Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Wolf moved deliberately, interposing himself between Cymbra and his brother. He caught Dragon's eye again, his message unmistakable for all that it was silent.

  Dragon sighed. He hesitated but sat down again. Bluntly, he said, “Did we not share the same sire, I would fight you for her. Best you know that. Others will feel the same and be unhindered by the bonds of brotherhood.”

  Wolf did not begrudge such frankness; on the contrary, he welcomed it. Not for a moment did he pretend that the woman he had stolen was other than an immense temptation to any man who set eyes on her. No wonder her brother had kept her locked away. With hindsight, he had to applaud the Hawk's good sense.

  “I would like to speak with you,” Cymbra said, her voice meltingly soft despite her obvious anger, her slight accent delightful as always. She spared Dragon only the briefest glance. All her attention was on the Wolf.

  Who duly noted that and was pleased. His brother was thought an inordinately handsome man and enjoyed vast success with women. Yet Cymbra appeared oblivious to him.

  “By all means,” Wolf said pleasantly. “But not here.” He took her arm and steered her toward the front of the hall where wide doors stood open to admit the summer breeze. She went impatiently, brimming with words as yet unuttered.

  He did not stop or speak again until they had climbed the berm near one of the watchtowers overlooking the bay. He waited then, letting her catch her breath, the silence dragging out between them until finally she couldn't stand it anymore.

  Facing him directly, her hands clenched at her sides, she said, “You must realize what you have done. My brother will come after me and there will be a war. Surely you can't want that?”

  When still Wolf did not respond, Cymbra burst out, “You must let me send word to Hawk that I am safe!” She paused, staring at her captor, as coldness moved through her. He made no move to calm or reassure her, no effort at all to allay her worst fears. Indeed, his very silence seemed to confirm them. She could delay no longer the question that had been uppermost in her mind since the moment at Holyhood when steely arms had first closed around her: “What do you intend to do with me?”

  Her courage pleased him but he was careful not to show it. Shrugging, he said, “Better you ask what I intend for your brother.”

  Cymbra paled. “What do you mean?”

  Wolf raised an arm, long of bone, weighted with muscle, perfectly crafted to wield a sword or lance as it did so very often. He pointed down to the beach. “Your brother will die there.”

  The rays of the setting sun spilled like blood across the water. Cymbra gasped and put her hand to her throat. “Why? You have no reason to kill him.”

  “He who is not my friend is my enemy. I gave your brother the chance for peace. I offered him an alliance against the Dane who plagues us both. His answer was a mortal insult.”

  “He didn't …”

  “Enough! He will come for you, and when he does, he will die. I will have one less enemy in the world and the insult done me will be avenged.”

  He grasped her shoulders, deliberately allowing her to feel something of his strength, and forced her to look down at the crimson-lit beach. “Right there, Cymbra, that is where your brother will breathe his last. His life's blood will soak that sand. His last sight will be of these walls.”

  “No!” A sob broke from her as she tried to wrench free of him.

  Wolf tightened his hold implacably. He pulled her hard against him, his hand clasping the back of her head to press her face to his chest. Softly, almost caressingly, he said, “Unless you prefer a different fate for him.”

  She looked up, her tear-filled eyes meeting his. Her voice shook. “What do you mean?”

  “Right now your brother has no idea who took you. We were careful to leave no trace. Odds are he thinks the Danes responsible. But soon I will send word to him of where you are and he will come. If he thinks you a captive, abused, perhaps dead, honor will demand that he give battle, and he will perish. But if he finds you safe, honored, content, then he will accept the alliance he should have accepted months ago. All will be as it should be.”

  “You mean he will agree to give me to you in marriage?”

  “No, I mean he will accept our marriage. If you truly want to save his life, you will let him find you my wife, not my slave.”

  She paled. “I cannot marry without my brother's approval.”

  He had expected this and was prepared for it. “If you wait for that, he will die before he can give it. We will burn his body, as is our way. He will not even reach your Christian heaven. But who knows, perhaps Odin will welcome him into Valhalla for by all repute he is a mighty warrior. Just not mighty enough to survive the trap I have set for him.”

