As I understand it, the eighth-century writings of the Venerable Bede comprise the only extant historical source material about Hilda of Whitby, also known as Hild, the fierce and willful protagonist of Menewood and the eponymous book that preceded it. Bede writes a bit about Hild's childhood at the court of her uncle Edwin of Northumbria following the death of her father Hereric (probably at Edwin's order). And he writes about her later in life, as the abbess at Whitby, instrumental in the establishment of Christianity in the kingdoms of England.
What happened in between is left as an exercise for the reader, and Nicola Griffith has stepped boldly into the breach with the second imaginative, rich, immerse, thrilling installment of her trilogy.
First, though, this book is good. It's lush and gorgeous, and Hild is a magnificent protagonist -- freakishly tall and strong, hungry both for love and for revenge, angry and stubborn, but also fiercely loyal to her friends, fair-minded, observant, intelligent, and curious. She really is a delightful character to spend hours and hours with — and Griffith’s books about her are lengthy. Even so, I've read Hild twice in the last decade, and after finishing Menewood I've been tempted to go back and read them both again. [ETA: three months later, I've done just that.]
Now, the particulars of Hild's life in the time frame covered in this book -- her twentieth and twenty-first year, more or less -- are, as I said, largely unknown. So, in addition to giving her a colorful sex life, Griffith has taken the liberty of placing Hild at the center of key historical battles whose details are less murky: Cadwallon's defeat of Edwin, his marauding of Northumbria, his own eventual defeat by an army putatively led by Oswald, the exiled prince of Berenicia. In the latter in particular, Cadwallon's comeuppance, Griffith gives Hild a history-making role which I suspect the real Hild didn't come close to.
But that doesn't make Menewood any less smashing as a work of historical fiction. Because Griffith has clearly done her homework about people and events that are preserved in the record. She knows the splintered Anglo-Saxon and Celtic kingdoms of the isles as well as she knows her own face. She knows the religious bifurcation between the their approaches to Christianity. She knows the landscape as well as her tuned-in protagonist. All this verisimilitude steeps the pages, painted with magnificent sensory detail, as her understanding of the material culture runs just as deep. The smell of horses, the feel of just-tanned leather, the sounds of smithing, the gory details of butchery, the taste of ale and mead and fresh-drawn cream, all deliver as complete and immersive a historical reading experience as you can hope for, with beautiful sensuous writing.
Sure, there are elements that strain one's suspension of disbelief. Hild's riding fiercely into battle while in labor is one; the general frank nonchalance about Hild's lesbian relationships is perhaps another, though Griffith maintains that these early Anglo-Christians had no hang-ups about sex, and didn't much care who had it with whom. Color me skeptical. Still, it is pleasant in its own way that the people who love Hild (as much as those who stand in awe of her) aren’t critical of the particulars of what makes her happy in bed. “The Lady only rides mares,” one of her guardsmen deadpans, nominally speaking about Hild’s equestrian prowess, but the young man he's speaking to catches his meaning.
So if you're looking for a veridical course in Anglo-Saxon society, you won't find it here. But the fact is, history knows next to nothing about how the Anglo-Saxons actually lived. And if you want a rich, sensuous read with lots of blood and guts and fighting and religion and looting and feasting and loving and scheming, Menewood will not let you down.