Peaceweaver (4 page)

Her mother started down the path again, her shoes drumming against the packed dirt. “I told the king that you were ready for this, that you knew the rules of precedence.” She looked back at Hild. “I told him I would train you.”

Hild lowered her eyes. She hadn’t thought about how her actions would reflect on her mother.

“If she’d been able to,” her mother said, “the queen would have done her duty. She would have served Mord
first, because he’s higher in rank—no matter what she thought about his honor.”

Anger flared again, as it always did when Hild and her mother had this argument. “If she’d seen what he did to those slaves, she wouldn’t have served Mord first. Besides, he picks fights over nothing—he thinks it’s fun to start a feud. The queen would never let him get away with that.” Why had her mother never been able to see the obvious? When the queen had taken to her bed several years earlier, she had abdicated her power and her right to influence the king with subtle persuasion. In doing so, she’d taken away the ability of any of the kingdom’s women to sway the king’s opinions. Instead, the king was guided by Bragi, his chief skald, whose love of war was no secret. Before the queen fell ill, there had been feuds with the Geats and the Helmings—not open war, but lightning raids across borders on both sides. Now that Bragi had the king’s ear, however, Hild had lost track of how many tribes the Shylfings were hostile with.

“The queen would have talked to the king later, in private, if she was worried about Mord,” her mother said.

“No, she wouldn’t. She would have done exactly the same thing I did.” Hild knew she shouldn’t speak to her mother this way, but in her anger, she couldn’t stop herself.

Siri pushed between them, laughing and grabbing their hands. “That’s not what this is about.”

“What?” Hild whirled, her chin raised.

“Mother, don’t you see? This doesn’t have anything to do with rank or honor or duty.” Siri looked from their mother to Hild. “This is about Garwulf.”

Her mother’s features softened, but Hild wasn’t ready to give up the fight. Besides, what Siri was saying wasn’t true, not in the way she meant it.

“He’s a good man,” her mother said.

“An honorable one,” Siri added, giving Hild a wink.

Hild bristled. “He
is
honorable. That’s why I served him first.”

“Don’t tease your sister, Siri,” their mother said. “He’s from a powerful family. Your uncle approves of him; young as Garwulf is, the king already values him. And he’s handsome, too.” She put her arm around Hild’s shoulder, but Hild shrugged it off.

She’d never made any secret of it—she did have her eye on Garwulf, and she was happy that her mother and uncle believed a match between them was a good idea. But it wasn’t why she’d served him before Mord. It was because if the king was going to elevate some thanes above others, and listen to their counsel, he should put Garwulf far above Mord. How many times had she seen Garwulf breaking up a fight between two ale-headed warriors, joking with them until the heat of anger was gone? And the way he had treated the slaves that morning showed exactly how much better he was than Mord. If her mother wasn’t willing to take a stand, Hild was.

They got to Siri’s house with the argument still hanging in the air. Before Hild could say anything else, though, the door opened, and her two nephews dashed out. Behind them, she could hear the baby wailing.

“Careful of my herbs!” Siri said, but the little boys ignored her, trampling the late sage in their haste to get to Hild.

“Aunt Hild! Look what we found!”

Hild brushed aside her anger and knelt to admire the rock that Faxi thrust at her. It glinted in the sunlight.

“Ooh, it’s beautiful,” she said. “Do you think dwarves made it?”

Faxi nodded, his blue eyes wide, before he took it back.

“Come, younglings, and watch where you step,” Siri said, and a slave ran forward to usher the boys back inside.

As Hild rose, she heard her aunt Var’s deep voice greeting them from down the path. “I thought I’d find you here.”

She suppressed a groan.
Goddess help me
. She had to get away before a new round of faultfinding began.

Careful not to let her eyes meet her aunt’s, she called a bright “Greetings, Auntie!” and gave a little wave before she turned and hurried back down the path toward the geese. She could hear her aunt calling her name, but she waved again and kept going, her lips turned up in what she hoped was a convincing smile. Just beyond the geese, the lane branched. With a last glance behind her, she turned.

