Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Wolf sat down abruptly. He stared at his brother in disbelief. “You knew she was pregnant?”

  “I knew there was a damn good chance, but Brita swore Cymbra didn't know. She thought that was really funny, Cymbra being a healer and all.”

  “Funny,” Wolf repeated, stunned by what his brother had kept from him. Yet in all fairness, Dragon had the right of it. As it was, he had scarcely been able to wait for the first thaw. Had he known Cymbra was with child, he might have been pushed into an act of madness that would have risked his own life and those of any who followed him. Dragon had spared him that, for which he would be grateful—someday.

  “She thought that until everything happened, then she was worried sick.”

  “So she confided in you?”

  Dragon smiled modestly. “Women like me. It's a curse, to be sure, but I bear it.”

  Hawk laughed but stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the Wolf's expression. Hastily, he said, “It all worked out for the best.”

  Wolf surveyed the pair. Slowly, his scowl gave way to a broad smile. He sat back on the bench, folded his powerful arms behind his head, and contemplated the future. “True enough it has—for me. We'll have to see what happens with the two of you.”

  Despite the heat of the sauna, Hawk and Dragon exchanged looks of frozen horror. That amused the Wolf even further. He was in high good humor when he returned to his wife.

  HE FOUND CYMBRA SITTING UP IN THE BED, FRESHLY bathed and gowned, her hair in ribbons and her child in her arms. She looked up from her contemplation of the little one, bestowing on her husband a smile that would have stolen his heart had it not already been hers.

  Her eyes widened as she beheld him. Gone was the fierce Viking warrior of the day before. He had bathed and shaved and was garbed not in armor but in a tunic of deep purple trimmed with bands of gold. His thick, ebony hair was secured at the nape of his neck, revealing more clearly than ever the harshly beautiful planes and angles of his face. Arm rings of gold glinted around his powerful biceps and the wolf's-head torque shone at his throat.

  At the sight of it, her hand flew to her own bare neck. He saw the gesture and smiled. Drawing a small wooden chest from behind his back, he held it out to her. “Looking for this?”

  She opened it to find her jewels, including the torque he had given her on their wedding day. With trembling hands, she drew it out. Wolf stepped closer to the bed. Gently, he took the torque from her and with great care placed it around her throat. The wolf's diamond eyes gleamed in the morning sun.

  The baby woke then, opening eyes the same deep blue as his mother's yet surrounded by rims of silver. He looked up at his father solemnly. Wolf reached out to touch a hand so tiny it would have disappeared into his own palm. To his surprised delight, his son grasped his finger and held on firmly.

  “Strong little cuss,” Wolf murmured with a grin.

  “And in need of rather a different name than that,” his wife chided. Smiling tenderly at the two males she adored, she said, “What think you of calling him Hakon?”

  Deeply touched that she would think to name their son for his grandfather, Wolf nodded. But a moment later he was grinning again as his son made his own opinion known.

  “We may name him Hakon but I suspect he's more likely to be known as Lion. Surely that roar is worthy of the king of the beasts.”

  Cymbra laughed but didn't disagree. With just a little nervousness for a task still so new, she set him to her breast. He rooted around for a moment before finding what he sought. Silence descended, to the great relief of the besotted parents.

  AMAZING, HAWK MUTTERED A FEW DAYS LATER AS he stood in the chapel listening to his nephew's response as the holy water of baptism was placed on his brow. The baby's bellow of outrage reverberated off the stone walls, causing Brother Joseph to speed up his prayers noticeably. To the intense relief of all assembled, Norse and Saxon alike, the good monk finished quickly and returned the child to his mother. He quieted after one last howl that caused even his mighty father to wince.

  “A fine set of lungs,” Brother Joseph observed tactfully when the service was concluded.

  From her husband's arms—Wolf having agreed to her coming downstairs only if he carried her everywhere—Cymbra said, “And a fine service despite the accompaniment. Thank you for it.”

