Then her uncle caught her eye, and the look he gave her chilled her even more. He flicked his eyes to a guard, compelling Hild to look as well. The guard’s masked helmet obscured his face, but she could tell his gaze was trained on her and on the king as he awaited orders. Hild understood perfectly. She was to comply with whatever her uncle said. She, too, was to smile.
The king held her eyes, warning her. Then he turned to address the crowd and his expression grew serious. His voice carrying to the far corners of the hall, he spoke. “Beowulf, King of the Geats, is dead.”
Gyldenseld had already been quiet, but now even the fire stopped crackling. The smiles Hild had seen faded as warriors leaned in to listen.
“A dragon attacked the kingdom, taking the life of its lord.”
Hild drew in her breath. The word dragon flew through the hall as warriors repeated it, their voices hushed and questioning. Did they remember the cloud over the lake, the one Ari Frothi had said was dragon smoke?
Her uncle held up his hand for silence. “We need not fear the monster,” he said. “It, too, lost its life, slain by King Beowulf and the kingdom’s new lord.”
He turned back to the Geats. “Our peoples, Shylfing and Geat, have long been at war. Your new king argues wisely, saying that the time for a truce has come.”
The man with the damaged arm nodded.
The king looked at Bragi, then at the other men standing nearby, his gaze stopping on first one face, then another. Finally, he looked back at the Geats and stepped forward. As he did, he reached for Hild’s hand and drew her up beside him.
“To Wiglaf, King of the Geats,” he said, holding Hild’s hand in a grip so tight it was all she could do to keep from crying out, “I give Hild, my sister-daughter, to serve as a peace pledge between our kingdoms.”
Hild stood rigid. Finally, she understood. The lay Ari Frothi had sung her began to make sense. The older Geat said something, but she didn’t hear it, because her blood was thrumming so loudly in her ears.
Her uncle’s hand crushed hers in its grip as he pulled her down into another curtsy. The Geats were bowing, and now her crushed hand was free again, and her mother was leading her from the hall. They emerged into the harsh air, passing the place where Garwulf stood as straight as his spear. Down the path they went, past the people who turned curiously to see who it was, past Siri’s house, and finally, through the phalanx of warriors who stood guard outside Hild’s house. Hild scarcely breathed, trying not to think.
This was the form her exile would take. She had thought being confined inside was unbearable, but now, stumbling on the threshold, she knew she would have willingly stayed here forever if she could.
Instead, her uncle was ridding the kingdom of her and her far-minded ways. If the Brondings wanted vengeance for the death of their kinsman, they would no longer find her here. Instead, she would be far from everyone she knew and loved. Her uncle was sentencing her to live out her life in a land full of lumpen, boorish farmhands.
She was being sent to marry the king of the hayseeds.
She crumpled onto the floor beside the fire and sobbed.
TWELVE
MIST PRESSED AGAINST HILD’S SKIRTS. IT WET HER FACE and balled into tiny spheres of moisture on the wool threads of her cloak. She stood stiffly, looking neither right nor left. Fog-shrouded shapes hurried past her, carrying bundles, calling orders in voices she’d known her entire life. Voices she would never hear again. She curled her fingers into her sleeves against the cold.
Siri had been allowed in the previous night, and she’d brought Hild’s young nephews and the baby. Hild had held the infant one last time in her arms, cupping her head in her hand, but when she’d felt her heart beginning to break, she’d hurriedly given her back to her sister. Holding this baby was too strong a reminder of the one she would never meet. She wouldn’t be there to help Siri in her confinement; she wouldn’t watch her funny nephews grow to manhood. She had spoken to each of the boys briefly, then turned away, unable to comfort them in their confusion, her cheeks throbbing with unshed tears.
Now, standing near the East Gate in the early-morning chill, she stared, unseeing, into the gray air, hoping Siri wouldn’t come again, knowing that her mother’s presence was both a balm and a trial, threatening Hild’s carefully maintained calm. She didn’t need anyone to tell her why her mother was keeping so busy supervising the baggage.
The sound of someone running made her turn. Beyla almost knocked her over with a hug. “I didn’t think I’d find you,” she said, releasing Hild. They stood silently, looking at each other. Beyla sniffed, her eyes filling.
