Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

Her mouth was dry. She had no idea how to respond to this, no experience in dealing with it. Slowly, she said, “It is proudful to care about duty?”

  “Your duty is to me. To me.” The emphasis was all the clearer for being so quietly uttered. “I require your absolute obedience and loyalty. I thought I'd made that clear.”

  Perhaps he was right and she was proudful, for she couldn't merely accept this. “I was neither disobedient nor disloyal when I tried to manage a purely domestic matter—a matter of women—by myself.”

  He leaned against his high-backed chair, seemingly at his ease, and regarded her steadily. “How did you try to manage it? What did you do?”

  She hated this, hated feeling so exposed and having to defend herself to him. Nothing in her life had prepared her for it. But then the Scourge of the Saxons had provided her with so many new experiences.

  “I thought it best to wait, to give Marta and the other women time to come to know and accept me. Under the circumstances, taking into consideration the surprise of our marriage and the fact that I am a stranger, it seemed best for all concerned.”

  He nodded, as though considering all this. She wasn't fooled. He had already made up his mind and was not to be swayed. “You did not think to discuss this plan of yours with me?”

  “I did not think you would concern yourself with such matters.”

  “What prompted you to ask her for the keys when you did?”

  Cymbra hesitated. She had never told him about the lute. Now she supposed that would be another black mark against her. They were piling up too quickly, making her wonder if she had done a single thing right since her arrival.

  Not looking at him, she said, “I found my lute destroyed. I believed Marta responsible because of her resentment of me. I went to her and demanded the keys. She refused to give them.”

  His eyes darkened but he still spoke with infuriating calm. “So you thought to trick me into solving the problem for you with that talk of venison?”

  “It was not a trick!” He was making her sound like a terrible person, this man who had brought her to such ecstasy only a short time before.

  “I wanted your help,” she said, “and I didn't know how to ask for it directly.”

  “It's very simple.” He came toward her, stepping from light into shadow, then light again. The grayness was growing brighter as the Norse summer birthed another day.

  “You come to me.” He took hold of her arms, placing them around his neck. “And you say, ‘Husband, I need your help.’ See, that is not so hard, is it?”

  “And if you are away on the training fields or on a voyage? Or if you have other problems to solve? Or perhaps you are merely weary or preoccupied. I take none of that into account? I merely load my difficulties on you without thought?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “Not necessarily without thought. You could, for instance, seek the right moment. You might …” He considered, searching for the most helpful suggestion. “You might take my boots off, for instance, rub my neck, see to my comforts, and then when my mood is at its best, tell me what you wish.”

  Despite herself, Cymbra felt the beginning of a smile. The heady rush of emotion she never failed to experience with this man left her disoriented. In moments, she had gone from resenting him to being charmed by his sudden teasing playfulness.

  “I think it would be simpler to just take care of things myself,” she said, but lightly, letting him know she didn't mean it. To be absolutely sure he got that message, she moved her hips delicately against him.

  “Simpler,” he murmured against her throat, “isn't always better.”

  Beyond the timbered hall, a rooster warbled full-throated greetings to the sun. Another quickly followed and another, their raucous calls resounding off the berm floating down the hill to join the cries of all the other roosters in the town heralding the morn.

  For a few, giddy moments, the world seemed to consist only of their triumphant song. They sounded for all the world as though they believed they called forth the sun themselves.

  EVEN CYMBRA—PROUDFUL CYMBRA, AS SHE REMINDED herself—knew better than to try to persuade the Wolf to rescind his order of exile. The best she could do was make sure that Marta and Kiirla had ample and more supplies to take with them to their new home. This she did as soon as she emerged for the second time that day from the lodge, hastily reordering her clothes and patting her hair into place.

  Crossing the field to join his men a short time later, Wolf saw her loading the wagon that would accompany the women. He caught her eye to let her know he had seen, but he said nothing, not even when she looked back at him defiantly. She thought he even smiled a little but she couldn't be absolutely sure.