  The young monk smiled. He glanced at the fierce jarl with a twinkle of amusement. “I am glad to have been of use after all, my lady, and for a much happier task than to try to persuade you to return.”

  Cymbra, too, was delighted that Wolf had insisted on bringing Brother Joseph along, no matter what the reason. She much preferred him to Hawk's house priest, the dour Father Elbert. He was somewhere in the crowd, no doubt in the company of Daria, for the two of them seemed of the same ilk. On the excuse that Brother Joseph had helped to officiate at her marriage, she felt no qualms whatsoever about asking him to baptize Hakon.

  As promised, Hawk seized that as an occasion to celebrate the unity of Norse and Saxon. Despite Daria's dire predictions, the feast proceeded smoothly. Guests were present in such numbers that the great hall could not contain them and even the bailey yard looked full to bursting. Tables set up inside and out groaned under a bounty of food scarcely seen in spring. That this was due in part to the provisions Wolf had brought along in anticipation of a siege was politely ignored.

  Wolf placed her in a chair at the high table and took his own seat beside her. Hawk and Dragon were on either side of them. Scarcely had they settled than a steady stream of guests approached to offer greetings. They came from throughout Saxon England; Essex itself was well represented, so was the royal province of Wessex, from which Alfred had sent his own dignitaries, and even the Mercian lords, Udell and Wolscroft, were on hand. Vaguely, Cymbra remembered that the latter had been friend to Daria's late, unlamented husband and was therefore not surprised to see the two of them in conversation. But before very long, she had been introduced to so many lords and ladies that in truth she could notice very little and gave up all hope of remembering more than a handful of their names.

  To her surprise, she realized that as eager as they were to meet the Norse Wolf, they were equally driven to satisfy their curiosity about his Saxon wife. From their asides to one another, she gathered they had all heard the stories about her seclusion at Holyhood and her abduction from there. Ordinarily, so much avid speculation would have left her feeling invaded and exhausted. But with Wolf beside her, she basked in his comfort and support, and found that she was thoroughly enjoying the evening.

  Never more so than when she caught sight of Olaf and with a quick smile called him to join them. She had known for days that he too was with the Viking army, but he had managed to avoid her until now. The older man came reluctantly, starting with surprise when she reached out and took his grizzled hand. At once, she felt his dread and concern, neither of which could she permit to long exist.

  “I am so glad you are here,” she said softly. “I hope my son will have the benefit of your wise counsel as my husband has done.”

  Olaf stared at her for a moment as his eyes dampened. Gruffly he murmured, “Thank you, my lady.”

  Wolf had been listening. He stood, and in full view of the assembly embraced the old warrior, calling for a chair to be brought that he might sit among them. The grateful look her husband gave her told Cymbra he truly understood that she bore no resentment for his punishing of her.

  The feast lasted far into the night but long before then the Norse Wolf carried his beloved wife upstairs to their quarters. Though the revelry continued, he was content and more to remain with her. He lay on his side, his head propped in the palm of his hand, and watched Cymbra sleep. That she was there with him, loving him, was almost more than he could encompass. That they also had made a child together brought him joy beyond any he had ever known.

  Since his own boyhood, when he found himself an orphan surrounded by the ruins of the only life he had ever known, a hard knot of anger and g
rief had existed within him. He had done his best to ignore it, driven as he was to seize the future rather than dwell on the past. Yet had it remained until now. There in the quiet of the room in the high tower, he realized it was gone.

  He reached out a hand and with utmost care traced the soft curve of his wife's cheek, passing a finger lightly over the fullness of her lips and down along her delicate throat to where her life's pulse beat. Unbidden, he remembered his first impression of her, recalling how he had thought her something other than human. He knew the truth now; she was utterly and completely a woman endowed with all the mysterious power and grace that had been missing from his life.

  She had come to him in an act of vengeance that became an act of redemption. With endless courage and generosity, she had banished the pain of the past and given him a future filled with hope. Cymbra the healer had healed him.

