Peaceweaver (29 page)

And now, just as her uncle had done, Hild was accepting a gift from someone she was planning to deceive. She turned the bracelet over in her hand as if she were admiring its finely wrought edges. She couldn’t take it—but to give it back wouldn’t just be an insult; it would announce her intentions. No, she would simply have to leave it behind when they departed.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, forcing herself to meet Thora’s eyes. “I am honored.” She winced, wishing she had chosen a different word.

“My grandfather’s father gave it to his wife in the days of King Hygelac,” Thora said. “You will wear it well.”

Hild swallowed and slipped it over her wrist.

“Now, let me help you dress for the ceremony.” Thora rose and turned to her.

There was nothing for Hild to do but follow. She took the red gown from the saddlebag, along with the embroidered linen shift that went under it.

Thora reached out to finger the embroidery. “This is skillfully made.”

“As is the cloth of your dress,” Hild said, glad that she could compliment Thora without stretching the truth. Unlike the day before, when the woman had been dressed in plain brown wool, today she was wearing what must have been her best gown, of finely woven wool dyed a deep blue. An expensive blue. The intricately decorated brooches just below each shoulder, which held up the gown, were wrought of silver, making Hild think of Siri’s best gown. It was blue and she, too, wore it with silver brooches.

Thora folded the dress Hild had just taken off. “I don’t know how much my sons or Thialfi told you about our king.”

“Thialfi told me about the dragon—and that it killed your husband.”

Thora nodded briskly and laid the dress on the bed. “He was the best of men. King Beowulf’s shoulder companion.”

Hild could hear the pride in her voice.

“And the best of husbands, too. As our new king will be to you, I know.”

Hild clenched her teeth. How much could this woman test her? She forced her jaw to relax. Thora would expect her to want to talk about the man she was supposed to be marrying, she reminded herself. She should be asking questions, but she couldn’t think of any that wouldn’t lay bare her deception. All she could do was repeat what she already knew. “I heard that he was raised on a farm.”

Thora nodded. “It’s been hard for him, coming from the farm to the stronghold. But it’s served us all well. When King Beowulf died, the bard urged him to have a new hall built straightaway, but our new king wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he insisted that we bring in the harvest first so there would be food enough to see the kingdom through the winter.” She glanced at the fire as a log shifted, sending up a flare of light. “And now,” she said, turning back to Hild, “because he insisted on it, there will be.”

Rune had ignored their bard’s advice? Hild recalled how easily her uncle was swayed by Bragi’s arguments. She brushed the thought away and tried to concentrate on the conversation. It was her turn to speak, but again she had to fall back on the things she’d heard. “Wyn said the king was raised by an old woman.”

“Old? Well, I suppose Amma was old by the time Wyn knew her,” Thora said with a wry smile. “She was an exile
from another tribe. King Beowulf offered her a place in the hall, but she chose to live out on Hwala’s farm.”

Hild reached for her red dress and pulled it over her head. “Who was she to your new king—his grandmother?”

“No, no blood relation at all. Here, let me help with that.” She took one of the dress straps and attached it to the brooch. Then she looked up. “Thialfi didn’t tell you about our king’s origins?”

“He told me he was King Beowulf’s kinsman.”

“Yes, that’s true. But it’s not what I meant.” Thora turned Hild so she could attach the other strap. “Our new young king came to us when he was just a baby. Amma took him in.”

“Came to you?”

“He washed up on our shores in a boat. All alone, just a baby surrounded by a warrior’s weapons.”

Hild stared at her, but Thora merely reached to adjust the embroidered neckline of her shift, running her fingers over the intricate pattern. “King Beowulf said the gods sent him to us. I say if they sent us Rune, they also sent us Amma.”

“What do you mean?” Hild’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Well, she raised him, didn’t she?” Thora turned Hild again, this time to arrange her shift in the back. “And all those years,” she added, “Amma lived with her secrets, telling no one.”

“What secrets?”

Thora gazed at the fire. “So many secrets, Amma had.” She pursed her lips, then looked back at Hild. “That she was raising him to be king. And that she knew who his father was.”

Something in Thora’s expression told her there was more.

“She recognized the sword he had with him in the boat.” Thora reached for Hild’s shift again, her fingers working at something Hild couldn’t see.

She waited.

Thora frowned and shook her head, whether at the shift or what she was thinking about, Hild wasn’t sure. Finally, she spoke. “It was her son’s sword.”

Hild felt her mouth dropping open. She snapped it shut.

“Amma knew what the rest of us didn’t find out until she was dead.” Now Thora looked Hild in the eye again. “The baby she raised was the child of her own son’s killer.”

They stood silent, staring at each other.

Then Thora knelt, busying herself with Hild’s hem. Hild stood unmoving. She tried to sort out the story, to assemble all the bits she’d heard from different people. Amma had been a peaceweaver but the peace had failed, leaving her an exile. So she had found a place here. And then a baby had appeared in a boat—the child of the man who had killed her son. And instead of demanding vengeance, as was her right, Amma had raised him to be the next king.

A knock sounded at the door and Thora crossed the room to open it.

“Thora? Can you come now? We need you in the hall,” a man said in an urgent tone.

Thora turned back to her. “You look lovely, my dear. We’ll send someone to fetch you soon.” She closed the door behind her, leaving Hild standing beside the fire, her head thrumming, the blood beating against her temples.

The design she’d been weaving, the story Aunt Var sang about the baby in the boat—it was just a tale for a long winter evening, a legend of a brave woman saving her child from an enemy’s attack. It wasn’t true. It hadn’t really happened.

Had it?