Although her loom beckoned and her fingers itched to
get back to the pattern she was weaving, it wasn’t worth hearing more about how foolish she’d been. And who knew how many other women—neighbors, aunts, cousins—would show up to offer their opinions. She couldn’t go home yet. She needed to talk to Beyla, and she knew just where her friend would be.

At the stables, she paused in the doorway, inhaling the pleasant scent of horse and hay. A boy hurried over, bowed, and stood waiting for her instructions, but she waved him away and headed for Fleetfoot’s stall. As she approached, she could see her horse baring his long teeth in a ridiculous face of bliss. Beyla, who had no horse of her own, was currying him.

“You’re spoiling my horse.”

“Of course I am.” Beyla didn’t look up from her work. “Let your auntie Beyla spoil you,” she crooned at Fleetfoot, who slobbered his approval.

Hild laughed and touched her forehead to her horse’s nose, letting his warmth steady her after the tension in the hall.

“I saw your mother running after you. What did she say?” Beyla asked.

“What you’d expect.”

Beyla shook her head and reached for the horse’s front foot, pushing the battered silver arm ring she wore as a bracelet over her elbow when it threatened to fall off her wrist. “Someday she’s got to see that you’re right.”

“But today …,” Hild began, and when Beyla grinned up at her, they finished the line in unison: “… is not that day.”

They laughed and Beyla straightened, brushing horsehair from her skirt and blowing her own hair, which had come loose from its knot, out of her face. “You didn’t know Garwulf would be there, did you?”

“Not till this morning when I saw him ride in. Turn around.” Hild took Beyla’s unruly brown hair in her hands, retying the knot. Her work wouldn’t last long. Beyla spent a good part of her life being told to stand still while somebody knotted her hair again or repinned one of her brooches or straightened her gown.

“I wish I could have seen his face when you gave him the horn,” she said. “From where I was standing, I could barely see the back of his head.”

“He blushed,” Hild said, smiling.

Beyla turned, her grin revealing the gap between her front teeth. “I’ll bet he did.”

“You should have seen what happened at the gate this morning, what Mord did.”

A woman’s voice from the stable doorway interrupted her. “Beyla? Are you in here?”

“Goat’s breath,” Beyla whispered. “It’s my turn with Granny.” She called out, “Coming, Mother,” before lowering her voice again and speaking apologetically. “I want to hear what happened, but not now.”

“I know,” Hild said. She wouldn’t see Beyla for the rest
of the day—not when she had to care for her grandmother. It was hard to believe Beyla’s granny had ever been young or happy, so difficult and unpleasant was she now, demanding the undivided attention of the person caring for her. From experience, they knew it was easier for Beyla when Hild didn’t try to help. “I’ll tell you tomorrow at the festival.”

Beyla nodded and gave Fleetfoot’s mane one last tug before she ran from the stable.

Hild watched her go, trying not to mind. She needed Beyla to help her sort out the events in the hall, and to tell her how people had reacted.

Fleetfoot nickered softly and nudged her head, turning it toward the stable doors. Light spilled through them, illuminating dust motes and reminding Hild that their days of galloping freely were numbered; winter would soon be upon them. She turned back to her horse. “You want a ride, don’t you?” When she pulled the bridle from the hook, Fleetfoot pricked up his ears and danced in his stall, making Hild laugh. She called the boy over to help her with the saddle and then rode out of the stable, taking the path to the Thordsby Gate, where the guards dipped their spears in acknowledgment. Because she was the king’s sister-daughter, it was Hild’s right to come and go as she pleased, as long as she kept to the patrolled lanes.

As Fleetfoot cantered past, a slave girl, her blond hair in braids, jumped out of the way, spilling the contents of the bucket she was carrying. She said something that Hild
didn’t catch. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound nice. Hild should have reprimanded the girl for her insolence, but she didn’t care enough to go back. Now that she was away from the weight of her family’s disapproval, the bright autumn day reached out to her with open arms and the road ahead beckoned.