“Don’t you dare cry,” Hild said.
Beyla looked away, blowing her hair out of her eyes, as she tried to control her emotions. “Brynjolf’s going with you,” she said.
“He is?”
She nodded. “I always said he’d make a fine warrior. Maybe today is finally that day.” She tried to smile, but instead, she teared up again. “I can’t help it, Hild,” she said, her face crumpling. She covered it with her hands, then lowered them and reached for her left wrist. “Here, this is for you.” She pulled off the twisted silver armband she wore as a bracelet and pushed it at Hild.
“Beyla, no! Your father gave it to you.”
“He would have wanted you to have it.”
“Are you sure?”
Beyla nodded, tears trembling on her lashes and threatening to spill onto her cheeks.
Hild reached to hug her again, but Beyla gave a sob, then turned and rushed away. Watching her disappear into the thick air, Hild rubbed the battered silver piece between her thumb and forefinger, then slipped it over her wrist and pushed it up her arm. It was a warrior’s armband that Beyla’s father had won in a skirmish before he’d died. Hild was glad she’d asked her mother to give Beyla the small tapestry she’d woven last winter, the one with horses galloping along its edges. Yet silver band and gold-threaded tapestry were no recompense for this parting. She swallowed back her sorrow, lowering her head and closing her eyes.
When she opened them, a horse loomed out of the fog, making her step back and almost trip over a bag on the ground behind her. She steadied herself as a set of long, elegant horse legs stopped directly in front of her. One wide hoof stood for a moment before it rose, then placed itself carefully on the earth again. Hild could feel the animal’s warmth, and when she looked up, she saw a rider lowering himself from the saddle.
Arinbjörn.
He held the reins in one hand, his eyes on hers. She couldn’t read his expression. Had he grown taller again while she’d been shut up? He passed the reins to her and her hand automatically reached for them.
Her cousin regarded her for a moment longer, then pulled her into an embrace. “He doesn’t mean to keep the truce with the Geats,” he whispered into her ear.
She fought to pay attention to his words, so grateful was she to see him again.
“You’re just a decoy; he’ll send an army to destroy them.” She could barely hear him, he spoke so quietly. Then he held her at arm’s length and said in a voice he meant others to hear, “Fire-eyes can never replace Fleetfoot, but he’ll try his best.”
Hild opened her mouth, then closed it. “I can’t take your horse!”
“No, of course you couldn’t take him,” Arinbjörn said, and laughed, his voice brittle in the cold. “That’s why I’m giving him to you.”
Hild looked into his eyes and saw no laughter there. Had her cousin forgiven her? For saving his life? She wasn’t sure.
He gave her one last look before he walked away, melting into the mist.
She willed herself not to give in to her grief and leaned against the horse’s neck. Of course he had forgiven her, she realized. He loved Fire-eyes as much as she had loved Fleetfoot.
The horse whinnied impatiently and Hild knew he wanted to be with his proper master.
Another horse approached, and Hild looked up. Its rider was Mord. She hadn’t seen him since the day s
he’d served the mead in the hall. He called out to a slave, who scurried over to grab the bag Hild had nearly tripped over. Mord brought his horse closer and looked from Fire-eyes to Hild and back again, not attempting to hide his contempt. “Waste of a good horse,” he muttered before pulling on his reins and riding forward again.
Was he going along? Hild hoped not, although it was hard to know whom she would choose if she could. What warrior would trust her now? Which of them would want to accompany her? She wasn’t even sure about Brynjolf—what must he have heard about her? The men didn’t even have enough confidence in her to let her carry her own table knife. Her mother had told her, in a tone devoid of expression, that her food would be cut for her if need be.
Well, she told herself, she was being sent to be married, not to fight.
Then Arinbjörn’s whispered words came back to her. What had he said? That her uncle wouldn’t keep the truce? That he would send an army? She was no peace pledge. Her uncle wasn’t just getting rid of her. He was using her to trick the Geats.