  She was still staring after her husband, distracted by the hard, powerful beauty of the body so recently entwined with hers, when one of the guards approached him and spoke briefly. Wolf stopped, turned around, and headed in the direction of his brother's lodge. That surprised Cymbra, for she would have expected Dragon to be on the training field already, as he was every day. Looking around, she realized there was no sign of him.

  She made her farewells to Marta and Kiirla. The former refused to look at her but the younger woman nodded calmly. She seemed more in possession of herself than Cymbra had ever seen her, as though her formidable mother no longer overshadowed her.

  Gesturing toward the wagon, Kiirla said, “Thank you for all this. It is very kind, especially so under the circumstances.”

  “I wish you did not have to go,” Cymbra said frankly.

  “It is best,” Kiirla replied. “This will be a fresh start for us and I think we need that.”

  “If the landsmann at Oslofjord proves unkind—”

  “He will not,” Kiirla said quickly. Her cheeks colored faintly. “As it happens, he is not a stranger. We met at the spring festival.” She met Cymbra's gaze. “He has no wife. I spoke to my mother of him, but …”

  Understanding dawned and with it came a wave of relief. Not for a moment did Cymbra doubt that her husband was fully aware of the marital status of the landsmann.

  Still reflecting on Wolf's cleverness, she waited until the women, their wagon, and their escort departed, then went in search of him. She found him just emerging from his brother's lodge. Ulfrich was with him and the two were so deep in conversation that they did not notice Cymbra's approach.

  “He is not telling the truth about the pain,” the elderly wise man was saying. “It remains great.”

  “But the wound has healed,” Wolf countered. His brows were drawn tightly together. “He has returned to training and seems to be managing well. Or he did seem to until today.”

  “He has concealed much and pushed himself very hard. This fever is the result. I am afraid that—” Ulfrich broke off and nodded to Cymbra with a smile. “My lady we were just—”

  “This does not concern you,” Wolf interrupted.

  “Does it not? Then I must have misunderstood when I thought you were talking about your brother's wound not healing properly and now bringing on a fever. How foolish of me to think that the sensible thing would be to bring in a healer.”

  Ulfrich puffed out his cheeks in dismay and took a quick step forward, interposing himself between the jarl and his wife. “My lord, I'm sure she means well. A woman's heart overflows with compassion, after all, and—”

  “Proudful,” Wolf said flatly. He ignored Ulfrich and continued to stare down his wife, or at least tried to.

  “Sensible,” she shot back. More gently, she added, “Do not tell me it is pride to acknowledge my own skill and seek to use it where needed. You said that I was to ask your help. All well and good, I will do so. But now you need my help. Will you not take your own advice and do what you know is right?”

  Ulfrich glanced nervously from one to the other but both ignored him. Cymbra was too preoccupied trying to remember her concern for Dragon while her attention kept focusing on how magnificent her husband looked even if he was scowling at he
r—again. She longed to run her hands over his massive chest, to tease a smile from his lips, to take him deep within her body and feel his life pour into her.

  For his part, Wolf could not help but notice how glorious his wife appeared with her eyes lit for battle and her cheeks flushed. He knew he ought to be concentrating on her defiance—again—and he did make a feeble attempt, but the cheerful stirring of his cock distracted him. This was really too much. He was a man and a leader, not a randy boy. He could not, would not, allow any woman to control him.

  But he was also a brother and he could not forget that either.

  “Dragon is a warrior,” he growled, “not a weakling. He will not tolerate being coddled.”

  “That's good,” Cymbra replied as she brushed past him and opened the door to the lodge. “Because if what I think is wrong is indeed the case, the last thing I'm going to do is coddle him.”

  Her face was set, her manner utterly determined, but she faltered slightly as she confronted the man sitting upright in the large bed. Dragon's glare was remarkably like her husband's.

  “What is this?” he demanded, not of her but of Wolf, who had followed directly after her. Ulfrich came too, no doubt unwilling to miss anything.

  “My wife,” Wolf said, “has the notion that she might be able to help you.”

