Hild: A Novel (78 page)

Cadwallon had escaped back to Wales, and Edwin would not follow. They did not know how strong the Mercian and Gwynedd alliance was. Penda hadn’t followed Cadwallon to Elmet, to Northumbria, and now was not the time to provoke him.

Edwin was looking at her with particular intensity. “Quenched forever,” he said again. “When it’s time.” He leaned back. “Though, as you say, Boldcloak did save the ætheling. He should have something for that.” He smiled, slitty-eyed. “Yes, he shall have something for that.”

Hild’s belly clenched with dread.

*   *   *

At York, the new church loomed huge and hollow and half-built around the tiny wooden shelter where they’d been baptised, dwarfing even the full war band glittering and gaudy in their gold. Their newly painted shields seemed childish and defiant against the cold stone; their arm rings and finger rings and looted torcs didn’t shimmer in the shadow. They rubbed their wrist guards and jewelled hilts against their cloaks, trying to coax an extra gleam or two, but they stayed sullen and dull. Some touched their crosses. Many more, their hidden amulets.

It felt all wrong. James had suggested to Paulinus that for this ceremony, perhaps the gesiths’ training yard would be best, but Paulinus had insisted—Christ’s house for Christ’s warrior—and when Hild had raised it with the king, Edwin, still slitty-eyed and unfathomable, had said that in matters of godness, he would let his chief priest decide.

After the Mass, James’s choir did their best, but without a roof to reflect and multiply their note, the rising hymns felt like loaves with their tops sliced off: flat and strange and thin.

It was strange, too, to watch a man take an oath on his knees.

But when Edwin raised him and faced his war band, and Hild, and the very pregnant Angeth, and pronounced Cian Boldcloak his right hand, his chief gesith, they beat their shields and roared: Boldcloak! Boldcloak! And Cian glowed like Owein come again. He glowed for Angeth.

Hild watched her. Three months.

*   *   *

James poured her more wine, and said, “You look as though your burdens are heavy on you, child.”

“I’m marriageable age, three hands taller than you, and I helped save the ætheling. I’m not a child.”

James sipped without comment, and Hild sighed.

“I’m sorry. Yes. They’re heavy. And part of me wishes I were a child.” Had she ever been? Perhaps in Elmet, before her father died.

“Do you wish to confess?”

“No.” Flat and hard. She sipped her own wine: sour. “This is sorry stuff.”

“I’m spending less time here than I did. And sometimes my stores … Well, let’s just say sometimes my stores appear to evaporate in my absence.”

Thou shalt not steal.
If Christians truly believed they would go to a fiery hell for breaking commandments, how come so many of them did? “How is Catterick?”

“Osric scowls and schemes, but he’s all wind.”

For now. But Osric was like everyone else, waiting, watching for the misstep: hers, Edwin’s, Paulinus’s. Waiting to see which way Penda cast. “The church?”

“Almost finished. And it feels … blessed.”

“This morning I had news you might find interesting. Felix, a Burgundian bishop, has arrived in Canterbury.”

“Burgundian? That is interesting. What is Dagobert up to?” He tapped his fingers against his lips and hummed, a mannerism that no longer quite suited him. “Didn’t you say that Dagobert is backing Sigebert?”

She nodded.

“Penda and Cadwallon, Cadwallon and Less Britain, Dagobert and Sigebert…” He shook his head. His hair was shorter: his curls no longer bounced. “I do hope it doesn’t turn into another interesting year. I think we’ve had enough excitement.”

*   *   *

But Cadwallon stayed in Gwynedd. Penda went back to his Mercian stronghold at Tomeworthig, and his West Saxon subking took charge of Dyfneint. Eadfrith recovered, and took a hundred gesiths to Craven to remind Osric of Edwin’s strength, and then on up to Tinamutha for the summer, to reinforce Osfrith in case of Pictish raids: There were rumours of bad weather north of the Tweed.

The court moved to Sancton. Every other woman in the place seemed to be giving birth, every other gesith beaming through his whiskers or getting drunk in despair, according to his situation. Breguswith and Begu were so busy that eventually the mothers asked Hild to help. The rumour began that the seer’s touch was a blessing: The babies came faster, more easily, and with less pain.

“She doesn’t do anything different from me,” Begu said, scrubbing her arms over a bucket, while Breguswith sat on the stool, showing her age for once, and Gwladus, muttering about Hild’s sleeves, untied Hild’s bloodied apron for the cold tub. “It’s not fair.”