  He held her then as the storm swept through her and knew that she was truly seeing what he had conjured not merely with words but with the steel-stark truth of his intent. For if she refused, what he had promised would come to pass as surely as they stood there above the empty beach with the stars winking on overhead.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, and with no warning at all pulled back her fist and slammed it straight into his jaw.

  THE NIGHT THROBBED TO THE RHYTHM OF GOATSKIN drums and bone clappers. Birch flutes joined in, adding a lighter, teasing play, all combining in a robust, joyful tune that reverberated to the star-draped sky and the swollen moon hanging low to the earth.

  Men, women, and children milled about, their faces aglow with excitement. Cooks swirled around the fires, working frantically. Servants scrambled to finish setting up all the extra tables, enough for a crowd far too large to be accommodated even in the great hall.

  Wolf looked around slowly. What he saw pleased him well. For a wedding feast prepared in a matter of hours, instead of the weeks that were normally required, he could find no fault.

  Absently, he rubbed his jaw, caught himself doing it, and grimaced. She hadn't actually bruised him; he'd checked in a silvered reflecting glass Dragon had brought from the East. But there was no denying that his gentle bride had a surprisingly solid punch when she was riled.

  With hindsight, he supposed that as marriage offers went, his had left something to be desired. Promising to kill her brother if she didn't become his wife probably wasn't the surest way to win a woman's heart. But damn it, it wasn't her heart he wanted. It was her obedience. And her body. Oh, yes, definitely her body.

  Tonight she would be his. The formidable self-control he had exercised on the voyage would no longer be needed. He would sate himself fully in the beautiful witch. By morning, she would be simply a woman.

  That didn't mean he wouldn't value her and treat her kindly, only that he would no longer feel the hot, dazed hunger she triggered in him. He would be himself again, in control.

  But first there was this marriage feast to get through.

  “Nervous?” Dragon asked as he emerged from his lodge behind Wolf. He grinned challengingly. “If you're not feeling up to it, brother, I'd be happy to—”

  “Exactly how eager are you to feast in Valhalla this night?” Wolf asked pleasantly.

  Dragon laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Not quite that eager. The lady is yours and welcome to her.” He glanced at Wolf's jaw and smiled broadly. “Gentle. Isn't that what you called her?”

  Wolf flushed slightly. Dragon noticed too much. “She will learn,” he said with utter confidence. That there might be any difficulty with her doing so did not occur to him. She was, after all, only a woman, Frigg-favored or not.

  “Well then,” Dragon said, “there's no reason to delay.”

  Together they walked into the large, open area where the crowd had assembled. They were seen almost at once and a great cheer went up. People pressed forward to greet their jarl and his brother, both warriors of great renown, and to offer their congratulations to Wolf on this happy occasion.

  In the midst of much back-slapping and ribald jest, Wolf kept an eye on his lodge. He was just about at the point of going to fetch
her when the door opened and Cymbra emerged. He couldn't be absolutely sure but he thought she had some help from Marta, who appeared to give her a little shove. He smiled grimly at the sight of his reluctant bride, then he simply smiled.

  She was still wearing the indigo-blue tunic but had added a veil of translucent silk over her hair. Around her neck, no doubt placed there despite her objections, was a golden torque emblazoned with the wolf's head; the gleaming eyes were made of clear white stone said to have come from the fabled lands at the southernmost end of the world. More than anything else, the torque was an unmistakable sign of his possession. Cymbra certainly understood its purpose, for her fingers closed around the gold metal and even as he watched she tugged at it angrily.

  Wolf grinned. He couldn't help it, her spirit pleased him. Not for the first time, he considered what a delight taming her would be. His patience suddenly gone, and determined that this not take a moment more than it absolutely must, he strode through the crowd and met Cymbra before she could take more than a few steps from his lodge.