  “I need no help,” Dragon said emphatically.

  Cymbra looked at him with open skepticism. She saw a man of vast strength, as big and heavily muscled as Wolf himself, and no doubt in peak condition under normal circumstances. But these were not normal, as the pallor beneath his tan and the lines of strain around his mouth testified.

  “When were you wounded?” she asked, moving nearer to the bed.

  Dragon spared her one swift glance and returned his attention to his brother. “You can't be serious about this.”

  Wolf shrugged. “She has some skill. As yet I don't know how much, but perhaps she really can help.”

  “I am not some mewling infant to be cosseted by a woman!” He started to rise, remembered he was unclothed, and sank back into the bed with a curse that would have melted ice.

  Cymbra ignored him. She laid a hand on his brow. Instantly, he yanked away. She moved as quickly, keeping her hand in place and firmly pushing his head back against the pillows.

  “As I thought,” she said. “Too weak to fight off a woman.”

  For just a moment, she feared she had gone too far. Wolf must have thought so too, for he took a step forward. After a tense moment, Dragon surprised them both by laughing, however faintly.

  “Odin's breath, she's right,” he said. He glanced up at her assessingly. “Do you truly know what you're about?”

  “You will answer that for yourself,” she replied. His skin beneath her hand was hot and dry. There was a too-bright light to his eyes that also bespoke high fever. But so far as she could tell standing near him, his breathing was clear. She intended for it to remain that way.

  She turned to Ulfrich. “I will need hot water, lengths of cloth about this long and wide”—she indicated with her hands—“and my chest of medicines. Oh, and Brita to help me.”

  “What are you going to do?” Dragon demanded suspiciously after the older man hurried off to do her bidding.

  “Bring down the fever first, then find out what has gone wrong with your wound.”

  “Nothing's gone wrong. It's healed.”

  “Do I need to, I will drug you and find out for myself.”

  “You wouldn't let her do that!” Dragon demanded of his brother.

  Wolf sat in a carved chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and prepared to stay awhile. Doubtful though he remained about the rightness of all this, he could not help but hope that Cymbra might actually be able to help.

  “Of course not,” he assured Dragon. “I'd just hold you down for her.”

  Cymbra's Norse vocabulary expanded somewhat in the minutes that followed. She pretended not to notice. Ulfrich returned with Brita on his heels. After that, there was very little Dragon could do except scowl.

  WOLF WENT IN TO THE TOWN AFTER MIDDAY. Dragon's fever was down and he was asleep, with Ulfrich keeping watch beside him. Cymbra, who so far as her husband could tell appeared to need no rest at all, had bustled off to see to matters in the kitchens. With Marta gone, she intended to assure there were no further problems.

  It was just as well she was occupied for he had matters of his own to attend to. He went alone and on foot but with no expectation of being unnoticed. On the contrary, when he settled himself on a bench outside a tavern with a fine view of the harbor, it was with every intention of being seen and duly noted.

  He didn't have long to wait. Barely had the buxom— and very friendly serving wench—brought him a horn of ale than a man approached. Wolf recognized him as the captain of a Breton galley that plied the waters as far west as Ireland and north to Sciringesheal itself.

  “Sit,” he said, and gestured for another horn to be brought. When this was done, the man, Onfroi by name, nodded his thanks, took a long swallow, and said, “News travels on the wind.”

  Wolf accepted this bit of wisdom with due solemnity. “News and rumor both, my friend.”

  “Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.”

  “But not for one as experienced as yourself.”

  Onfroi inclined his head in agreement. “Still, one hears strange things.”

  “Indeed?”

  “For example, I made port a fortnight ago in Essex. No one there talks of anything except the disappearance of the Lord Hawk's sister. You've heard of her, of course? Her beauty is said to rival the moon's and it is whispered that she possesses strange powers. Her brother kept her locked away, sensibly enough. But her sanctuary was invaded and the lady herself taken.”

  Wolf raised his eyebrows with polite interest. “By whom?”