Two men—one small, one hulking—rode slowly past, and she glanced up to see Gizzur the Loud and Hadding Oxfoot. Both of them had earned arm rings for their skill at tracking game and enemy warriors. They wore bows on their backs and swords at their sides, and she heard the faint jingle of mail under their cloaks. They must be going as scouts. Gizzur, a slight, wiry man, wore a leather cap that fit tightly over his close-cropped hair, and even in the misty light, Hild could see how neat his clothes were, especially compared to Hadding’s. Gizzur’s helmet, strapped to the back of his horse, gazed at her blankly with its dark eyeholes.
Hadding saw her watching them and leered. Beneath his helmet’s mask, the remains of his morning meal were evident in his bushy beard. She recalled the way he had escorted her home from the hall, his clubfooted gait forcing her up and then down again with each step, his fingers bruising her arm. He was obviously more at home on a horse. Without his limp, he seemed to feel powerful, judging by the expression on his face. She thought of his wife, a pale, frightened-looking mouse she’d seen in the hall, and wondered if Hadding treated her cruelly.
“Come, love,” her mother said, and Hild turned to see her glaring up at the warrior. Hild looked away from him. Her mother gave her no final words of advice, just warm arms around Hild’s body and a cool face against her cheek.
“Let’s go!” Mord called.
Hild pressed herself further into her mother, seeking courage, some kind of armor against the uncertain future her uncle had condemned her to.
Hooves sounded behind her, and a hand reached down to pull her away from her mother. Mord’s hand.
Hild gave him such a look that he recoiled, dropping her arm. Good, she thought, remembering Unwen’s words about men thinking she might be able to steal their power. Let him fear me.
Her anger buoyed her. She brushed at her elbow where Mord had grabbed it, and squared her shoulders. Then, without looking back at her mother, because doing so would take more strength than she possessed, Hild climbed into Fire-eyes’s saddle, found a place for herself amid the bundles the slaves had tied there, and gave the reins a tug.
In front of her rode Mord and the two scouts. A little to the side, Brynjolf sat astride his horse, polishing his already-gleaming dagger, the weapon he’d been awarded when he’d been promoted from the boys’ troop to the men’s. When she nodded at him, he looked away, pretending not to have seen her. At least Beyla wasn’t there to witness it. Hild repositioned the silver band on her arm, making sure it wouldn’t fall off.
As they neared the wooden gates, Hild saw the three seaweed-eaters waiting silently, already mounted, just inside. When their leader saw her, he gave her a bow. Startled, Hild returned it, then wondered whether she should have.
Ahead of her, the gate loomed, the door between Hild’s past life and the one her uncle and Bragi had decided for her. A harsh sound made her jump. It was just the croak of a raven landing on top of the wooden palisade, a dark shape in the misty air. She tried to calm the fluttery feeling in her chest.
Behind her, another noise made her turn to see the pony she had been meant to ride. Unwen was struggling to mount it.
“Oomph!” she said, sliding to the ground. Finally, a guard stepped forward and helped her up.
The pony trotted forward too quickly as Unwen tried to find her seat. Hild watched them, pulling Fire-eyes out of the pony’s path just in time.
“What are you doing?” she asked, more brusquely than she’d intended.
“It’s better than us both riding on the same horse, my lady,” Unwen said.
Hild stared at her, not comprehending.
“You didn’t think we’d let you go alone, not with all these men, did you, my lady?”
Words failed her, but Hild took a shaky breath. Unwen would be with her.
Ahead of her, Mord led the party, followed by the scouts, the three Geats falling in directly behind them. Hild followed the Geats, and behind her came Unwen, her muted gasps making it clear just how unaccustomed she was to riding. Brynjolf brought up the rear.
Then she was at the gate. Despite a wild desire to look back, she kept her face forward as she rode through it, leaving the stronghold, and her old life, behind.
On the other side, fog blanketed the fields and swallowed sound. Except for hooves hitting the path and an occasional “oomph” from Unwen, Hild heard nothing until a hawk shrieked in the trees—a warlike hunting cry. She glanced to her right but saw only ghostly trunks in the distance, beyond the troll rocks. The last time she’d seen those trees, golden leaves had flickered in the sunlight while she and Arinbjörn had practiced swordplay.