  She saw him coming and stopped abruptly. Her breath caught. He was dressed far more luxuriously than she had ever seen him, in a tunic of rich black velvet stretched tautly over his massive chest and close-fitting trousers of soft leather. The thick mane of his ebony hair was freshly washed and swept back from his high forehead. Bands of gold shone at his wrists, and around his throat he wore a larger version of the wolf-emblazoned torque her fingers were worrying.

  The anguish she had suffered since he told her of his plans to kill Hawk, and the humiliation she felt at her utterly uncharacteristic lapse into actual violence, gave way before a strange surge of excitement. She tried to deny it but it flowered swiftly, pushing aside all else. Without thought, she held out her hand. His own closed around it with gentleness that surprised her. She was drawn with him into the crowd.

  At the center of the large open area within the berm stood a tree. It was a very old ash with gnarled branches that stretched far out as though in loving embrace. Before it stood a man who appeared almost as old. He was simply dressed in a robe of unbleached homespun and he smiled as Wolf and Cymbra approached.

  “This is Ulfrich,” Wolf said. “He will say the words for us.”

  “He is a priest?” Cymbra asked.

  “We have no priests in our faith. He is a wise and holy man.”

  Perhaps Ulfrich saw her perplexity, for he said gently, “You are new to our ways, lady. Please allow me to explain.” He gestured a gnarled hand toward the tree. The people drew closer, falling silent as the music died away and only the deep, gentle voice of Ulfrich remained.

  “Such a tree stands at the center of every Norse settlement. It represents Yggdrasil, the world tree with roots reaching into the netherworld and branches reaching to the sky. From the branches of Yggdrasil, the great god Odin hung for nine days and nine nights without food or water, giving of his life's blood in sacrifice. On the ninth day, as he was dying, he looked down and beheld the runes, givers of divine knowledge. Through them, he was reborn so that his wisdom may be shared by all mankind.”

  Ulfrich reached out, took their joined hands, and held them in both of his. “Wolf Hakonson, you have come to declare before all that this woman is your wife. You must pledge to protect and care for her, to shelter her beneath your roof, to share all you have with her, and to give her children. Do you agree to this?”

  “I agree,” Wolf said quietly.

  “Cymbra of Holyhood, do you agree to be wife to this man, to keep his home, bear his children, and guard his honor throughout your life?”

  Her throat tightened. It was all so very different from what she had ever imagined. Not that she had thought much about marriage. So long as Hawk did not speak of it, she saw no reason to concern herself. But she had assumed that if she ever did marry, she would have the blessing of the Church. Although she did not doubt the sincerity of this pagan ceremony, it was just that—pagan. And it left her longing for something more.

  Yet she was a woman of courage and sense, not to mention of deep, unnamed yearnings she could no longer deny. Quietly, she said, “I agree.”

  Ulfrich nodded solemnly. He accepted a gem-encrusted goblet offered by a young boy, poured honeyed wine into it, and handed the goblet to Wolf. “Drink then to seal this bond.”

  Wolf raised the goblet to his lips. He was about to drink when he hesitated, lowered the goblet, and instead handed it to Cymbra. He did not release it but held the goblet steady as she slowly set her mouth to it and tasted the sweet, tangy liquid sliding down her throat. When she raised her head, he turned the goblet, set his mouth where hers had touched, and drank deeply.

  The crowd roared its approval, but Wolf held up a hand before the well-wishers could engulf them. “One thing more,” he said. He glanced at Ulfrich, who nodded and stepped back. From the crowd came a tall, thin man in a monk's simple brown robe. At Cymbra's startled look, his gentle face creased in a smile. “I am Brother Joseph, my lady. I have the honor to bring the word of the Lord to these good people.”

  “I didn't know you had a priest here,” Cymbra said, looking at Wolf.

  He shrugged, as though it was of no account. “Brother Joseph is just passing through. It is a Norse tradition to give hospitality to travelers.”

  “I have been passing through for three years now,” Brother Joseph said with a smile. “Lord Wolf is most generous—and patient—with his hospitality.”

  “Perhaps I always knew I would have a use for you,” Wolf suggested with a grin. “Proceed, Brother Joseph. The night grows no younger.”

