Peaceweaver (28 page)

She rushed to let him in. “Gizzur and Hadding will stand guard tonight,” he said as he crossed the threshold.

“Do you think it’s necessary?” Hild asked.

Mord looked behind him, waiting until the door was shut. “Have you taken a look around you? Do you trust these people?” He closed his mouth, but Hild could tell he had more to say. She watched him, waiting.

“My lady,” he said, giving her a slight bow.

“Go on,” she said.

“Hild.” He looked up beseechingly. “My lady, you can’t stay here.”

She kept her eyes on him, but she didn’t speak.

“If we—the other men and I—if we tell your uncle what happened with the monster, he’ll accept you back, I’m sure he will.”

She stared at him, her heart racing.

“I didn’t know, not about you, not about this place. But I know now—you don’t belong here, my lady.” He crossed to the fire and then back to her again. “Gizzur and Hadding, they agree. After your uncle hears what you did with the monster, how you saved our lives,
my
life—” He stopped and looked at her.

She needed no convincing. “When do we leave?”

“The coronation’s tomorrow. After the ceremony would be the best time—we can slip away when they’re all drunk.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“My lady.” He bowed lower than he normally did. When he rose again, he caught her eye and held it. Then he turned and strode from the room, barking an order at Hadding as he shut the door.

She stood beside the dancing flames, hardly able to breathe, she was so excited.

She was going home!

She picked up a pillow, hugged it to her chest, and twirled. Home! She would see her mother again, and Beyla, and her sisters, and Arinbjörn. Just wait till he heard what she’d done with his sword. She’d see her nieces and nephews and Aunt Var and Ari Frothi. Even her cousin Skadi seemed dear to her now. She’d be with everyone in the hall, a real
hall, in a real kingdom once again, far away from this place where people didn’t know what a hall was, or a king.

She could practically feel her fingers on her loom, and for the first time in weeks, she remembered the pattern she’d been weaving, the one she’d been so excited about.

Home! She hugged the pillow tighter.

She’d seen Mord’s eyes and she grasped the implications of his plan. He wanted to marry her himself—it would put him closer to the throne than he’d ever been before. She swept the details aside. She’d have the whole journey home to dwell on them. But at that very moment, all she cared about was that Mord might be able to get her back into her uncle’s good graces. If he could, it was a compromise she might be willing to accept.

As long as it meant she was leaving Geatland far behind. As long as it meant she was going home.

TWENTY-NINE

H
ILD’S MIND SPUN WITH POSSIBILITIES
. S
HE CRAWLED
under the covers, luxuriating in the warmth and the softness of the mattress—the first she’d slept on since the day she’d left home—and imagined the look on Siri’s face when she rode through the gates.

Would Mord ride ahead to negotiate with her uncle? Or would they all walk into the hall together? It would be better if she didn’t speak, she decided, but allowed the men to do all the talking. She would stand a little to the side, wearing her red gown, holding herself regally. She wouldn’t look her uncle in the eye; he might take that as a challenge. Instead, she’d keep her gaze slightly averted from his face. It would be important to show him that their return had been the men’s idea, not hers, but he also needed to see that she wouldn’t be cowed.

What about Arinbjörn? she wondered, picturing her cousin standing with the men in the hall. Would he be uneasy with her? Ari Frothi wouldn’t be. She was surprised by how much she missed the old skald. It would even be good to see Unwen— She shook her head at her foolishness and offered a prayer to the goddess that Unwen was safe with her own people.

Despite the thoughts that swarmed through her head, she found herself growing drowsy as the sheets warmed. She scrunched more comfortably into the pillow and pulled the blankets up to her ears. A log on the fire shifted and the flames hissed companionably. Hild blinked, then blinked again as sleep overtook her.

