Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  CYMBRA GAZ ED OUT OVER THE EXPANSE OF GRAY-blue water, tugged the ermine cloak more closely around herself, and sighed. Wind filled the sails, but the men were not relaxing. They strained at the oars until the dragon ship seemed to fly across the sea.

  During the night, the world had narrowed to the vessel alone amid the seemingly endless expanse of sea. From where she sat in the bow, the iron-riveted deck stretched at least fifty feet to the fearsome dragon prow. A single mast rose from the massive oak block fixed at the center of the keel, rigged with the square sail emblazoned with the emblem of the wolf.

  The men sat two to an oar on benches on either side of raised planking laid down the middle of the deck. Most had stripped off their shirts and rowed bare-chested beneath a pale sun wreathed in clouds. The only sounds were the creak of the rigging, the occasional grunts of the men, and the slap of water against the sides of the vessel where the shields were hung.

  How many miles were they from Holyhood? Certainly more than she had ever been before, for she had never even been out of sight of land. Amid the vastness of sea and sky, Cymbra felt lost and insignificant. The wound of worry for all those left behind throbbed incessantly. Again and again her thoughts returned to her brother and the survivors of the Viking attack. With every breath she drew, she felt their pain. After a lifetime of training herself to stand apart from her emotions, the conflagration within her was like staring into the sun.

  And yet, for all that, she could not deny a strange, unsettling sense of… what? Surely not excitement? Even less exhilaration? She could not possibly be taking pleasure in the sudden shattering of her well-ordered life, could she? Beneath the veil of her lashes, she glanced at the man responsible at once for her peril and for the only possible hope of ending it.

  Wolf had directed her to the bow when he brought her up on deck in midmorning. He sat nearby, one hand resting on the rudder, which he steadied occasionally. At first light, when she was still in the hold and just barely awake, he'd brought her food and water. That consideration emboldened her to ask for something to wear besides the ermine cloak, only to have him blandly tell her there was nothing. Not a tunic or a shirt, not a length of wool or linen, that she might put between her skin and the soft, sensual, seductive fur.

  She didn't believe him; there had to be something. But she sensed that he wanted her to argue and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Nor would she talk to him. She'd had time during the night to think over her situation. As fear eased, resentment grew. Even if Hawk had sent that reply—which he absolutely had not but even if— that was no excuse to risk plunging into war. Surely there could have been some further diplomatic effort?

  Good King Alfred, bless his name, was always saying that war should be the last resort, not the first. Not that the scion of Wessex ever hesitated to wield a sword when needed, but at least he paused long enough to see if there might be an alternative.

  But not Wolf Hakonson. Oh, no; at the first hint of insult, the Wolf rose from his lair to see what havoc he could wreak.

  “Typical man.”

  “What's that?” Wolf asked. After hours of silence, he was delighted to hear a sound from her even if he couldn't make it out.

  Cymbra started. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. “Nothing,” she said quickly and resolutely returned her gaze to the sea.

  He shrugged, as if indifferent. Then, seeing where her attention was directed—instead of to him—he said, “You might not have drowned right away. Sharks could have gotten you.”

  There, he had her attention. She stared at him dumbfounded. “I'm an excellent swimmer and we were still within easy reach of the beach.”

  She hadn't meant to take her own life. She'd actually thought she could get to shore. She was wrong, of course, but he was relieved all the same. He didn't like to think she preferred death to him. A man had his pride.

  “You'd never have made it in the dark.”

  “We'll never know, will we?”

  He sighed, not really wanting to irk her. She was a surprisingly bristly little thing, rather like a hedgehog he'd had as a boy. The thought made him laugh.

  Her eyebrows rose eloquently. “I amuse you?”

  “I was comparing you to a hedgehog I used to have.”

  He was joking. He had to be. She'd never been compared to a hedgehog or anything remotely like it in her life. Truth be told, she was most commonly said to resemble a swan. That was nonsense, of course, but still … “You think I look like a hedgehog?”