  Now together in everlasting love, they would bring the blessing of peace to both their lands.

  I have been thinking about your reason for coming here as you did,” Hawk mumbled. She swallowed against the tightness of her throat and waited.

  “This matter of wanting to get to know me better—is that really why you did it?”

  Krysta nodded. She took a breath, steadying herself. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

  If he meant to mock her, he would do so now. She waited … hoping yet scarcely daring to hope….

  “The notion may have merit.”

  Krysta opened her eyes, belatedly aware that she had closed them as though in prayer, and stared at him. “Do you mean that?”

  He frowned. “Do not read overmuch into my words. I merely meant it would not necessarily be a bad thing for us to know each other before we wed.” Swiftly, he added, “That does not mean I approve of what you did. It was a harebrained scheme.”

  She was silent for a moment before she smiled. “We have hares in Vestfold. They are large animals with very powerful back legs, capable of leaping great distances. They survive the worst winters snug in burrows they dig deep beneath the ground and they seem able to thwart the wiliest predator.” Her eyes met his. “Even the hawk.”

  FOR

  MM AND KT

  FOR KEEPING ME HOPPING

  Chapter ONE

  HOOVES POUND OVER THE HARD-PACKED road, dusty in the summer's heat, clods of dirt flung high as the horsemen ride for the proud fortress close by the sun-flecked sea. A day's hunting is well done. Thrown across the mounts' sweat-streaked hindquarters, the carcasses of boar and stag drip blood into the thirsting earth. Cheers resound through the bailey yard, welcoming the lord home, celebrating the kill.

  Lord Hawk, master of Hawkforte, dismounts, handing the reins of his destrier to a stable boy. He is a big man, standing head and shoulders above other men, heavily muscled, hard faced, with watchful, sky-blue eyes and the lithe stride of a natural warrior. This day he is pleasantly tired, glad of the diversion offered by the hunt. Glad, too—though he would be loath to admit it—that another day has slipped by without the arrival of his bride.

  His unknown, unwanted bride. He sighs and runs a hand through thick chestnut hair that curls at the nape of his corded neck. A man of his position should marry if only to sire sons. This he knows, even grudgingly accepts, but he would have preferred a woman of his own choosing, not this faceless female sent as a pledge of peace in the effort to bind Norse and Saxon together that they might better stand against the rapacious Dane.

  For this reason his sister, the beautiful Lady Cymbra, had wed the powerful Norse jarl, Wolf Hakonson the previous year. Hawk can hardly do less himself for the promise of peace, yet he nurtures no hope that his union will be as successful as that of his sister and the man once known as the Scourge of the Saxons.

  He will be glad enough if he can merely tolerate his bride, but he has no way of judging that until she deigns to arrive, something she appears in no hurry to do. However, on this day, there has been progress of a sort….

  MY LORD…

  Hawk turned, seeing his steward approach across the yard. The man was hurrying but cautiously so, one shoulder turned just a little away as though with a view to quick retreat. Had it reached that point, Hawk wondered, when his own people had to go in fear of him because his temper had become so uncertain? He suppressed a sigh, hoping it was not true, for such weakness would afflict his pride as much as his stubborn sense of fairness.

  “What is it, Edvard?” he asked, making an effort at cordiality. Already, the brief escape offered by the hunt was fading, returning him to the workaday world of decisions, judgments, compromises, and wise leadership he was expected to provide by the several thousand people who clustered in and around the fortress of Hawkforte and the thousands more spread out over his lands. He never questioned his duty, in fact he embraced it, but there were times when it weighed heavy all the same. Such a mellow day might have been spent in more amiable pursuits, perhaps dangling a line beside a brook in the hope that no fish would come along to require attention. He thought, too, that it would be pleasant to share such an interlude with someone who would ask nothing of him save his company. But that notion had scarcely stirred before the realities of his duty, which was to say his life, overrode it.