“She’s the seer,” Breguswith said tiredly. “She tells them, ‘You’ll give birth right now and you won’t feel a thing,’ and they’re too frightened to do otherwise.”

Gwladus snorted.

Begu stood there dripping. “Well, how can I learn to do that?”

“Start by growing half an ell.”

And have a mother who prophesied the light of the world and fought for it to be true, Hild thought. A mother who left her home not once but twice to make a place for her children. She poured a cup of the new ale and took it to her mother. She touched the familiar cheek. Breguswith blinked and tilted her head. Hild smiled and shook her head. She sat on the bed. She watched her mother, and Begu, and Gwladus, and felt, for the first time in an age, at home and ordinary.

“Just two left,” Begu said, wiping her arms dry.

“Arddun’s due any hour,” Breguswith said. “But if I’m any judge hers’ll slip out like an eel.” She paused. “Then there’s Angeth. But she’s not due for weeks. We’ll be at Derventio by then.”

Gwladus shook her head.

“What?” Begu said. She looked at Hild. “What is it? Is something wrong with Angeth?”

*   *   *

Leaves unfurled. Hedgepigs woke and siffsaffs flew anxiously, endlessly, back and forth from their nest in the nettles with food for the fledglings. Ewes swelled like the fluffy white clouds in the cornflower-blue sky.

After the king dismissed his counsellors, Hild caught up with Cian outside the hall. “My lord Boldcloak!”

He turned. “My lady seer. The king wants us back?”

She shook her head. They stood more than a pace apart. His hair gleamed chestnut in the sun. He wore it differently now, shorter. Perhaps Angeth liked it that way. “Walk with me,” she said.

They walked without speaking along the path they knew well, west, to the elm wood, where once they had sparred. She had her staff. He wore his sword. She knew they wouldn’t use them, might never use them with each other again.

Finches sang. A bittern boomed.

“Do you remember the morning I got baptised?”

“I do. You wet your head. You had a bite on your jaw. You have the mark of it still, when you burn dark in summer.”

He touched his chin.

They came to the clearing.

“Oh,” he said. There, on the old stump, was a robin. “Not the same one, surely!”

“His son, perhaps.” It turned its head, looking at them with one eye, then the other, then flew away. “Angeth,” she said. “Is she quite well?”

He came alert as a dog at the scent. “She was sick yesterday. But women with child do that. Don’t they?”

Not usually past the fourth month. “And has she gained weight?”

“They do that, too, surely?”

“Send her to me.”

The robin sang from the trees.

“Cian.”

“She might not come,” he said. “I … I spoke harshly of you in Deganwy. At first.”

She looked him in the eye, the eyes she’d seen wide with lust, wet with tears, shining with joy. “I’m sorry. That day … I am sorry. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Then send her to me. Make her come.”

*   *   *

Hild pulled her stool next to Angeth’s and took her hand. She pressed it gently with her thumb. Her thumb mark filled out slowly.

“It’s not usually that bad,” Angeth said. Her face was puffy, too, no longer the smooth tawny health of Elmet.

“Have you been having headaches?”

“Yes, but that could be anything. The sick headaches and lights, anyone can have those.”

“You had the sick headache as a girl?”

“No.”

“And you’ve been throwing up?”

“It could be anything! If every woman who—”

“And the belly pain, right here.” She touched Angeth at the crease of her baby bulge, right under the ribs. It wasn’t a question. And now she knew this was not her mother’s doing.

Angeth shook her head. “No. No.”

Hild wanted to stroke her, soothe her like a horse, but she knew Angeth would shy away. “We have to know.” She stood, stuck her head through the curtain. “Gwladus. Bring the piss bucket.”

When the bucket came, with two inches of water in the bottom, Angeth shook her head again. “No. No. Not now, not today. My bladder’s empty.”

“Then we’ll fill it.” Hild got up again. “Gwladus! Small beer. Lots of it.” She sat down. “Tell me a story of Gwynedd.” Silence. “Or not. I could offer you yarn to spin instead.”

After a while, Angeth said, “You’re so young.” Hild said nothing. “They say you’re a witch.”

“Your husband knows better.”

Silence. “You’re very like,” she said eventually. “Now I see why you might have quarrelled. Like to like don’t always agree.” Her hazel eyes were small in the swollen face, but not dull. “So very like. In the wood, when you grabbed me, I thought you were him, just for a heartbeat. Him, or a devil taking his form. When I told him that, he laughed. He laughs a lot with me.”

