by Josie Litton
“Just playing,” she said quietly. “There's no harm in that, surely?”
Daria stared at her scornfully. Her long, narrow face twisted in a sneer of derision. “No harm? Of course there's harm. What sort of example do you think you set by cavorting like a hoyden? I have a hard enough time as it is getting these people to respect authority. When they see someone like you completely forgetting her position, what do you imagine they think?”
“That I'm human?” Cymbra suggested softly. She truly did not want to dislike Daria; they were family, after all, and she realized that her own presence at Hawkforte was upsetting to the woman, who seemed to have a frantic need to control every aspect of her own life and anyone else's who was foolish enough to accept her interference. Yet even as she strove for patience and tolerance, Cymbra had to admit that her half-sister made it extremely difficult to find either.
“Don't you be glib with me,” Daria snapped. “Save that for our brother, who believes you can do no wrong. What he was thinking of bringing you here I can't imagine. We'll be lucky if we don't all end up murdered in our beds.”
Cymbra repressed a sigh. Ever since her arrival at Hawkforte, Daria had been prophesying doom and destruction. She seemed to enjoy envisioning the most lurid scenes filled with rampaging Vikings who would attack without mercy, commit the most unspeakable atrocities, and leave no man, woman, or child alive. No one at Hawkforte paid much attention to her histrionics, and that seemed to drive her to even greater excesses. Yet her predictions were a constant reminder to Cymbra of how much she longed for one particular Viking and how greatly she feared that he had torn her from his heart.
“Your concerns are misplaced,” she said quietly. “As for playing, you might want to try it yourself. It lifts the spirit.”
Daria stiffened and drew herself up so straight that Cymbra worried her spine might snap. “Do not tell me about my concerns. I have far more important things to do. I am not a spoiled child always indulged and pampered.”
That was too much for the woman who had been kidnapped from her home, married under threat of death, introduced to incandescent passion, gifted with profound love, and driven to risk her own life in a desperate gamble to make peace between two peoples.
With aloof disdain that Frigg herself would have envied, Cymbra said, “And I am not one to tolerate your rudeness any longer, Daria. Stay from my path as I will stay from yours.”
Her half-sister was taken aback by such cool defiance. She looked about to respond but could not find the words. With a snort, she turned on her heel and stomped away.
Cymbra put her from her mind almost as soon as she was gone. The day was much too fair to be spoiled by thoughts of one such as Daria. Instead, she spent several cheerful hours in the kitchens. The servants welcomed her warmly. Despite their initial surprise when she had first begun to come there, they were accustomed now to her working beside them.
She had just completed assembling a pie of apples, raisins, and cinnamon that she knew Hawk liked when a clatter from the bailey yard drew her attention. Dusting off her hands, she looked out the window to see her brother returning.
After almost a fortnight away, attending the king's court at Winchester, he appeared somewhat weary and deep in thought. Cymbra went to him with a smile. His mood lightened when he saw her. He handed the reins to a stable boy and held out an arm to her, drawing her close.
“Are you well?” Hawk asked. His voice was very gentle when he spoke to her and the hard lines of his face eased, yet did his eyes remain shadowed by concern.
In both their minds lingered the memory of the conflict that had raged between them throughout the voyage from Sciringesheal and for many weeks thereafter. Cymbra had lashed out at her brother, decrying his betrayal of her trust and pleading to be returned to the husband she fervently claimed to love.
Hawk had resisted believing her with all his might, insisting that such love was an illusion and her judgment disordered by events. Only when he saw the depth of her anguish did he reluctantly begin to acknowledge that she might truly be in the grip of an emotion he had hitherto thought not to exist.
But by then they had reached Hawkforte and the swift onset of winter had closed the sea lanes. Slowly, reluctantly, driven by deepest concern for her well-being, he had drawn her out on the subject of her Viking husband and in the process discovered that Wolf was not at all what he had believed him to be. Honest to the core of his being, Hawk had finally been forced to the realization that he had made a terrible mistake.
