Read Online Hild: A Novel by Nicola Griffith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicola Griffith
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war horn. Recognised by man and beast. Even crows and ravens. And crows and ravens nested to the south and east of Sancton, among the elm and oak on the other side of the river. Ravens knew war, knew the tasty morsels war offered. They would come.
They did, seven of them: big and black and bright, croaking up from the southwest, then flying overhead once and landing with audible thumps on the turf at the top of the hill.
“Seven black-winged birds from the southwest, that then flew overhead, my king. Seven, the luckiest number of all. Numerous offspring and the fulfilment of your wishes, King. Dunne says you shall have your peaceweaver.”
“Well, Mother Dunne, you shall have your reward.” Edwin looked for Coelgar, remembered he would be with the wagons. “Lilla here will see word is given for your winter comfort.”
It was an undeniable omen. The old woman was clever. A war horn to call ravens. Hild would remember that.
The king, now in high good humour, looked at the Christ bishop. “And you, Anaoc?”
The Christ priests were mostly envoys from British kingdoms, come to talk to a rising king about trade and alliances and marriages. Anaoc was from the kingdom of the southwest wealh, or as they called it, Dyfneint, whose every other king seemed to be named Geraint.
“Christ and all his followers abjure superstitiones .”
The king, still smiling, said, “Don’t spit.”
Anaoc swallowed. “My lord, we refuse divination, idolatry, and the swearing on the heads of beasts.”
Superstitiones . Hild tried the word in her mouth. Superstitiones . It must be Latin.
“But it works, Anaoc.”
“We have no quarrel with that, my lord. We who live in the light of Christ find superstitiones sinful not because they are not efficacious but because they are efficacious due to the intervention of demons.”
“Demons.”
“Servants of the devil, God’s adversary.”
Edwin scratched the snakes of his beard. “You’re a bold man. Does this boldness mean your prince no longer wishes my help against the Gewisse?”
“No, my lord! That is, yes, my lord, our need is as urgent as ever. It is only that I cannot help you because my God will not speak through animals or other portents.”
“Though your god’s enemies will?”
Anaoc nodded unhappily.
“So the god saying through his birds that I will have more children speaks as the enemy of your god?”
Anaoc said nothing.
“Now this is very interesting, priest. Am I to believe, then, that your god does not wish me to have more children?”
One of the drunker gesiths spat. Hild doubted he’d even been listening, but Anaoc swallowed again and bent his head. “My lord, forgive me, I am but a mortal. My God does not make His wishes known to me.”
“Then what use are you to man or beast?”
A gust of wind shook a spatter of raindrops from the daymark elms. Coifi’s bullock lowed.
Edwin smiled. “We’ll talk more of your Christ god and his enemies another time, priest. Coifi, the priest of Woden, has a calf whose innards wish to speak of our destiny.”
Anaoc bowed and withdrew. When he thought no one was watching, he wiped his shaved forehead with his sleeve. The Dyfneint’s petition would fail because Anaoc had failed; the kingdom would soon fall to the Gewisse and its people be sold into slavery. Hild wondered if the priest’s god would be a comfort to him then.
She turned her attention to Coifi, whose attendants had the bullock by the nostrils and who himself was beginning the slow one-handed drumbeat. Dum- dum , dum- dum , like a heartbeat—though, without the hard enclosure of the ritual place, the drum had no resonance, no menace.
The drum beat faster, like a heart speeding up. Away from the usual ceremonies it sounded thin and wrong. Perhaps it was because childbirth was a woman’s issue, and Woden was leader of the Wild Hunt, carrier-off of the dead, god of gods, a man’s god; even the elms they stood by were men’s trees.
The nearest stand
They did, seven of them: big and black and bright, croaking up from the southwest, then flying overhead once and landing with audible thumps on the turf at the top of the hill.
“Seven black-winged birds from the southwest, that then flew overhead, my king. Seven, the luckiest number of all. Numerous offspring and the fulfilment of your wishes, King. Dunne says you shall have your peaceweaver.”
“Well, Mother Dunne, you shall have your reward.” Edwin looked for Coelgar, remembered he would be with the wagons. “Lilla here will see word is given for your winter comfort.”
It was an undeniable omen. The old woman was clever. A war horn to call ravens. Hild would remember that.
The king, now in high good humour, looked at the Christ bishop. “And you, Anaoc?”
The Christ priests were mostly envoys from British kingdoms, come to talk to a rising king about trade and alliances and marriages. Anaoc was from the kingdom of the southwest wealh, or as they called it, Dyfneint, whose every other king seemed to be named Geraint.
“Christ and all his followers abjure superstitiones .”
The king, still smiling, said, “Don’t spit.”
Anaoc swallowed. “My lord, we refuse divination, idolatry, and the swearing on the heads of beasts.”
Superstitiones . Hild tried the word in her mouth. Superstitiones . It must be Latin.
“But it works, Anaoc.”
“We have no quarrel with that, my lord. We who live in the light of Christ find superstitiones sinful not because they are not efficacious but because they are efficacious due to the intervention of demons.”
“Demons.”
“Servants of the devil, God’s adversary.”
Edwin scratched the snakes of his beard. “You’re a bold man. Does this boldness mean your prince no longer wishes my help against the Gewisse?”
“No, my lord! That is, yes, my lord, our need is as urgent as ever. It is only that I cannot help you because my God will not speak through animals or other portents.”
“Though your god’s enemies will?”
Anaoc nodded unhappily.
“So the god saying through his birds that I will have more children speaks as the enemy of your god?”
Anaoc said nothing.
“Now this is very interesting, priest. Am I to believe, then, that your god does not wish me to have more children?”
One of the drunker gesiths spat. Hild doubted he’d even been listening, but Anaoc swallowed again and bent his head. “My lord, forgive me, I am but a mortal. My God does not make His wishes known to me.”
“Then what use are you to man or beast?”
A gust of wind shook a spatter of raindrops from the daymark elms. Coifi’s bullock lowed.
Edwin smiled. “We’ll talk more of your Christ god and his enemies another time, priest. Coifi, the priest of Woden, has a calf whose innards wish to speak of our destiny.”
Anaoc bowed and withdrew. When he thought no one was watching, he wiped his shaved forehead with his sleeve. The Dyfneint’s petition would fail because Anaoc had failed; the kingdom would soon fall to the Gewisse and its people be sold into slavery. Hild wondered if the priest’s god would be a comfort to him then.
She turned her attention to Coifi, whose attendants had the bullock by the nostrils and who himself was beginning the slow one-handed drumbeat. Dum- dum , dum- dum , like a heartbeat—though, without the hard enclosure of the ritual place, the drum had no resonance, no menace.
The drum beat faster, like a heart speeding up. Away from the usual ceremonies it sounded thin and wrong. Perhaps it was because childbirth was a woman’s issue, and Woden was leader of the Wild Hunt, carrier-off of the dead, god of gods, a man’s god; even the elms they stood by were men’s trees.
The nearest stand
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