When she woke, comfort and hope still held her tight, and now woven into the pleasant sensation was the memory of the old woman she’d dreamed about. Had it been her grandmother? No, the woman hadn’t looked like her grandmother, she didn’t think, although it might have been her in the way dreams have of showing you one person hiding behind another’s face. Whoever it had been, the old woman had gazed at her intently with strange eyes, one that looked directly at her while the other seemed to see beyond her. It was as if she could see right through Hild, challenging her, taking her measure. “You are home,” the woman had said, her voice so harsh and commanding that the dream had been almost frightening.

But now, as Hild turned over in the bed and pulled
the covers over her head to block out the cold air, any fear she might have felt was banished by delicious warmth. If it hadn’t been her grandmother, it must have been one of her ancestors, welcoming her back to her uncle’s kingdom and proclaiming her right to be there. Starting today, starting now, she was no longer an exile from her people. Today everything would change, and she would be ready for it.

She recalled how things had been the day they left the kingdom, how the men had avoided her, fearing her, wanting to be rid of her. It wouldn’t be like that on the return journey. She had their respect. And not just their respect; they believed they would come to power through their attachment to her. At least, Mord did.

But they’d be traveling without Brynjolf this time. The image of his smile made her heart hurt. At least now she’d be able to be with Beyla when she found out about her brother’s death. Not that it would bring her friend much comfort, Hild knew.

The door creaked. Gray light crept in and, with it, a slave with logs in her arms. She built up the fire and slipped out again silently. Hild waited until the flames had established themselves enough to light the room before she got out of bed and dressed. Surely they would send a slave to help her later, but she’d become accustomed enough to doing it on her own that it hardly bothered her. She knotted her hair, the task easier with warm fingers and no men waiting
impatiently for her. Fastening the sword belt around her waist, she grabbed her cloak and opened the door.

“My lady!”

Hild stepped back, startled, as Thialfi rose from beside the door, a spear in his good hand.

“What are you doing there?” she asked.

“Guarding you,” he said, and from the way he shook his head, as if to wake himself, Hild could tell he’d been dozing.

“From what?”

“I’m not sure, my lady. Hadding was falling asleep out here, and he said you needed a guard.”

She looked at the dark circles under his eyes and the way his tunic and cloak were crumpled. When Mord had left her the previous night, Hadding had been the first on guard. “You’ve been here all night,” she said.

His lack of response was answer enough. “Thialfi,” she said, touching his arm as he stifled a yawn. “You should get some sleep.”

“I will, my lady,” he said, but he didn’t move from his post.

“Now, Thialfi.”

He shook his head. “Not until someone relieves me.”

“Let’s go find them, then.”

“They need their sleep, too, my lady.”

It was her turn to shake her head. The man was exasperating. “Then come with me.”

He nodded, not asking where they were going, and walked beside her down the lane.

Fresh snow lay on the ground and the thatched roofs, brightening the place and making it look less tawdry than it had the previous day. The sun was just rising, turning the snow rosy where it wasn’t hidden in shadow. The hall stood high above the other buildings, and in the crisp light of morning, Hild could see how well it was built, how solid the joints, how secure the roof. The wood was so clean and unscarred that the hall looked impossibly new.

Beside her, Thialfi gazed at it, too. “Not a log had been cut when I left for your land,” he said softly.

It was newer than Hild had realized. “Where was the old hall?” she asked, and looked in the direction Thialfi pointed.

“It was a grand place,” he said, “a proud place. Bigger than your uncle’s Gyldenseld, even.”

She raised her brows.

“My grandmother wove a long banner that hung behind the throne,” he went on, looking into the distance. “My aunt loved to tell about it—she helped when she was just a girl, or so she said.” He looked back at Hild and the barest trace of a smile crossed his face. “She probably just got in the way instead of helping, but that banner was dear to her. To me, too.”

Hild watched him as he returned his gaze to the empty space where the hall had stood. How much had the Geats
lost when the dragon attacked? She looked skyward, wondering what it must have been like to have the winged monster swoop down on them unawares.

“It came at night,” Thialfi said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “If we’d seen it—well, it’s almost impossible to look at a dragon in the daylight and not be overcome by fear.” He shook his head, and Hild had the impression he had forgotten she was there. “I don’t know where Rune found the courage,” he said, in a voice so low she knew it wasn’t meant for her ears.