She looked away.
Ahead of them, the fog had lifted enough that she could make out the low buildings of a farm in the distance. As they approached, Hild saw a few scattered figures at work. One of them looked up when they neared, a farmer no older than she was. He stood watching her, then bowed low. As he looked up again, her hand, moving as if of its own volition, rose in greeting—and in farewell.
Then he was gone, and they were past the farm and on the rolling, rocky plain that led to the Wolfholt, still a line of dark trees in the distance. Hild laid her palm against her horse’s neck, and he gave his head a shake as if he was no more eager to enter the forest than she was.
The mist dissipated into gauzy wisps as the morning wore on, but the sun stayed hidden. No one spoke, and Hild felt the weight of the gray air settle over her. She made her mind a blank to keep away the image of her mother’s face, of Beyla’s. Arinbjörn’s eyes looking mirthlessly into hers. This morning he had seemed much older than the boy she knew. What had changed him? Was it what she had done? Or was it what he knew about the treachery his father was planning?
She shut out the thoughts, refusing to tangle with them. There was nothing she could do. She was a peaceweaver. She knew the stories, and how often they ended in tragedy, even when both sides’ intentions were honorable. It took only one old warrior, recognizing a sword that had belonged to his dead friend, and now worn by the man who had killed him, to rekindle the flames of war. He’d point out the sword to the dead man’s hotheaded nephew or grandson, who would seek vengeance, and the whole cycle would begin again, leaving grieving widows and lovers and children behind.
But in her case, there were no honorable intentions. The peace she had thought she was being sent to weave would be rent and bloodied before her loom was even in place.
Gizzur and Hadding had broken away from the others and ridden ahead to scout out their path. Hild assumed they were looking for routes an army could take on its way to subdue the Geats. How long after they left her in Geatland would it be before a troop of Shylfing spearmen returned to attack? Would they be fast about it, or would they wait out the winter, until spring hunger weakened the Geats?
But after the fight, they would bring her home! She sat up in her saddle, hope kindling in her heart. Then she slumped again. Bragi had no love for her and he
had her uncle’s ear. She would not be going home.
A noise made her turn to see Unwen coming up beside her. “Oh, my lady,” she groaned. “How do you bear it?”
Hild watched the slave, so unaccustomed to riding, put her hand to the small of her back, then grab for the reins again as she wobbled unsteadily on her perch.
“It gets easier,” Hild told her. But she knew it wouldn’t get much easier for Unwen. They would be riding every day until they got to the land of the Geats. How long that would take, she wasn’t sure, but it must mean many days of riding, and Unwen’s body would be stiff and aching until they arrived at their destination.
Ahead of them, saplings marked the edge of the Wolfholt. Gizzur came riding back to confer with Mord. Hild watched as they looked over the rest of the company, making sure everyone was in place before they entered the unfriendly forest. Mord’s eyes, glittering from behind his masked helmet, stopped when they got to her face, lingered for an instant, then flicked away. Does he think my eyes can harm him? She wondered if Mord feared that she could read his thoughts the way she had read those of the men who tried to kill Arinbjörn. If he did, what would he not want her to know? He was an ambitious man from a powerful family, but not quite powerful enough, not one of the king’s closest advisors. Mord always seemed to crave something more. What would he do to get it?
Suddenly, she remembered what had happened the day she had served the mead in the hall. She’d been so intent on honoring Garwulf that she’d hardly thought about Mord at all. But Mord would have seen things differently. To his mind, it must have seemed that she had insulted him in front of the entire hall. In front of the king. What a fool she’d been. She couldn’t have found a better way to make an enemy if she’d planned to.
She twined her fingers in Fire-eyes’s mane, trying to allow the horse’s warmth to steady her. It didn’t work.
As she watched Mord, he twitched his horse’s reins and rode into the trees. She had no choice but to follow.
Once they were under the forest eaves, the woods became a mixture of fir and ash, water from the morning mist dripping down on them from the few brown leaves that still clung to the branches above. Notches cut into tree trunks here and there blazed the trail, but this close to the Wolfholt’s edge, the path was wide and trodden enough that they could have found their way without the marks.
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