  The steward, reassured that his lord was more approachable than of late, relaxed as much as his meticulous nature ever permitted. He was young for his position, which he had on merit rather than rank, and he meant to hold on to it. “Three servants of the Lady Krysta have arrived, my lord.” He gestured toward a trio standing some little distance away near the smithy's shed, one of many such small buildings that framed the inner walls of the fortress. The slight motion of his hand, the faint pinching of his nostrils, and the shadowed look in his eyes expressed a range of emotion scarcely seen in the redoubtable Edvard. Surprise, concern, puzzlement, a veritable cacophony of feeling flowed from one who was normally the most imperturbable of men.

  Hawk surveyed the little group for himself. There was a man—short and stocky, bent shouldered, with long black hair and beard, and coal-bright eyes. Beside him stood an aged woman dressed all in black, hair like a raven's wing, sharp nosed. Partly concealed by them both but still visible was a much younger woman, also black-haired, delicately made with pixyish features and eyes …

  Dancing, anticipation-filled eyes that even from a distance appeared to him to be the selfsame shade as a forest glen in high summer. He could almost feel the cool moss, hear the crystalline patter of water on stone, smell the fragrance of shy wood violets twined in the hair of a woman with skin like cream and …

  Hawk returned to himself with a start. He was too far from the girl to see such detail yet had been so absorbed in his imaginings that he had forgotten all else.

  That was absurd. She was only a servant, a rather small and disheveled one at that. There was no conceivable reason why she should be of any particular interest to him. Yet there he was again falling into those eyes and that sweetly entrancing smile that managed to remind him somehow of … of what, exactly? He'd seen it there in his mind for just an instant but it was gone too swiftly, leaving only a fleeting impression of sun-dappled water and the sleek, gleaming forms that leaped between air and sea in the wake of his fast-skimming boat.

  Ridiculous. He looked away, looked back, caught himself doing so, and scowled. She saw his confusion and seemed to fold herself up, all but vanishing behind her two companions.

  He was tired, that was it. He'd been at court until a fortnight ago and that was always wearying. Since returning home, the business of Hawkforte had occupied him without surcease. And then there was the matter of his damnable marriage hanging over him like the proverbial sword.

  One no less sharp than the tongue of his half-sister who he saw too late was bearing down on him with all the grace and subtlety of an ill-tempered she goat. Hawk spared a thought for the rapacious Danes, whom he would have greatly preferred to face, and steeled himself for her usual tirade.

  “This is beyond all bounds!” Dari
a proclaimed. “It is not enough that we are left to wonder when the Lady Krysta may find it convenient to appear, now we are expected to welcome her servants in her stead.” She cast a dire look over her shoulder before returning her attention full force to her brother, who closed his eyes for a moment, summoning that most elusive of all virtues—patience.

  Daria was his elder by a decade. By all rights, she should have been in her own manor and so she would have been had not her husband had the poor judgment to go against Alfred of Wessex just as the scholar-warrior was setting out to unite Britons against the Danes. Promptly widowed, Daria made no secret of her resentment against all those who had denied her what she thought of as her proper place, including the brother who had given her a home. Yet she managed Hawk's household well enough and generally had the sense to keep her endless complaints from his ears.

  Not today though. Today, she so brimmed over with afflictions as to banish caution.

  “What could she be thinking of to send these three with no warning?” she demanded, standing with her hands on her thin hips, glaring at him. “Did she consider the inconvenience to us? And why are they here? Does she think to find Hawkforte wanting? Does she imagine it poorer than what she has known in the barbaric northlands?”

  With each question, Daria's shrill voice rose a notch until at the end she was fairly shouting. Hawk was a forbearing man but there were limits to what he would permit. His authority, and the simple prudence of any male, demanded he put a stop to such distemper.

  “Curb your tongue, Daria, it pleases me not. See to quarters for them and be swift about it.”