by Josie Litton
As Cymbra gazed at the town, her anxiousness steadily increasing, the deep, drawn-out blast of a signal horn sounded from the shore, followed swiftly by another and another. Watchers on towers along the curve of the bay had spotted the dragon ship and its wolf-emblazoned sail. They called again and again, their tones reverberating off the nearby hills, joyously welcoming the adventurers home.
By the time the vessel drew up beside the largest pier, men, women, and children lined the dock, waving and shouting. The men on board waved back, spotting loved ones in the crowd, calling assurances that all had gone well and all returned safely.
Before the anchor was dropped, Wolf leaped across the space between the vessel and the pier, and clasped hands with a man the crowd had parted to admit. Cymbra hid a gasp when she realized that the man was equal to Wolf in size and had something of the same look about him, although his hair was more brown than black. His features bore the pallor of recent illness and he moved with some difficulty, but he grinned broadly, and the pounding he gave Wolf's back would surely have felled a lesser man.
Just then the man said something that made Wolf frown and reply curtly. Whatever he said drew the man's attention to the vessel and to Cymbra. She felt his gaze on her and turned away, suddenly unbearably self-conscious. She was vividly aware of her nakedness beneath the cloak. The crowd pressed ever closer, the din of their voices ringing in her ears. She wished suddenly that the journey had not ended, that she was still at sea, where time had seemed to hang suspended.
Wolf stepped onto the deck again and came toward her. The crowd, its attention caught, fell silent. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned in her direction, followed swiftly by a low, avid murmur of speculation.
Her cheeks burned and her stomach lurched. She could feel their curiosity, their conjecture, feel the whole dark, roiling surge of their emotions flowing over her, pulling her down, making it impossible for her to breathe or endure.
She couldn't let this happen. She had to find the courage and strength to face with dignity whatever lay ahead. Desperately, she fought to shore up the inner walls that protected her from the tumultuous, chaotic world of feeling. If she could only make them strong enough, retreat far enough behind them. If only—
“Come,” Wolf said, and before she could reply, he lifted her into his arms.
“I can walk,” she protested. She wasn't absolutely sure she could, or how far she would get if she attempted it, but pride demanded that she try.
He shrugged his massive shoulders and kept right on going, off the vessel and onto the pier. “I prefer to carry you.”
And that, as it seemed, was that.
Wrapped in ermine, cradled in the arms of the Wolf, Cymbra entered the great Viking port of Sciringesheal.
SO MUCH FOR DRAGGING HER NAKED AND RAVAGED IN chains through the streets, Wolf thought ruefully. When he'd set sail for Holyhood, his only intent to avenge the insult done him and his people, he had at least entertained the notion of such a punishment for a woman he believed richly deserved it. Instead he carried her wrapped in a cloak fit for an empress, his care of her a silent but eloquent signal to his people of her status.
The crowd parted before them. He saw their shock, indeed their astonishment, and ignored it. Word of who she was would spread quickly enough. Without lessening his stride, he walked straight through the town, the crowd closing up behind and following.
The gates in the berm were opening as Wolf approached. He acknowledged the men who greeted him but still he didn't slow, continuing across the flattened top of the hill, past the various workshops and barracks, the stables and pens, the kitchens and the great hall, until he came to a building set apart from the others.
This was a spacious, single-story residence built of fragrant fir planks. Intricate, entwined designs were painted in vivid blues, reds, and yellows around the door and windows. Above the door, sheltered by the overhang of the pitched roofs, hung two crossed axes, ancient symbol of the jarl's authority.
Wolf kicked open the door and entered, stooping slightly to clear the lintel. He straightened and looked around with satisfaction. All his life he had known the communal existence of a true Norseman, sharing food, quarters, hardships, and victories with his people. But when the council confirmed his succession to the chieftainship of his clan, he had allowed himself what was to him the ultimate luxury—privacy.
He crossed the single large room quickly and set his captive down on the immense bed hewn of birch trunks and covered with wolf pelts. With regret, he released her and stepped back.
“The women will see to your comfort, lady, but they have little experience with such as you. If you want something, ask for it.”
Her eyes were the most remarkable shade of blue. When they widened as they did now, he could imagine drowning in them.
He left without another word, and did not breathe easily until he closed the door of his lodge behind him.
CYMBRA SAT ON THE HUGE BED AND LOOKED AROUND. The chamber's barbaric splendor struck her at once.
Weapons and banners adorned the walls clear to the peaked ceiling. An elaborately carved table and two chairs stood near windows that commanded a magnificent view of the bay. Several equally elaborate chests were placed against the walls.
On the table was a pair of iron scales, the kind she had seen used to weigh coins. Nearby was a beautiful set of glassware, an ewer and several goblets of teal blue glass trimmed with silver. Everywhere she looked she saw small—and not so small—touches that bespoke the owner's wealth and power. Even the bucket meant to hold water was decorated with bands of beaten bronze.