In a rocky field beside her, the boys’ troop was practicing archery. She found her cousin Arinbjörn in the midst of the group and frowned when he raised his bow. Wasn’t it too high? She hoped none of the other boys were snickering at him. He might be the atheling, the king’s heir, but they wouldn’t hesitate to show their scorn. It was bad enough that his father had made him start training when he was younger than the other boys, but the fact that he wasn’t very good at it made it worse.

She shook her head and looked down the road. Fleetfoot shook his head, too. He wanted a good gallop, the same as she did, but too many people and carts lined the way, and the field beside the path was too rocky. Far ahead, Hild could just make out the thatched roofs of Thordsby, the farm the townspeople would visit for the harvest festival, to celebrate the bringing in of the last grain. “Let’s wait till we’re at the farm,” she told her horse. “Then you can ride as fast as Sleipnir.”

He tossed his mane in agreement.

It turned out they didn’t have to wait that long. They were still halfway between town and farm when the road before
them cleared. “Now!” she said to Fleetfoot, who didn’t need to hear more. Hild bent low, feeling the wind pick up her hair and send it streaming behind her like Freyja’s winged cape. Down the road and through the farm’s gates they went without pausing, then thundered across a field, cold air filling Hild’s ears and stinging her face.

At the edge of the field, the ground was strewn with rocks and Hild slowed Fleetfoot’s pace. Reluctantly, they turned, Hild’s breath still coming fast, her ears aching from the wind that had filled them, her heart pounding from exertion, her exultation barely dimmed. Fleetfoot picked his sedate path back toward the farm buildings. In the distance, men were harvesting the golden grain, and beyond the buildings, she could see workers erecting logs for the huge bonfire that would honor the gods during the festival.

At the gate, a rider sat watching them, but from this distance Hild couldn’t see who it was. As she neared him, the horseman started toward them. Garwulf.

She watched him approach. Why was he here? He still hadn’t changed from his travel-stained clothing.

As he got close enough that she could see his face, her spirits fell. The straight line of his mouth spelled disapproval. Was he going to admonish her, too?

She looked away, her focus on the rows of stubble the harvesters had left behind in the dirt. Garwulf had every right to be angry at her for the position she’d put him in. She wished she’d thought more carefully about that earlier,
back when serving him before Mord had seemed like a good idea.

When they were so near to each other that she could no longer avoid it, she looked up again. “Garwulf,” she said, and swallowed.

“My lady.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment, then met her eye. “You ride well, my lady. But if there had been a rock or a fallen limb, you could have been thrown.”

“Fleetfoot and I ride here often,” she told him as he turned his horse to ride alongside her. “They keep the way clear for us.”

“Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know. That’s good, then.” He reached out to stroke his own horse’s neck.

She watched him surreptitiously, unsure of his mood. His mail shirt jingled softly as he rode, but he said nothing. Then he turned to her.

“What happened in the hall today—” He stopped.

She looked down, preparing for his words. If it hadn’t been humiliating enough to have her uncle misunderstand her and her mother upbraid her, now she was about to be chastised by the man she planned to marry.

“Hild,” he said. His voice was so low it rumbled in her chest.

She forced herself to look at him.

“I thank you for what you did, my lady.”

She stared at him in surprise. When she realized her
mouth was open, she snapped it shut. He had ridden all the way out here to thank her?

“May I accompany you back to the stable?”

She smiled. “Of course you may.” She couldn’t wait to tell Beyla.

FOUR

O
NCE
G
ARWULF LEFT THE STABLE
, H
ILD STAYED WITH
her horse. He might have already been thoroughly brushed, but she needed to think, and currying Fleetfoot was a good way to do so—even if it did get dirt on her best gown. She hoped she could get the gown into Unwen’s hands for cleaning before her mother or one of her aunts saw the mess she was making of it.