One he desperately hoped to find some way to undo. But first he had to see to her safety and welfare even as he gave thanks for the generosity of her nature that had led her to forgive him.
“I'm very well,” Cymbra said as they walked together across the bailey, “and you?”
Hawk grimaced. “Considering where I've been, fine. Alfred apparently does not need to sleep and forgets that anyone else does. The tables groan under the efforts of cooks vying to produce the richest food imaginable. All the while, the talk swirls from politics to fashion to music and back again.”
“Poor Hawk,” she teased, “if you thought you had escaped, you are mistaken. You must tell me all about what the ladies are wearing and if Alfred's physicians have any interesting new remedies. Did you bring back any books?”
“Four, all copied out by Alfred's own scribes. He sends thanks for the medical treatise you provided. Indeed, he was disappointed that you had not brought it yourself.”
“Did you explain to him why I prefer not to travel just now?”
Her brother nodded. He glanced down at the swell of her abdomen visible even through the loose cloak and sighed. His arm tightened around her gently. “I told him. We agreed to speak of it again in the spring.”
In the spring, when the sea lanes would reopen. When the waiting would end. When she would discover whether the love she nurtured within her heart as she nurtured the child within her womb would ever again know the man to whom they both belonged.
She mustered a smile and turned her face to the sun. Stray flakes of snow fluttered on the wind but there was no cloud to be seen. Over by the stables, where icicles hung from the eaves, a few sparkling droplets of water began to fall.
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
THE RED-BREASTED ROBIN LANDED ON THE edge of the nest to be greeted by the squawking of his hungry young. He darted food into their eager mouths before setting off at once in search of more.
Cymbra watched him go, then she stood up slowly. The small of her back ached. She pressed a hand to it as she glanced around the solar. The windows were thrown open to admit air fragrant with the scent of damp, fertile earth.
Below in the bailey, rays of sunlight cascaded through the mist still lingering from the night before. Although small piles of snow tarried in the most shaded parts of the keep, the grip of winter was broken. As swiftly as it had come, so had it gone.
Daria and several of the other ladies, wives, and daughters of Hawk's lieutenants, were gathered at the far end of the spacious chamber. They were busy at their sewing—and their chattering. Cymbra had no wish to join them.
Indeed, she had no wish to do anything save walk slowly to and fro, rubbing her back. The ache had begun the night before but she had paid it little mind even when it kept her from sleeping much. Now it seemed oddly persistent.
“Does it hurt more?” Miriam asked. For several days, she had rarely strayed from Cymbra's side, even insisting on sleeping in the same room with her.
“It's nothing,” Cymbra assured her. She rested her hands on the mound of her belly and looked down at herself ruefully. Somewhere under all that were her feet but she certainly couldn't see them. After carrying very small and high through most of her pregnancy, the last few weeks had seen a startling change.
“You are near your time,” Miriam said with a smile.
Cymbra looked surprised. “Oh, I don't think so. That would have to mean that I—” She broke off, flushing slightly, but reminded herself that as a heale
r she should entertain no such foolish modesty. “It would mean that I conceived right away and I don't think I did.”
“You don't think,” Miriam repeated. “But you don't know either, do you?” Her brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “I'll warrant you weren't paying much attention.”
“I suppose not,” Cymbra admitted. “I've never been exactly regular and I just thought …” She shrugged, still embarrassed by how surprised she had been to realize, shortly after reaching Hawkforte, that she was with child. A healer might be expected to know such a thing before other women but not, apparently, in her case.
“You can sense the feelings of others so strongly,” Miriam said. “I wonder if it doesn't make it more difficult to sense your own.”
“That's possible,” Cymbra admitted. It was as good an explanation as another. “But I really don't think this baby is coming anytime soon. It will be weeks yet.”
Miriam nodded but her smile only deepened. She resumed sewing the tiny shirt she was making. The morning wore on. Beyond the high walls of Hawkforte, out toward the sea, the mist continued to lift. Cymbra saw gulls circling as they too, hunted food for their young on the incoming tide.