She was still contemplating all this when the door opened and several women entered. Two of the three were quite tall and appeared to be a mother and daughter. They wore pleated linen petticoats visible beneath tunics with richly embroidered hems. The tunics were secured at their shoulders by carved brooches. The older woman wore an additional brooch pinned to her tunic. From it dangled a chain holding a pair of shears and several keys. Both had long hair, the older woman's gathered at the crown of her head and allowed to fall in a thick swatch, while the younger was in braids adorned with silk ribbons.
The third woman, who was an inch or two shorter than Cymbra, was darker of mien and dressed very differently from the two others. She wore only a tunic of rough, gray wool that came midway down her calves. Her black hair was gathered back with a leather thong. It was this smaller woman who gave Cymbra a quick, shy smile as she set down the tray of food she carried.
“Lady,” the older of the tall blond women enunciated slowly and precisely, “the Lord Wolf has directed that you eat and bathe.” She paused, waiting to see if the stranger among them understood proper language.
“Thank you,” Cymbra said softly offering a silent prayer of gratitude for Brother Chilton and his command of Norse. “What are your names, please?”
The women exchanged quick glances of surprise at her use of their language.
“I am Marta, lady,” the older woman said, drawing herself up even straighter. “This is my daughter, Kiirla.” As an afterthought, she said, “And this thrall is called Brita.”
Cymbra looked at the smaller woman more closely. She knew the word thrall but wasn't absolutely clear as to its meaning. There was no real equivalent among her people. “Thrall?” she asked.
“A slave,” Marta explained. She gestured to Brita. “Fetch the mistress's bath water.”
As the young woman hurried to obey, Cymbra frowned. The Saxons held slaves, but they were generally prisoners of war who would be reclaimed by their own side or people guilty of some crime who were freed after serving a time of labor. With rare exception, they were treated decently. It wasn't unusual for a slave, once freed, to remain in the community, many having married and settled down even while still technically in servitude. Judging by Brita's poor clothing and Marta's manner to her, slavery among the Norse was much different.
Or perhaps this was just an isolated case. Cymbra cautioned he
rself not to leap to any conclusions even as she wondered at her status. As a captive, was she also considered a thrall? If so, she was certainly being treated far differently than Brita.
The younger woman returned bearing two steaming buckets of water. She set them down and went out again, then returned with a shallow leather trough and a bucket of cool water.
“The Lord Wolf said you were accustomed to this way of bathing, lady,” Marta explained. “He said the heat of a proper sauna would likely be too strong for you just now.” The pursing of her mouth indicated what she thought of such weakness.
Cymbra looked at the trough doubtfully. It was far too small to hold her and she had no idea how she was supposed to bathe in it.
“Come, lady” Kiirla said, darting a quick glance at her mother for approval. “If you will stand here—”
Following the young woman's gestures, and guessing at what was intended, Cymbra stepped into the trough. She hesitated when Marta held out a hand for the ermine cloak but steeled herself and gave it up. Marta looked her over very frankly, her eyes hardening. Kiirla looked startled and quickly looked away. Brita kept her eyes averted as she mixed the water in another bucket, tested the temperature, then nodded to Marta.
The task of hauling the water had been left to the slave, but pouring it over Cymbra was Marta's privilege. She made a thorough job of it, but when she took up soap and a rough cloth, Cymbra insisted on doing the rest herself. She was shivering by the time she finished, there being no heat in the lodge. Apparently it was not considered necessary in summer, although by Cymbra's standards the air was decidedly cool.
“Now you will eat,” Marta directed when Cymbra was dried and wrapped in a sheet. She indicated the table. “Please to sit, lady.”
Cymbra sat. Brita gave her another shy smile as she removed the cover over the tray, revealing a carved wooden plate holding slices of smoked fish, bread, cheese, and a handful of lush, ripe blackberries. A cup of equally rich design was filled with milk.
As Cymbra ate, she gazed out the windows at the town below. She saw the dragon ship riding at anchor, the water of the bay sparkling around it.
Other vessels docked nearby also had high, curved prows, but these had not been carved into the nightmare symbol of the Norse raiders. They also appeared to have wider keels, which made her think they were merchant ships kept for peaceful use.
The people in town seemed to have returned to their normal tasks. The lanes were busy once again and there was a fair amount of activity in the marketplaces. On the hills beyond the town, goats and sheep grazed. So large were the flocks that they were spread out all the way to the tops of the slopes.
Contemplating the obvious prosperity and power of the Wolf's holding, she ate as much as she could, finishing just as Brita dragged a large chest through the door. Neither of the other women made an effort to help her. Cymbra was about to do so when surprise stopped her.
“That's mine.” It was her very own chest, the one she had used for years and had last seen in her chamber at Holyhood what seemed a lifetime ago.
“Yes, lady,” Brita said as she straightened.
Marta shot her a hard look, instantly silencing her. “The Lord Wolf also directed this be brought to you, lady. It contains your belongings.”
Slowly, Cymbra walked over to the chest, knelt beside it, and opened the lid. On top was a small wooden coffer bound in iron. She lifted it out with great care, hardly daring to believe what she held. “My medicines,” she said softly.