  “I think you act like one.” She was talking to him. A victory. He leaned back at his leisure and surveyed her. “But I suppose you could be said to look like some furry animal. You have a great deal of hair.” She had the longest, softest, most enticing hair of any woman he had ever seen. He yearned to feel those silken tendrils over his body to twine his hands in them and ease her ever closer until—

  “On my head,” she pointed out. “Not all over.” Too late she realized the trap he had led her into and flushed. If he said one word about having seen her naked … And for that matter, just what had he seen while he was lingering outside her tower chamber, waiting to commit his nefarious deed?

  “Hmmm,” Wolf murmured and smiled. He gave his attention back to the rudder. The morning wore on.

  The sun was high in the sky when Olaf brought them food. He handed it to Wolf, not so much as glancing at Cymbra.

  “She's got your cloak,” he observed.

  “I gave it to her.”

  “I suppose you'll have a new one from those pelts I owe you.”

  “I might.”

  Olaf grimaced. “I shouldn't gamble against you. You always win.”

  “It was a decent enough bet. We might not have gotten in so easily.”

  Cymbra couldn't resist. She waited until Olaf had gone, then asked, “What bet?”

  Wolf shrugged. “Olaf bet me ten pelts that I couldn't just walk into Holyhood and take you out. He thought we'd have to fight.”

  They'd gambled on the success of his trickery. No doubt they'd also gloated over it. She remembered her thoughts the previous night and could not conceal her bitterness.

  “You don't consider killing all those guards fighting? No, I suppose it wasn't. With so little chance to defend themselves, it was just murder.”

  He looked at her as though she were daft. “Little chance? They were warriors who were supposed to be able to defend you, much less themselves.”

  “They also had families, wives and children! What do you suppose will happen to those poor souls now?”

  He stared at her flushed cheeks and the angry glitter in her eyes. She really was magnificent. Still much too perfect, though. He really would have to do something about that. “I suppose that depends on how merciful your brother decides to be.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—” He realized that his teeth were clenched and forced himself to relax. The damn woman wasn't going to irk him like this. “We left the guards bound and gagged. Aside from sore heads, they should be fine.”

  Cymbra wondered if she'd misunderstood him. She hadn't spoken Norse much since learning it from an elderly monk who lived at Holyhood for several years before passing on. Brother Chilton had devoted several decades of his life to bringing the word of God to the pagans of the northlands. He'd told her a great many stories about them. She shivered at the grim memories.

  “I'm surprised you would hesitate to kill anyone.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “A filthy Viking savage wouldn't have any such qualms?”

  “I didn't say that!”

  He clearly didn't believe her. Being thought of as a liar was a new experience for Cymbra; people tended to take her at her word. She stared at him, wishing she could convince him and at the same time wondering why she should care.

  THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS REPEATED THE PATTERN OF the first. Each morning, Wolf brought her food as well as water for drinking and washing. She suspected she got more than
her fair share of the latter but couldn't bring herself to refuse it.

  When she was ready, he escorted her up on deck. The weather stayed fair and she was glad to be out of the hold, but the silence and utter boredom grated on her nerves. The men, including Wolf, spent hours at the oars. They seemed inured to physical hardship and spared themselves nothing. Not one of them was without an array of scars that made Cymbra wince to see. Undoubtedly they had all been marked in battle, but she suspected that at least some of the scars came from the ordinary occurrences of a harsh life.

  Having never before been exclusively in the company of men, Cymbra couldn't help but be curious about them. Men were very different when they dealt with women, she observed—or perhaps only with women of her own class, she couldn't be sure.

  In either case, among themselves they were taciturn, saying little, but startlingly blunt when they did speak. She tried very hard not to eavesdrop, but in the confines of the ship that was really impossible. After having her ears reddened several times, she was surprised to find herself becoming accustomed to the men's frankness. She also learned when to avert her eyes, for the men were as matter-of-fact about their bodily needs as they were in their speech.