She was distantly aware of Daria and the other ladies but paid them little mind. At least not until she suddenly became aware that one of them, a young girl Cymbra liked, was gazing open-mouthed out the window at something that had just caught her attention.
“W-what is that?” the girl asked.
Another of the women followed the direction of her gaze and frowned. “I don't know. It …” She gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth.
“There are more of them,” the girl said even as her eyes widened in disbelief. “Many more … oh, my God …”
Daria pushed her way between the women to get a better view. She froze, her dour face rigid with shock. A moment later, her shrill scream reverberated off the walls.
“Vikings! Devils of the north! Thousands of them! We are doomed!”
Cymbra gasped but not because of what her half-sister had said. She was gripped by a sudden clawing pain that reached clear around from her back to center in her belly. So intense was it that she doubled over. At the same moment, she was suddenly drenched by a shower of water from between her legs.
Her soft cry of surprise momentarily distracted the women, who stared at her in blank amazement. “What is it?” Daria demanded, resenting the intrusion on her terror.
Miriam stood up slowly. She spared a glance out the windows where the mist was parting to reveal the fierce dragon prows of a dozen or more Viking war ships cutting through the water at high speed, aimed straight for the strand beneath Hawkforte. So close were they that the men could be seen straining at the oars, their powerful backs flexing rhythmically as if to a single will.
Already the signal horns were sounding from the watchtowers. Men and women were streaming through the gates, dragging their children and animals with them. Hawk was in the bailey, buckling on his sword and conferring with his lieutenants.
With a shrug, the elderly nurse said what she thought ought to be obvious to all. “The Norse Wolf comes.” She turned her attention to Cymbra, who was gasping again and looking very startled. “As does his child.”
Pandemonium erupted. The women were torn, drawn to help Cymbra yet riveted by what was happening just beyond their walls. Most simply fluttered about, trying to do something useful but accomplishing nothing.
Miriam took matters in hand. She shepherded Cymbra out of the solar while giving instructions over her shoulder. “One of you take word to the Lord Hawk. Tell him his niece or nephew will be born this day. Then send to the kitchens for hot water, clean blankets need to be fetched, there is much to be done.”
Reminded that the great doings of men notwithstanding, a child was coming into the world, the ladies calmed and hurried to their tasks. All save Daria, who continued to stare out the windows with satisfaction so great she was hard-pressed to conceal it behind the mask of false fear.
Now the wrath the fools so richly deserved would surely strike them. Now there would be retribution for their failure to exalt and honor her, she who was superior to them all. She should have had everything—marriage to a man wise enough to do as she directed, courageous enough to seize the power that had gone to Alfred instead, grateful enough to set her above all women, to make her the queen she was born to be.
Instead, she was supposed to think herself fortunate for the charity of her brother's sufferance, for she knew well what Hawk thought of her, knew and hated him to the very marrow of her being. Now, at last, blood would run and the undeserving would die. But she would survive, her plans for escape being long laid. And she would reap the rewards promised to her in return for preventing the alliance of Norse and Saxon. Happy day when she had thought to intercept the letter sent from the Wolf to her brother! And even happier that in her skill and cunning she had managed to steal Hawk's seal long enough to forge the reply intended to provoke not peace but war.
So did she proclaim, but no one was left there to hear, neither her words nor the mad laughter that accompanied them. They had all gone elsewhere, ignoring her—yet one more crime for which she swore they would pay.
WHAT CAN YOU SEE? CYMBRA ASKED. CLAD IN A fresh night robe, she had agreed reluctantly to get into bed but was determined to know what was happening. A steady stream of women came and went. They were pale and tense but so eager to help that she could not send them away.
Miriam set aside the swaddling clothes she was folding and went to the window. She glanced out with little interest. “Your husband is here.”