Rune. He was talking about the king.

She looked away just as the sound of hooves drew Thialfi to attention.

They watched as two figures on horseback clopped toward the hall. Neither of them saw her or Thialfi. As they neared, she could see that the closest of them was the one-eyed man who’d been in the hall the day before. The other she couldn’t see well enough to recognize. Then he reached down to stroke his horse’s neck and she realized it was Rune. He looked older than he had yesterday. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, revealing an expression so somber it made her catch her breath. Today was his coronation day. Shouldn’t he be happy on such a morning?

She watched until he disappeared behind the hall, the look on his face never changing.

Again, Thialfi answered her thoughts. “He didn’t want to be king,” he said.

Hild looked at Thialfi through narrowed eyes. What man wouldn’t want to be king? “Why is he, then?”

“Doesn’t have much of a choice, does he? He’s King Beowulf’s only living kinsman.” Thialfi nudged his toe at a stone sticking out of the snow. “Not that he knew it until they’d killed the dragon.” He looked up at her. “As I heard it, he didn’t know who he was or even that he was well born until then. Must have been a shock when the king named him his heir.”

They stood in silence, both of them watching the space where Rune—
King Wiglaf
, Hild corrected herself—had disappeared. He was well born? The old king’s kinsman? What else had Thialfi not thought to tell her earlier?

“My lady!” a voice called, and they turned to see Hadding running toward them with his clubfooted gait, his helmet askew. “I didn’t know where you were—are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Hadding. But Thialfi needs some sleep.”

“Right. I’ll take over now,” Hadding said. “You’re relieved.”

Hild glanced at Thialfi, who gave her a quick bow before hurrying away.

“He didn’t give you any trouble, did he, my lady?”

“Hadding,” Hild said. “He stood guard for you and Gizzur all night long—which I won’t tell Mord.” She held his gaze until he looked down, abashed. “Shall we go back?”

A slave had brought water while she was gone, and
as Hild washed her hands and face, another slave entered with food. Hild took the hot bowl of porridge, thick with butter and honey, and sat on the bed to eat it. She shut her eyes and luxuriated in the soft mattress beneath her, the rich taste of the porridge, and the steam rising from the bowl to touch her cheeks and eyelids. She wouldn’t be able to savor a meal in warmth and comfort again until they got home.

Just as she finished, someone knocked and the door opened. With a rush of cold air that set the fire dancing, a woman came into the room. Thora, mother of Wulf, Wake, and Wyn.

Hild stood and the two curtsied to each other.

“You slept comfortably, I trust?” Thora said, and Hild nodded, stifling a smile at the way the question didn’t allow a negative answer. Thora, she could tell, wasn’t accustomed to having her opinions questioned.

“And you’ve had enough to eat?”

“Thank you. It was good to have a meal inside, in the warmth.” Hild sat on the bed again, gesturing to invite the older woman to join her.

“My sons told me about the journey—and about your deeds. You will make a good match for our young king.” Thora nodded at Hild and looked her up and down as if appraising her worth.

A sense of discomfort flooded through Hild, and she lowered her eyes.

“This is for you,” Thora said. She opened her fingers to reveal a golden bracelet that winked in the firelight. Delicate tracery ornamented the metal band, making it a rich gift. “It’s an heirloom of my family. You are most welcome here, Hild.” She held out the bracelet.

Hild reached for it hesitantly. “I thank you,” she said, dipping her head. She was suddenly deeply aware that Mord had presented the Geats with no gifts in the hall when they’d arrived, a breach of honor and an insult—surely one planned by her uncle. She hadn’t even noticed at the time, she’d been so overwhelmed, and she wasn’t sure Rune had realized it, either. But Thora would have seen it. She would have known, too, about the gold necklace set with rubies that her sons had carried to Gyldenseld—where it had been added to the treasury, not sent back to Geatland to adorn Hild’s neck as it had on the day her uncle pledged her to his enemies.