  “Rumor says the Danes. The man who headed her garrison swore to the Lord Hawk before he died that they were invaded by an army of savage Danes, several hundred he claimed, who overran them despite their most valiant efforts.”

  “The Hawk believes this?”

  Onfroi spread his hands. “Who knows? There is a bit of a problem in that apparently no bodies were found, or for that matter any evidence of fighting. One doesn't think of Danes as such a tidy lot, cleaning up after themselves as it were.”

  “True, one doesn't think of that.”

  “And then there's the old nurse who babbles about a handful of Vikings who were taken captive the same day all this happened but who somehow escaped.”

  Wolf finished his ale and sat back in the sun. Truly, it did a man good to rest a bit. Not too much though. “Does she say anything else of them?”

  “Only that the Lady Cymbra had speech with them in their own tongue while they were being held.”

  “Since all Norsemen whether Dane or not speak essentially the same language, that is of little use.”

  “Apparently the Hawk thinks the same. It is said he has sent men up into the Danelaw to learn the truth of his sister's whereabouts. When he knows it, he intends to give battle and destroy the villain who dared to take her.”

  “A predictable enough response.”

  “Indeed. One might even think that whoever took her intends her brother to do precisely as he will.”

  “Or at least intends for him to try,” Wolf said and smiled.

  He tarried a little after Onfroi departed, drank a little more, spoke with several more men who happened, as it were, to come by. They told the same tale but added bits and pieces.

  The Hawk was said to rage. He had sworn to flay alive the despoiler of his sister. Yet it was also claimed that he wanted her safe return at all cost, her life held even above honor. That was the hardest part to believe, and no sensible man would, for surely honor counted more than the life of any mere woman.

  Yet, it was food for thought and Wolf did not mind chewing on it. Ordinarily, word of the mysterious Saxon beauty lately come to Sciringesheal w
ould have been carried to the Hawk on the selfsame ships that brought news of his rage and its cause. But the captains who put into the rich port controlled by Wolf Hakonson were a wily lot. They had enough sense to hold the favor of the jarl who protected their profitable trade in high regard and not risk losing it. So it was likely they would say nothing, no matter how tempted they might be.

  Soon, then, he would send word himself. He had delayed long as it was, telling himself that the stolen time with his bride was meant only to strengthen her conviction when she stood before her brother and swore to her happiness, thus sealing the alliance he had gone to such extraordinary lengths to secure. Yet did he also know himself prey to a yearning to postpone the inevitable moment of confrontation, whatever that might bring.

  Wolf shrugged inwardly. The Hawk would come, and when he did … What would be would be. They would make peace or Valhalla would welcome a new warrior to sup in Odin's hall. That the warrior would be Saxon he did not doubt for a moment. Every aspect of the battle, if there was to be one, favored his own victory.

  He had plotted this much before sailing to Holyhood, but now, in the aftermath of all that had happened, he had no choice but to think further. What he perceived did not please him. Cymbra loved her brother. If he died, she would mourn him forever—and hate the man who had killed him.

  It shouldn't have mattered. Life was harsh, duty and honor were all. Men lived or died as the Fates willed. Still, there was nothing to say a man's destiny had to be rushed. It wouldn't hurt the Hawk to rage awhile longer.

  Wolf tossed a few coins on the table for the ale and began walking back through the town. On the way, he made one more stop and was well pleased with what he found.

  Chapter ELEVEN

  CYMBRA TURNED THE LUTE OVER IN HER hands reverently. The graceful curves of polished wood seemed to glow with a life all their own. She looked up at her husband through tear-misted eyes. “I cannot believe you did this.”

  Wolf shrugged. “I enjoyed hearing you play. It seemed a shame to miss that pleasure.”

  His casual manner did not fool her for a moment. He had obviously gone to some trouble, seeking out and choosing a magnificent instrument better even than the one she had possessed, then leaving it on their bed for her to find when she came in to change for supper. That he had followed in time to see her reaction could not be coincidence.