“Yes,” Hild said. “He chose you.”

And then the beer came, and they drank, and they talked peaceably of gesiths and how sometimes they had no more sense than sheep. Of trade from Deganwy to Manau to Ireland. Of the gold route from Tintagel. Of how it was to leave one’s father’s house. And Hild found she liked Angeth, princess of Gwynedd.

When it came time, Angeth pissed in the bucket and let Hild take it and tilt it towards the light.

“It’s foamy,” she said. “But there’s no blood.” Not yet. “We have time.”

Angeth cupped her belly with both hands.

“You could have another.”

She shook her head. “I could pray.”

“Christ doesn’t always listen. Angeth, please. We have time, but not much.”

Angeth shook her head. “There’s always hope.”

“I’ve seen this before. And there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. You’ll puff up like a fungus. Your muscles will start to ache. Your piss will turn pink. You’ll have fits. You’ll fall unconscious. You’ll die. There’s a tea.”

“I want my baby.”

“It’s wise not to wait.”

“You want it dead. You all want it dead.” She sounded more tired than angry. Then she bent suddenly, head in her hands. “It hurts so.”

Hild put a hand on her shoulder. The shoulder hardened to iron. Angeth straightened. A princess of Gwynedd.

“Can you say there is no hope, not one jot or tittle? No. Only God is infallible. Can you say you have never been wrong? Can you swear it? Can you swear that I’d live?”

“It’s not—”

“Can you swear it?”

She had no power over life and death. “No.”

“Then I won’t take your tea.”

*   *   *

Seven weeks later, in Derventio, Hild found Cian kneeling in the church. It was splendid now, nothing like the plain stone of long ago. Carved and painted wall panels glimmered with gilding. Candles burnt against the violet dusk.

He lifted his face from his hands. His pupils were dark with despair, like holes scorched in wood. “I didn’t believe you when you told me they’d put glass up there. But there it is.” The wick on one of the candles flickered and spat. “She had a fit. She can’t see. You must save her.”

“I’ll try.”

“You must.”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“Swear to me.” He gripped her arm. Strong hand on strong arm. “I’m sorry, for everything that’s passed. I’m sorry. Swear you’ll do what you can, for both of them. Swear to me.” The grain of his face was taut and twisted, knotted as a burr, hard as iron.

Hild looked at his hand. A match with her own. “I swear.”

And she tried. While the rain drummed outside and Cian drank steadily in hall, she and her mother fought like dogs to save Angeth and her baby. To drive the shadows from Angeth’s chamber they lit candles as though beeswax cost nothing. After her water broke they walked the semiconscious Angeth back and forth. They sang to her.

A cup of pennyroyal tea two months ago and it would all have been over. The baby dead but the mother alive. Pennyroyal now might bring the baby fast enough for it to survive, but it would kill Angeth. And though she couldn’t see, she could smell, and nothing would hide the minty scent of pennyroyal. And she was mad with fear.

“We should make her comfortable,” Breguswith said, meaning dose her insensible and let her die in peace.

Can you swear?
Angeth had asked. Hild shook her head.

“It’s cruel,” Breguswith said.

“I swore,” Hild said. “Help me.”

They did what they could. They stripped her naked and bathed her with scented rosemary when she was hot, wrapped her in blankets when she shivered. They tried to get her to drink parsley broth. They massaged her belly with goose grease, felt the shiver and squeeze, counted.

Angeth seemed to think she was a girl again, on the mountainside, falling over, bruising her belly on a stone, crying about the pain. Hild hoped she stayed there. The green grass of Gwynedd was a better way to end than blind agony in a dark, close room.

Hild measured Angeth’s hand across the knuckles, then measured the same distance above her inner ankle and rubbed the shin. Felt her belly, counted. Too slow.

Angeth passed out again. They flipped her over. While Breguswith held her face free, so she could breathe, Hild tried to find the dimple by the spine, above the bottom, but Angeth was so swollen she wasn’t sure if she was rubbing the right place.

They turned her over, propped her up. She shuddered, half conscious. Breguswith laid her hand on her belly, counted, shook her head.

Angeth moaned like a child. Then shrieked, hard and sudden, and fainted again. After a moment, she writhed. Her arms and legs shot out, stiff and straight.