Setting it aside, she explored further and found in short order her needlework, her lute, her pens and papers, her manuscripts, and a very fair selection of her clothes. All neatly, indeed meticulously, packed, so that nothing had suffered the slightest harm during the voyage.
The same voyage wherein the Wolf had insisted there was nothing for her to wear save the ermine cloak he had given her.
Her fingers tightened on an over tunic of topaz silk, one of her favorites. She caught herself quickly and smoothed the fabric before it could wrinkle but could not contain a soft mutter of anger.
“Lady?” Marta queried.
“Nothing,” Cymbra said. She drew garments from the trunk and began to dress quickly. “I was merely commenting on Lord Wolf's thoughtfulness.”
Brita hurried to help her. Cymbra gave her an encouraging smile and, when she was done, thanked her. That earned another frown from Marta.
As Brita tidied up from the bath, Kiirla combed out Cymbra's hair.
“I have never seen hair of such length, lady,” the younger woman said. The words were admiring but the tone was not. There was an underlying catch of envy and disapproval. As though to emphasize it, she tugged the comb rather harder than was needed. “It must trouble you greatly to care for it.”
Cymbra winced. “Not really. My maid, Miriam, always helped and—” She was suddenly swept by longing for her dear old friend.
At the thought of the worry that kind, gentle woman who had raised her must be suffering, Cymbra's cheeks flushed. What was she thinking of, to be lolling amid barbaric luxuries when her friends and family despaired of her fate? For the length of the journey, she had held off her protests and her questions. But the journey was over now, they had come to their destination, and it was time for her to face whatever might lie ahead.
She stood up and straightened her shoulders. With regal coolness, she said, “I wish to speak with Lord Wolf.”
Marta was startled but recovered quickly and shook her head. “You must wait for him to summon you.”
Nine days on the ship. Nine days of waiting and wondering. Nine very long, very frustrating days.
“No,” Cymbra said and walked out of the lodge.
Chapter FIVE
I'M NOT SURE I UNDERSTAND. EXPLAIN TO ME again how this captive woman you were bringing back to suffer a horrible but undeniably deserved fate was transformed into a pampered princess to be surrounded by every luxury and consideration.”
Wolf scowled at the man across the table. He was the same man who had come to greet him on the pier. They were seated in the great hall, a timber building several hundred feet long with a center hearth large enough to hold an ox.
The walls were lined with sleeping recesses covered with blankets and furs, used by those of Wolf's men who were not settled with their own families in the fort or the town. Shields, weapons, and banners hung from the rafters. Trestle tables were set up around the hearth, with the largest of these, where Wolf sat, slightly raised so as to be visible throughout the hall.
A few servants moved about, beginning preparations for the evening meal, but otherwise it was empty save for the two men at the head table.
Wolf raised his drinking horn, took a long swallow of ale, and scowled at his brother. “She's not what I thought.”
This cursory explanation earned a grin from the man known from the ice caves of the frozen north to the souks of Byzantium as Dragon.
“I only caught a glimpse of her before you spirited her away. What sort of woman is she?”
Wolf thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Gentle. She brought us food and blankets while we were being held prisoner. Later that night I heard her telling her old nurse that there was too much cruelty in the world.”
Dragon's eyes narrowed. “If she thinks that way, why did she refuse your offer of marriage?”
“She says she didn't. She claims she never heard about it.”
“Then the Hawk …”
“No, she claims that isn't so either.” Wolf's mouth tightened derisively. “Her brother wants peace, so she tells me.”
Dragon's brows rose nearly to his hairline. “Well, he'll have a chance to prove it, won't he?”
Wolf grunted agreement and returned his attention to the ale. He knew he was just postponing the inevitable, but a man could be pardoned for taking a bit of time to collect himself. In aid of that, he had another long swallow.
Over the rim of the ale horn, he saw his brother's attention lock suddenly on th
e far end of the hall. His mouth dropping open, the Dragon rose.
Wolf did the same, quickly, and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Dragon met his eyes in blank amazement.
“She …”
“I know.” Wolf sighed. “Believe me, I know.” He turned, aware of what he would see yet not truly prepared for it. Cymbra in the dim light of the cell at Holyhood was exquisite. Wrapped in the ermine cloak, she was lovely. Naked in her bath and in the hold, she was … He would not think about that.
Now, here in his hall, dressed in a simple tunic of indigo wool girded at the waist, with long, form-fitting sleeves and a chastely high neck, she was gut-wrenchingly beautiful. Her glorious hair tumbled free, unhindered by veil or circlet. Her cheeks were in high color and there was an unmistakable light in her eyes as she came toward him.
She could be Frigg, he thought—so far as he was capable of thinking at all—the wife of Odin himself and a power to be reckoned with in her own right. Certainly, Frigg must favor her for all that she was Saxon born. How else to explain a mortal woman with the physical perfection of a goddess?
A serving boy with the ill-luck to be walking across the hall at the moment she appeared went straight into a pillar. Another tripped over his own feet and sent a tray of bowls clattering to the floor. Both picked themselves up slowly, still staring. As were the few others in the hall, including one who ought to have known better.