  Wolf was the only one who spoke to her, and he did so rarely, usually only at the midday and evening meals. He did not mention his reasons for taking her again, nor did he give her any indication of what her fate would be. Cymbra considered asking, but her sense of vulnerability remained so great that she preferred not to know his answer. It was enough to dwell with her confusion over his claim that those left at Holyhood were unharmed—please God let that be so!—coupled with her continued dread about her brother. Barely would she begin to contemplate Hawk's likely reaction to her abduction than she would shy away from it as though from the fury of a storm. She loved her brother dearly just as she held him in great respect, but she knew him to be a man of implacable strength and a will capable of ruthless violence. Much as she longed for rescue, she did not even let herself pray for it, knowing as she did the bloodbath it would bring.

  Yet for all that she could hardly claim that her confinement was horrible. Another pallet had been added to the first so that she had a comfortable enough place to sleep. Except for the fresh-caught fish cooked over small, contained fires, the food was either dried or salted, but it was so ample she couldn't finish it. Aside from the lack of clothing other than the ermine cloak, she was denied nothing.

  A captive woman amid a Viking war band, her worst problem was boredom. That and worry over what her brother must be thinking—and planning.

  On the seventh day at sea, just when Cymbra thought she might break down and weep if something didn't happen to interrupt the unending sameness of the hours, something did. She was seated as usual in the bow, her face lifted to the sun, her mind drifting, when a gull glided by on the wind. She straightened up, watching as the bird circled the boat.

  One of the men threw a fish head into the water. The gull swooped, caught its bounty, and swallowed it whole. A short time later, a second bird appeared and was duly fed. Not long after that, Cymbra glimpsed the slight rise along the eastern horizon that she had expected since sighting the first bird. Land.

  At the prospect of their journey's end, her calmness vanished. She cast her mind ahead, trying to imagine what awaited her. The Norse merchants she had met were pleasant enough but merchants naturally made themselves congenial, the better to attract business. Brother Chilton, who had actually lived among the Norse, had painted a very different picture of them. A picture lit by fire, drenched in blood, imbued with hideous pagan practices too dreadful for him to describe in more than the most general terms.

  Was that why she had been left unharmed this long? Did the Wolf intend some truly terrible fate for her beyond her capacity to imagine? The color fled from her cheeks as she fought the sudden return of all her fears.

  Wolf saw the change in her and was surprised by it. He would have thought her glad to have the voyage over soon. But on reflection, he realized why she might well feel differently. Deliberately, he had given her no indication of his intent, preferring to let her dwell on the possibilities. She was, he had concluded, an intelligent woman, sensible enough when the time came to weigh alternatives and pick the one that was best for all concerned.

  With a start, he realized that he was beginning to trust her, at least in some ways. That wouldn't do. She was a Saxon, a valiant but unpredictable race that had seemed bound for extinction in England until Alfred rose in the west to lead them against the voracious Danes. Well and good, but a people shouldn't be so dependent on a single leader for their survival. Certainly, his were not.

  At the thought of his people, his mood lifted. As always when he had been away for even a short time, he felt a deep, irresistible yearning for the land of his birth. Soon now he would see the smoke rise from his own hearth and be content. But first they would make landfall, stretch muscles stiff from the days at sea, and hunt fresh meat. He was sick of fish.

  Cymbra felt the slight change in course and stared ahead at the land they were rapidly approaching. She saw a coastline that sloped low to the sea, thick with pine forests and dotted with innumerable rivers and bays.

  With a flush of surprise, she realized that she'd expected something very different—ice floes, unscalable cliffs, a dreary and threatening aspect. This place was … beautiful.