  The young monk nodded. Quietly, he said, “You must kneel.”

  They both did so, Cymbra still stunned by the sudden fulfillment of her wish. Had Wolf truly anticipated that this would be important to her and granted it without her even asking? Or was he simply astute enough to use her faith as one more way to bind her to him irrevocably?

  “Holy Father,” Brother Joseph said, “we beseech Your blessing upon this couple united in marriage. May You who gave Your only Son for the salvation of mankind shine Your great love upon this man and woman, light their way in this world and make their life together a gift of joy to one another and all who know them. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost”—his hand moved above them in the sign of the cross—“I declare you husband and wife.”

  There was no containing the crowd then. They surged forward, the men hoisting Wolf on their shoulders as the women did the same with Cymbra. As the music resumed in a fury, they were carried around and around the tree until at last, breathless and laughing, the crowd deposited them in their seats at the high table. As others found their places, and the servants darted forward to fill cups and bowls, Wolf leaned over and covered Cymbra's hand with his own.

  “Are you all right?”

  Was she? She really didn't know. She was dazed and very uncertain. And yet … Her eyes drifted to the place on his jaw where her fist had landed. Again she felt a tremor of shock at her own behavior.

  There was no mark but at the very least she must have stung his manly pride. Yet he had said nothing of it to her, offered no recrimination and inflicted no punishment. Dare she hope he thought her small attack in some way deserved?

  Slowly, less sure of anything than she had ever been in her life, Cymbra nodded.

  THERE WERE PROPRIETIES TO BE OBSERVED. PEOPLE expected certain things. Rituals were important, serving as they did to strengthen a community. Wolf reminded himself of that yet again. It didn't help. He was rock hard, his blood throbbed more fiercely than the music, and he burned with a fire that threatened to consume him.

  Cymbra, by contrast, seemed to be enjoying herself. Dragon was being charming, curse him to an eternity of icebound hell. His brother had started in on yet another story; he appeared to have an endless supply of them. Had he not been born to a warrior, no doubt he would have been a skald.

  Wolf had a sudden, unbidden glimpse of his brother as a storyteller, going f
rom holding to holding, keeping alive the great sagas of their people. He wondered for just a moment if Dragon might really have preferred that life.

  As for himself, he had never given any thought but to the life he had. A life of duty and responsibility often harsh, sometimes outright savage. But for all that, a life not without its compensations.

  The most obvious of which sat at his right side, attending to Dragon's tale, her lips slightly parted and her eyes rapt with interest. She looked perfectly content to remain there all night. That impression was confirmed a few minutes later when Dragon concluded his story, or tried to. At once, Cymbra asked, “What was the name of the giant who challenged Odin to race?” Truth be told, she had no particular interest in a story that under other circumstances would have genuinely enthralled her. Indeed, she could think of scarcely anything save the terrible danger to her brother and the equally momentous step she had just taken to try to allay it. But Dragon was unexpectedly kind, reminding her yet again of her own brother and the kindess Hawk had so often shown her. Reminding her, too, of how reluctant she was to submit herself to the man so rightly called Wolf, who now possessed absolute authority over her.

  Dragon smiled at her gently, as though he sensed the direction of her thoughts and sought to soothe them. “Hrungnir, who was foolish enough to believe his steed faster than Odin's own Sleipnir, the most magnificent of stallions.”

  “Surely they must have had many adventures together. Will you tell us of them?”

  “Well, there was the time Odin rescued a warrior named Hadding from his enemies. He wrapped Hadding in a cloak and took him up on the saddle in front of him. As they rode, Hadding peered out from between the folds and saw to his astonishment that they were galloping over the open sea, Sleipnir's hooves pounding the waves just as though they were stone.”

  “Extraordinary,” Cymbra said. “Does Odin make it a habit to rescue warriors?”

  “Those he favors. Those he does not are often favored by Frigg, Odin's wife. These two are generally at odds over something or other.” Dragon cast a quick glance in his brother's direction and grinned broadly. “Of course, that's not unusual in marriages.”