say something, Hild pretended not to hear it. Instead, she ran to keep up. “Girls don’t fight, cousin.” She passed him and, walking backward, held out a length of her skirt. “See this?”

  “It never stopped you before.”

  “But that was when—” She stopped herself from completing her thought: when you still needed my help.

  “When what?” he asked as she fell into step beside him.

  “When I was young enough that it didn’t matter.”

  “You mean, when you weren’t afraid Garwulf might see you.”

  “Maybe,” she said, and this time, despite herself, she blushed.

  “All right, you don’t have to. Come watch me instead.”

  At the gate, the guard stepped out, his spear raised to challenge them. He stopped short, then backed up and bowed as he recognized Arinbjörn, who passed him without so much as a nod of recognition. For all that he was just a boy, Arinbjörn occasionally showed flashes of the ruler he would become, of the privilege and power and expectation of obedience from others. Hild knew it was hard for him to train with the other boys, almost all of whom were older than he was and better with their weapons. She wondered if they resented him and used his weakness with the sword against him.

  Not far from the stronghold’s wooden walls, a pile of boulders left over from some long-ago party of trolls sheltered a grassy spot where she had taken Arinbjörn on sunny days when he was a little boy. There they’d been away from the noise and dust and smell of town, but close enough that they could call for the guard if danger threatened. So often had they gone there that others recognized it as their private place, and Hild had seen farmers with their oxcarts taking the long way round it in deference to the atheling, the king’s son.

  Flat farmlands stretched before them, and in the distance, a dark line marked the Wolfholt, the frightening forest that bordered the kingdom on the east. Closer by, on the far side of the grassy area, a stand of birches danced in the breeze, their leaves flickering red to gold to red. The same breeze tugged at Hild’s hair and she pushed it out of her eyes. A harsh caw announced a raven that landed on a high branch, flapping its wings to steady itself. Another flew in just behind it and settled lower on the tree. “Look.” She pointed. “Odin’s watching us.”

  “Which one do you think is Thought and which one is Memory?” Arinbjörn asked, and Hild watched them for a moment, trying to decide. The birds’ black feathers shone in the red leaves against a piercingly blue sky. The scent of hay from afar mingled with the odor of cow manure and the sharp smell of goat. Even if she’d had to leave her loom, she was glad she had come.

  When she turned, Arinbjörn had dropped into a fighting stance. She sank into the grass and leaned against a lichen-covered rock. The cold of its surface crept through her gown. She shivered.

  In front of her, Arinbjörn stretched out his sword. His footwork was fine, Hild thought as she brought a critical eye to his movements. But the way he held his sword … If she could see how bad he was, what must the other boys think?

  “Try raising the point,” she called, and he looked over at her.

  “Like this?”

  She caught herself just before she started to frown. Her features blank, she said, “Elbow closer to your body—don’t expose your flank.”

  He jammed his elbow into his side.

  It was all she could do to keep from sighing out loud. Arinbjörn was far from stupid. Why was it so hard for him to learn the basics of defense? Because he’s growing so fast, she told herself. He was like a foal becoming a horse, awkward and ungainly. The moment his muscles learned a move, his bones grew again, pushing him off-kilter. As soon as his body catches up with the rest of him, she thought, he’ll be fine. She’d seen it with her cousin Skamkel. But still, it was hard to believe Arinbjörn had forgotten everything she had practiced with him, the things her father had taught her. And had he le
arned nothing from his daily drills with the other boys?

  He stretched out his blade again, and once again, his position left him open to attack. Unable to restrain herself any longer, Hild rose and stood behind him, holding her arm parallel to his, making him mirror her moves. “That’s it, good,” she said.

  “It’s easy when you’re standing there, but when I have to spar with someone—”

  “Don’t move.” She walked to the boulders, where he’d set the other sword, and unsheathed it. “Point up,” she said, looking back at him. “Don’t let it waver.” She took her place in front of him, knees bent, her own blade just touching his. “Ready? Go.”

  He hesitated, so she attacked, hoping his arm would remember the defensive position. Instead, his blade came under hers, and before she knew what had happened, her own sword was spinning out of her grasp. She watched in astonishment as it landed in the grass a spear’s length away.

  She looked back at Arinbjörn, who caught her eye, then pounded his thigh with his shield hand as he staggered with laughter.

  Comprehension dawned. “You—you planned this, didn’t you?”

  He gulped for air and wiped at his streaming eyes, but he was laughing too hard to answer.

  Her hand went to her mouth; no need to let him see that she was laughing, too. She picked up her sword and strode back to him. “Get in position.”

  “Girls don’t fight,” he managed to say as another fit of giggling overtook him.

  “In position. Now.” She raised her sword.

  Trembling with amusement, he raised his own sword. The point was barely in the air before she attacked. It took him two exchanges this time to send her blade flying. Even the ravens in the birch tree cawed with mirth as she picked it up, and she couldn’t help laughing along with them.

  “So you’ve learned one trick,” she said. Grinning at him, she took her position again. “Let’s see if you know any more.”

  His smile was still broad, but she could tell he was concentrating, watching her as carefully as she was watching him. He was coming under her blade and she couldn’t let him do that again. “Ready? Go.” As fast as she could, she slipped her point underneath his and advanced. He backed up, eluding her easily. She kept her eyes trained on the point of his sword, feeling the way he was leaning forward, letting everything her father had taught her, and all her experience from years of practicing with her cousin, guide her hand. He’d always been hesitant for fear of hurting her, and she would capitalize on that. Again, she advanced, keeping her weapon below his, but instead of retreating, he stepped forward, his blade moving so quickly she couldn’t follow it.