Cymbra felt a surge of joy so intense as to rob her of breath. She had to clutch the covers to keep from leaping out of the bed and running straight to him. Although, to be truthful, probably the best she could have done was to waddle.
“What is he doing?”
Miriam's frown silenced the woman who had been about to answer. “He's talking with the Lord Hawk. They're having a nice conversation. Now you forget about them and tend to your own task.”
The fierce pain that suddenly took Cymbra made the good sense of that advice all the more apparent. Miriam hurried to her side and clasped her hand. “There, there, sweetheart, it will be all right. Just breathe when they come and try to relax in between.”
“Sweetheart,” Cymbra murmured as the pain receded. She blinked back tears that had nothing whatsoever to do with her labor. “He called me that.”
“Called you what?” Miriam asked.
“Wolf, he called me elskling, ‘sweetheart.’ ”
“What a dear man,” the elderly nurse said, forgetting that she had rained down a thousand curses on his head when she learned he was responsible for taking Cymbra.
“He is dear,” she gasped as another pain seized her. “Dear and kind and gentle … and always so reasonable, so understanding.”
Miriam murmured consolingly, gently wiping the sweat from Cymbra's brow as the contractions continued to come hard and fast.
Meanwhile, down below on the open ground in front of Hawkforte, the dear man had a few things of his own to say.
Armored and helmeted, his sword gleaming as it slashed the air, the Scourge of the Saxons roared, “Stone by stone! Plank by plank! I will leave nothing standing. Send her out now!”
From his position on the parapet, Hawk looked at the enraged warrior who had just threatened to demolish his keep and could not repress a surge of admiration. Behind Wolf, drawn up in ranks ten deep, was a veritable Viking army. He estimated at least a thousand men, and there might be more. His own garrison matched them in strength and he had the additional advantage of high walls. But not for a moment did he doubt that the Wolf stood a damn good chance of doing exactly as he threatened.
Nor could he blame him for seriously considering it.
Fortunately, they were closer to accord than Wolf had any way of knowing. It was now up to Hawk to convince him of that. Leaning over the wall, he gave his answer. “Cymbra is busy
right now. Come in and we'll talk.”
Hearing this, the Viking array shouted in derision and drummed their sword hilts against their shields. But Wolf did not answer immediately. Instead, he spoke quietly with his brother, who stood at his side.
“Strange answer; what the hell does he mean she's busy?”
Dragon shrugged and didn't meet Wolf's eyes. “It's not as if he said no.”
Wolf glanced back up at the parapet, noting that Hawk was watching him with interest but no apparent concern. He didn't look like a man who wanted to fight, but then it wasn't always possible to tell.
“Hell of a risk,” Dragon said cheerfully. “Just you and a thousand Saxons. You're good, all right, but maybe not that good.”
“What choice do I have?” Wolf muttered. “If I try to take the damned keep, Cymbra could be hurt in the process. Odds are Hawk's already figured that out.”
Dragon nodded. “Sounds like he's got you.” He patted his brother on the back encouragingly. “Don't worry. I'll handle things out here.”
Sparing a moment's thought for Dragon's odd willingness to see him walk into the jaws of death, Wolf nodded. When all was said and done, there was little else he could do.
Hawk shouted down an order and the gates were opened just enough to admit one lone Viking. Wolf strode into the bailey yard to find himself the target of all eyes. The Saxon warriors glared at him but kept their distance, well aware that they were in the presence of a legend.
Hawk was more forthcoming. He jumped down from the wall and walked over to Wolf. Both men were armed but Hawk had not drawn his sword. He stood before his “guest,” took a deep breath, and said what he knew both honor and reason demanded. It wasn't easy but he managed it with more grace than he had thought possible.
“I made a mistake when I took Cymbra from Sciringesheal. I was wrong to do it and I ask your pardon.”
Wolf stared at him, dumbfounded. Never had he expected that the proud Saxon warrior would admit guilt and apologize. A great knot of tension began to ease in him, just a little. Still cautious, he said, “Then she will come to me now and we will leave.”