her uncle was saying, and now, beside Hild, her mother was curtsying, too, while the visitors bowed again.
Hild looked at them, three men clad in well-worn clothing neither fashionable nor particularly clean. Two of them were young, no older than Garwulf, while the third, whose thinning hair and crow’s-feet marked his age, stood a little in front of the others. As he bowed, one of his arms seemed to dangle beside him, as if he couldn’t move it. When he rose, his eyes met Hild’s, making her bridle. What right did a mere Geatish messenger have to look her in the eye?
“Our king sends you greeting, my lady,” he said. Hisvoice was soft and husky, and he pronounced the words so oddly, stretching them out unnaturally, that it was hard to understand him. The messenger glanced behind him at one of the other men, who stepped forward, holding out a bag made of rich cloth. As he approached, Hild could see the moth holes scoring the fabric. The older man tugged at the bag’s string, then reached in to pull out a handsomely wrought torque. As he held it out, firelight gleamed on the necklace’s patterned gold and flashed off its inlaid rubies. It was a kingly gift. She wondered who they’d stolen it from.
The king moved to stand beside Hild and reached for the torque. “As beautiful as the necklace of the Brosings,” he said, his voice resounding throughout the hall. He turned it in his hands, holding it up so the men standing nearby could see. Then he gestured to Hild, and she realized by his movements that he meant for her to wear it.
Her mother held her hair aside while the king himself fastened the torque around her neck.
“Let me look at you,” he said, smiling as he manipulated Hild so that everyone near the dais could see.
The necklace lay cold and heavy against her skin, and its clasp caught her hair, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she watched her uncle, trying to interpret his intentions. “You mustn’t trust them,” Ari Frothi had said of the king and Bragi. But except for more smiling than she’d ever seen from him before, the king was acting his courtly self. Exile she had been prepared for, but not a kind and graciousuncle who seemed to have forgotten everything that had happened.
It was as if all were the same as before, except that nothing was the same. She suddenly recognized what was different. It wasn’t just her uncle. Since she had entered the hall, everyone, even Bragi, had been polite. And not just to her. The loud laughter and joking, the everyday insults and slurs she usually heard in the hall had been replaced by quiet conversation, smiles, restrained words. There was so much smiling it made her jaw ache. And the hall was far too quiet.
The cold of the necklace crept down her back.
Then her uncle caught her eye, and the look he gave her chilled her even more. He flicked his eyes to a guard, compelling Hild to look as well. The guard’s masked helmet obscured his face, but she could tell his gaze was trained on her and on the king as he awaited orders. Hild understood perfectly. She was to comply with whatever her uncle said. She, too, was to smile.
The king held her eyes, warning her. Then he turned to address the crowd and his expression grew serious. His voice carrying to the far corners of the hall, he spoke. “Beowulf, King of the Geats, is dead.”
Gyldenseld had already been quiet, but now even the fire stopped crackling. The smiles Hild had seen faded as warriors leaned in to listen.
“A dragon attacked the kingdom, taking the life of its lord.”
Hild drew in her breath. The word
dragon
flew through the hall as warriors repeated it, their voices hushed and questioning. Did they remember the cloud over the lake, the one Ari Frothi had said was dragon smoke?
Her uncle held up his hand for silence. “We need not fear the monster,” he said. “It, too, lost its life, slain by King Beowulf and the kingdom’s new lord.”
He turned back to the Geats. “Our peoples,
Hild looked at them, three men clad in well-worn clothing neither fashionable nor particularly clean. Two of them were young, no older than Garwulf, while the third, whose thinning hair and crow’s-feet marked his age, stood a little in front of the others. As he bowed, one of his arms seemed to dangle beside him, as if he couldn’t move it. When he rose, his eyes met Hild’s, making her bridle. What right did a mere Geatish messenger have to look her in the eye?
“Our king sends you greeting, my lady,” he said. Hisvoice was soft and husky, and he pronounced the words so oddly, stretching them out unnaturally, that it was hard to understand him. The messenger glanced behind him at one of the other men, who stepped forward, holding out a bag made of rich cloth. As he approached, Hild could see the moth holes scoring the fabric. The older man tugged at the bag’s string, then reached in to pull out a handsomely wrought torque. As he held it out, firelight gleamed on the necklace’s patterned gold and flashed off its inlaid rubies. It was a kingly gift. She wondered who they’d stolen it from.
The king moved to stand beside Hild and reached for the torque. “As beautiful as the necklace of the Brosings,” he said, his voice resounding throughout the hall. He turned it in his hands, holding it up so the men standing nearby could see. Then he gestured to Hild, and she realized by his movements that he meant for her to wear it.
Her mother held her hair aside while the king himself fastened the torque around her neck.
“Let me look at you,” he said, smiling as he manipulated Hild so that everyone near the dais could see.
The necklace lay cold and heavy against her skin, and its clasp caught her hair, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she watched her uncle, trying to interpret his intentions. “You mustn’t trust them,” Ari Frothi had said of the king and Bragi. But except for more smiling than she’d ever seen from him before, the king was acting his courtly self. Exile she had been prepared for, but not a kind and graciousuncle who seemed to have forgotten everything that had happened.
It was as if all were the same as before, except that nothing was the same. She suddenly recognized what was different. It wasn’t just her uncle. Since she had entered the hall, everyone, even Bragi, had been polite. And not just to her. The loud laughter and joking, the everyday insults and slurs she usually heard in the hall had been replaced by quiet conversation, smiles, restrained words. There was so much smiling it made her jaw ache. And the hall was far too quiet.
The cold of the necklace crept down her back.
Then her uncle caught her eye, and the look he gave her chilled her even more. He flicked his eyes to a guard, compelling Hild to look as well. The guard’s masked helmet obscured his face, but she could tell his gaze was trained on her and on the king as he awaited orders. Hild understood perfectly. She was to comply with whatever her uncle said. She, too, was to smile.
The king held her eyes, warning her. Then he turned to address the crowd and his expression grew serious. His voice carrying to the far corners of the hall, he spoke. “Beowulf, King of the Geats, is dead.”
Gyldenseld had already been quiet, but now even the fire stopped crackling. The smiles Hild had seen faded as warriors leaned in to listen.
“A dragon attacked the kingdom, taking the life of its lord.”
Hild drew in her breath. The word
dragon
flew through the hall as warriors repeated it, their voices hushed and questioning. Did they remember the cloud over the lake, the one Ari Frothi had said was dragon smoke?
Her uncle held up his hand for silence. “We need not fear the monster,” he said. “It, too, lost its life, slain by King Beowulf and the kingdom’s new lord.”
He turned back to the Geats. “Our peoples,
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