THIRTY

H
ILD PICKED UP HER COMB AND CROSSED TO THE FIRE
, the image she’d been weaving clear in her mind. She’d been working on it when her cousin— She banished the memory, then allowed it to come seeping back as she recalled her uncle’s reaction to what had happened that day. In his view, the only purpose of being far-minded was to help the king. As far as she could tell, the Geats didn’t seem to see it that way.

She unknotted her hair and began to work the comb through the tangles.

Yet if the woman who had raised Rune had been far-minded, she, too, had been working for the king, hadn’t she? Even if she had been the only one who knew Rune would be Beowulf’s heir.

“Ow.” She pulled too hard at a difficult tangle.

Hild, too, had been helping the king, by saving his son. Why couldn’t her uncle see that?

Her thoughts skittered from her uncle to Rune. His real name was Wiglaf, she recalled. She thought about what the word meant: something—or someone—left after a war. Her own name meant “battle,” even if no one ever thought of it that way; it was just a name.
Survivor of war
. Was that what Rune really was? Was that why he’d been in the boat, like the baby in the story? She’d always been so focused on the mother’s courage that she’d never considered what had happened to the child.

She shook her head. Maybe it was more than a coincidence, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Not to her, anyway. She wouldn’t be here long enough to find out. She was going home.

Her hair untangled, she tucked the comb back into the saddlebag and tied it closed. Her sword she would have to leave here in the cottage when she went to the coronation ceremony. Her cloak, too, even though she would be cold on the walk to the hall. The knowledge of the cold journey to come was warmth enough.

She was putting her baggage in order when someone knocked sharply. Before she could speak, Mord entered.

Hild started to say something, then stopped herself, knowing he must be just as impatient to leave as she was.

“Good,” he said, looking at her saddlebags, with the cloak and sword beside them.

No greeting? No
my lady
for her? Overfamiliarity had already replaced the respect he’d shown her after she killed the monster.

“Leave these here, just as they are,” Mord said, glancing at her for the first time since he’d come in. He stopped, firelight glinting off his eyes. “My lady. You look like a queen.”

Hild knew her dark hair was striking against the red of her gown, but it felt nice to have a man recognize it. Especially a man she might marry. She swallowed her irritation and smiled at him. There would be plenty of time on the journey home to remind him of his place.

“Now, here’s what we’ll do,” Mord said, and the moment was over. He looked at the door as if he was listening for anyone outside it. “We’ll go to the ceremony, just like we planned. It will be full of people—have you seen the crowds?”

She shook her head.

“The streets are busy out there now, and the hall will be, too. That’s good for us.”

Hild watched him, waiting. He was older than she would have liked, and too proud of himself, but he was a capable warrior from a high-born family. It would take work to make him into the kind of husband she could be happy with, but it was work she might be willing to do. She regarded his wind-reddened cheeks and his brown hair, curling above his strong shoulders. Her uncle thought well
of Mord, and that would help her back into his good graces, if the gods allowed it.

Yes, she would marry him, if that was what it took to get her home again.

“Then, while we’re at the ceremony,” Mord said, “Gizzur will bring the horses to a place behind the hall.”

Hild realized she’d missed part of the plan. “So when the crowd is cheering, we’ll simply walk out of the hall and make our way around to the back?”

Mord nodded. “We’ll find a good spot where no one will notice us leaving.”

Hild ran through the plan in her mind, looking for problems. “When we ride out, the guards will challenge us.”

“They’ll be more interested in who’s coming than who’s going. And besides, they have no authority over us.”

“Not over you,” Hild said. “But you already announced me as a peace pledge. I’m bound to their king.”

Mord made an impatient gesture. “Just keep your hood up and they probably won’t notice. They’ll think you’re still in the hall.”

Hild frowned. It was the part of the plan she disliked the most. Why couldn’t Mord have waited before pledging her to the Geats?

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The seaweed-eaters? They have no honor.”

No, Hild thought. It wasn’t the Geats who lacked honor;
it was her own people. Her uncle. Sending her as a peace pledge when his real intention was to attack the Geats? There was no more honor in that than there was in sneaking away from the stronghold, hiding behind her hood.

She shook the idea away irritably and looked back at Mord. “How long till the ceremony starts?” If they were going to leave, she wanted it all to be over, now, and them to be gone from this place.

“You stay here—I’ll find out.” He slipped through the door, not bothering to bow to her.

As Mord left, troublesome thoughts crowded back into her head. She should have said something yesterday when Mord offered her to the Geats. She could have refused. But she hadn’t. She’d just stood there, silent, allowing herself to become part of the ruse her uncle was planning. And now she was part of another scheme.
Where are your lofty ideas about honor now?
she asked herself. What did it matter? The important thing was that she was going home. The sooner, the better.

She eased the door open and peered out. Sun reflected on the snow, making her blink. A movement caught her eye as two people came around the corner, hurrying toward a house several doors down. Hild drew back so she could see without being seen. The two paused for a moment at the door, and she saw with a start that they were Thora’s daughter Wyn—and Rune. As they disappeared through the doorway, Hild could see Wyn smiling up at Rune.

She felt the tiniest twinge—jealousy?—then scoffed at herself as she watched a raven, a shadow against a snow-covered roof, rise into the air and wheel out of sight.

When she looked in the other direction, she could see that Mord had been right about the crowds. Groups of brown-cloaked people, farmers from the look of them, were pushing their way toward the hall. The time must be getting close.

She stepped back inside and looked over her bags again. They were still ready, just as they’d been the last time she’d checked. Oh, why couldn’t this ceremony be over and the journey already begun? She walked around the room, peering into corners. On one wall, a wooden shelf held a small stone figure. She looked more closely. It was a statue of Freyja. The shelf must be an altar to the goddess, right here inside the house. It was a good sign. “Lady of the Vanir, be with me,” she said, dipping her head.