  The men bent to their task, their bodies moving as one, powerful and also strangely beautiful. Wolf had given over the rudder to old Olaf and taken his place at an oar. He was stripped to the waist, wearing only close-fitting trousers and boots of soft leather. Cymbra stared at his broad, tapered back, the muscles flexing powerfully with each sweep of the oar. His long, corded legs were braced before him, his black hair swaying over the massive sweep of his shoulders. He glanced around to say something to the man behind him, his grin flashing in the bright sunlight. She looked away quickly, finding it oddly difficult to breathe.

  The shore seemed to fly toward them. Cymbra saw a golden curve of beach and here and there small islets dotted with gulls and the gray, rounded shapes of basking seals. So swift was their approach that she had scarcely a moment to realize they were about to make landfall when Wolf shouted a command, the oars were suddenly raised, and the stone anchor and its iron chain splashed into the water. The vessel shuddered once and settled into place, swaying gently on the swell.

  Several of the men took up weapons and shields and waded to shore. Others busied themselves securing the oars and furling the sail before they joined the rest.

  Cymbra eyed the expanse between the vessel and the beach. She longed to dive into the water as the men had done, but the ermine cloak would weigh her down dangerously and going without it was out of the question.

  She glanced at Wolf, who had been busy off-loading supplies to some of the men, and was surprised to find him watching her. His eyes were narrowed with amusement and, lest she be left in any doubt of his mood; the corners of his mouth twitched.

  “Planning to sit there all day?” he asked pleasantly

  She turned her back to him. Addressing the water, she said, “If I had something sensible to wear, I could wade in like the rest, or swim.”

  “Oh, that's right, you're a good swimmer.”

  When he said nothing more, her anger rose. She felt painfully alone and vulnerable. There was no sign of a settlement or habitation of any kind on the pristine, golden curve of beach, and she had no idea why they had stopped there or what might happen to her now. Suddenly her throat was very tight and she felt horribly close to tears.

  Before she could say or do anything, Wolf lifted her into his arms, adjusted the cloak around her, and strode to the railing.

  It was old Olaf's turn to play blind, deaf, and dumb. He held her until Wolf was in the water, no longer than a heartbeat. Clasped high against a rock-hard chest, Cymbra was carried up the beach and deposited gently near where the men were making a fire.

  For just a mome
nt Wolf lingered beside her, his hand touching her shoulder in a gesture that was oddly reassuring. Then he turned away and reached for his weapons.

  “I've a taste for meat tonight.” He called several of the men to him, gave instructions to the rest, and ran easily up the beach, out of sight.

  Cymbra got up after a while and stretched her legs. She found some needed privacy behind a thick clump of bushes, then walked a little farther. It occurred to her that she could just keep on walking, and she wondered how far she would get before the men came after her.

  Or perhaps they wouldn't. How could anyone pursue an invisible woman? She smiled at her whimsy and decided not to tempt fate. Her decision was confirmed a short time later when she returned to the camp site. Olaf looked up from the pot he was tending on the fire, met her gaze, and nodded once in acknowledgment. Not quite invisible after all.

  She sat down again on the sand, wishing she could stretch out as the men were doing, and felt her stomach rumble as a tantalizing aroma wafted by. Olaf was taking herbs from a small bag at his waist and adding them to the pot where water simmered. As she watched, he sniffed, considered briefly, added another pinch, and appeared satisfied.

  “What are you using?” she asked.

  He looked startled that she would speak. The other men stiffened, although they were careful to look anywhere but at her. She thought Olaf might do the same but finally he cleared his throat.

  Concentrating his attention on a stick of driftwood he was carving into a simple ladle, he said, “Salt, parsley, sage, and one or two other things for me to know.”

  She smiled, unable to hide her pleasure at simply hearing a voice directed to her. Walking over to the pot, she took a sniff. “Caraway seed and … black pepper.”

  The men grinned. A couple even looked her way when she added, “You're expecting rabbits then?”

  Olaf shrugged, doing his best to appear unimpressed but not entirely succeeding. He took turnips, some pearly white barley, and a head of cabbage from a sack and began adding them to the pot. “Not much sense going for something bigger when we'll only be here the night.”