her feet, taking more time than anyone could possibly need to tie a pair of shoes.
Unwen met Hild’s eyes with a steady gaze, but her face revealed nothing. Hild wasn’t sure how much the slave knew.
Someone pounded on the door, making them all jump.
Her mother rose and took Hild’s hands in her own, pulling her gently to her feet.
The pounding came again.
Hild swallowed. With her mother’s arm around her, Unwen a step in front of them, they crossed the room.
At the door, Unwen paused and looked at Hild’s mother for permission. Then she opened it—directly onto a fist poised to pound again. Bragi’s fist. Warriors stood on either side of him, their weapons drawn. Garwulf wasn’t among them. For that, at least, Hild was grateful.
The skald looked Hild up and down. Then, without speaking, he stepped onto the path that led to the hall.
Hild and her mother followed a short distance behind him, the guards falling in after them. Hild glanced back to see Unwen standing beside the open door, kneading her right wrist with her left hand as if it was stiff.
She turned her face back to the path, inhaling the first fresh air she’d tasted in days. It was cold. While she’d been shut away, harvest season had ended. The sky was white and hostile. Its brightness stabbed at her eyes, making her lids flutter.
As they walked, a few curious onlookers glanced at them, but the crowd Hild had faced before was absent. She looked for Beyla but couldn’t find her. When they got to the hall, its wide doors, flanked by guards whose helmets obscured their faces, loomed before her. She didn’t need to see his face to recognize Garwulf standing stiffly at attention.Sudden tears surprised her and she blinked them back angrily, keeping her gaze before her as she took the steps that led into the hall.
At the threshold, she stopped. She hardly needed time to allow her eyes to adjust to the inside firelight, she’d grown so accustomed to it. But she needed time nonetheless.
Her mother’s arm slipped from Hild’s shoulders to the small of her back, gently propelling her forward. “I’ll be with you,” she whispered, so quietly that Hild wasn’t sure she’d really heard it.
With her mother behind her, so close Hild could feel her warmth, she followed Bragi through the hall, where people leaned against beams and sat on the benches. They passed the tall fires, which leapt and crackled. People turned to look at Hild, but she didn’t return their glances. Instead, she kept her eyes on Bragi’s finely furred cloak and the knot of men standing near the dais. Where was the king?
As she approached the men, her mother’s hand went again to Hild’s back in a comforting gesture, as if to say,
I am here
. Instead of calming her, it made her more nervous.
Then the king broke from the crowd. He raised his head and, seeing Hild, smiled and came toward her, his arms wide and welcoming.
“Ah, here she is,” he said, sweeping a hand to her shoulder and turning back to a group of men standing near the dais. “Hild, my sister-daughter.” When he pushed her forward, his touch was gentle.
Hild stood dazed at the seeming return of the uncle she recalled from her childhood, the one who always had a kind word for her.
“My dear,” he said, looking back at her with a smile. “Greet our visitors from the kingdom of the Geats.”
She turned from the king to the three men who stepped forward, and as they bowed, she sank into a stiff curtsy, her head swimming with confusion. Had her mother or Unwen told her about these visitors when she hadn’t been paying close attention? Why was her uncle treating people from Geatland—seaweed-eaters—so courteously when the Shylfings were at war with them? Of all the feuds the Shylfings were involved in, the one with the Geats was the longest-standing, stretching back generations. Besides, they weren’t just enemies; they were country oafs. It didn’t make sense.
“And my sister, Hild’s mother,”
Unwen met Hild’s eyes with a steady gaze, but her face revealed nothing. Hild wasn’t sure how much the slave knew.
Someone pounded on the door, making them all jump.
Her mother rose and took Hild’s hands in her own, pulling her gently to her feet.
The pounding came again.
Hild swallowed. With her mother’s arm around her, Unwen a step in front of them, they crossed the room.
At the door, Unwen paused and looked at Hild’s mother for permission. Then she opened it—directly onto a fist poised to pound again. Bragi’s fist. Warriors stood on either side of him, their weapons drawn. Garwulf wasn’t among them. For that, at least, Hild was grateful.
The skald looked Hild up and down. Then, without speaking, he stepped onto the path that led to the hall.
Hild and her mother followed a short distance behind him, the guards falling in after them. Hild glanced back to see Unwen standing beside the open door, kneading her right wrist with her left hand as if it was stiff.
She turned her face back to the path, inhaling the first fresh air she’d tasted in days. It was cold. While she’d been shut away, harvest season had ended. The sky was white and hostile. Its brightness stabbed at her eyes, making her lids flutter.
As they walked, a few curious onlookers glanced at them, but the crowd Hild had faced before was absent. She looked for Beyla but couldn’t find her. When they got to the hall, its wide doors, flanked by guards whose helmets obscured their faces, loomed before her. She didn’t need to see his face to recognize Garwulf standing stiffly at attention.Sudden tears surprised her and she blinked them back angrily, keeping her gaze before her as she took the steps that led into the hall.
At the threshold, she stopped. She hardly needed time to allow her eyes to adjust to the inside firelight, she’d grown so accustomed to it. But she needed time nonetheless.
Her mother’s arm slipped from Hild’s shoulders to the small of her back, gently propelling her forward. “I’ll be with you,” she whispered, so quietly that Hild wasn’t sure she’d really heard it.
With her mother behind her, so close Hild could feel her warmth, she followed Bragi through the hall, where people leaned against beams and sat on the benches. They passed the tall fires, which leapt and crackled. People turned to look at Hild, but she didn’t return their glances. Instead, she kept her eyes on Bragi’s finely furred cloak and the knot of men standing near the dais. Where was the king?
As she approached the men, her mother’s hand went again to Hild’s back in a comforting gesture, as if to say,
I am here
. Instead of calming her, it made her more nervous.
Then the king broke from the crowd. He raised his head and, seeing Hild, smiled and came toward her, his arms wide and welcoming.
“Ah, here she is,” he said, sweeping a hand to her shoulder and turning back to a group of men standing near the dais. “Hild, my sister-daughter.” When he pushed her forward, his touch was gentle.
Hild stood dazed at the seeming return of the uncle she recalled from her childhood, the one who always had a kind word for her.
“My dear,” he said, looking back at her with a smile. “Greet our visitors from the kingdom of the Geats.”
She turned from the king to the three men who stepped forward, and as they bowed, she sank into a stiff curtsy, her head swimming with confusion. Had her mother or Unwen told her about these visitors when she hadn’t been paying close attention? Why was her uncle treating people from Geatland—seaweed-eaters—so courteously when the Shylfings were at war with them? Of all the feuds the Shylfings were involved in, the one with the Geats was the longest-standing, stretching back generations. Besides, they weren’t just enemies; they were country oafs. It didn’t make sense.
“And my sister, Hild’s mother,”
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