Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  “Raven said you'd be wanting this.”

  “Thank you! I was just wondering how I would manage with no clean clothing.”

  “I'd say you're managing well enough.” Thorgold grinned. “His Mightiness came down out of his tower looking like the Furies themselves were after him. You should have seen folk scatter.”

  “Oh, no,” Krysta moaned. “I thought he must be angry but I hoped it wouldn't be quite that bad—”

  “I wouldn't say he was angry.” Before she could make anything good of that, Thorgold added, “Enraged would be more like it, not to mention befuddled.” His laughter was a deep rumble starting somewhere around his hairy toes. When he saw Krysta's downcast eyes, he sobered.

  “There now, girl, don't fuss yourself. Done's done, I always say. It's what you do now that matters.”

  “I don't know what to do now,” Krysta said miserably. She sat down on the stool, wishing she could just disappear. Too well, she remembered the look on Hawk's face when he called her something a self-respecting cat wouldn't drag in. How could she hope to win the love of a man who held her in such contempt?

  Yet he had desired her … before he had discovered the truth of who she was and what she had done. Innocent she might be, but she was not so ignorant as to mistake what had been between them from the beginning.

  Thorgold sighed, uneasy with such female doings yet still wanting to help. He pointed to the chest. “Raven said to wear the gown that's on top.”

  When he was gone, Krysta knelt beside the chest and opened it. Before her lay a gown she had never seen before. It looked like a froth of sea foam so insubstantial that a whisper of breeze would blow it away. Yet when she lifted it, it felt solid and even heavy in her hands, strangely so until she realized that the color came from uncounted crystals no larger than grains of sand stitched one by one into the fabric. At once fragile yet strong, the gown seemed to embolden her. She rose hurriedly and slipped it over her head. It molded to her form as though made for her yet she knew it must have been created for another woman, the mother Krysta had never known.

  There was only one mirror in the room, set beside a basin and a rather lethal-looking razor she supposed Hawk used for shaving. Her reflection in the polished bronze showed tear-bright eyes and a mop of tangled hair. Freed from the dye, her hair had reverted to a curling, waving froth that defied all attempts at control. She could do nothing but catch up part of it with a matching ribbon and leave the rest tumbling over her shoulders.

  Having bathed and dressed, she tidied up after herself, delaying the moment when she would have nothing left to do but leave the relative safety of the chamber. Rather than hasten that moment, she looked around for some—indeed, for any—way to occupy herself. Her gaze fell on the table beside the window and most especially on the object lying on that table.

  A book.

  Krysta had seen perhaps a half-dozen books in her life and actually owned three, thanks to the generosity of her late father. She remembered Raven telling her that Hawk could read, yet the sight of so rare and precious an object still surprised her. She approached it tentatively and for some little time was content merely to study the ornate leather cover. But inevitably, the moment came when she found herself reaching out and very gently, with the greatest care, opening the book. At some point, she sat down in the chair beside the table but she had no awareness of doing so. The book held her heedless of all else.

  HIS ANGER WAS UNRELIABLE, HAWK NOTED. Scarcely an hour since he'd stormed out of the tower room and already the rage that had propelled him was becoming a memory. The wind blew his foul mood away as surely as it filled the sail of his skiff dancing over the waves beyond the harbor. He looked back toward Hawkforte where it lay nestled in the curve of golden beach and white cliff. The sight of the burgh never failed to make his spirits lighten whether he was returning from a short sail or a journey of many months. It was his home and his sanctuary, but more than that it was his triumph against a violent and uncaring world. He cherished Hawkforte in the private places of his heart, but now the town that lay so serenely in the embrace of land and sea had an added meaning. Within its walls was the woman who was to be his wife, she who represented the hope of peace between both their peoples. She who he had just begun to wish might bring him a measure of the happiness he had seen was possible with his sister and her husband. She who had tricked him …

  But not for long. That was balm to his pride yet he wondered how long she had thought to continue her masquerade and to what end. Why risk his anger if she was found out?

  He supposed she had some reason, and perhaps he would learn of it eventually. Of rather more significance, he had met his bride at last, much good it did him. The mystery of her should by all rights be solved, but instead had only deepened.

  He had lied when he claimed not to desire her but a man would be a fool not to keep some things to himself. A fool ten times over to let a woman know the power she wielded over him. He lusted after his fey Norse bride as he could not remember ever lusting after another woman, which struck him as ironic given that she had accused him of meaning to betray her with herself. The memory of how she looked as she dragged herself from the tub, wet and bedraggled yet with fire flashing in her eyes, made him chuckle. But amusement fled, giving way to something deeper and hotter, as he recalled how she looked at him when he dressed. Lust, it seemed, was not his alone.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His eyes narrowed against the glare of sun bouncing off water. He turned the skiff into the wind and raced along the shoreline. From tenderest boyhood, he had loved the sea. There was no greater freedom than those moments when he could leave the land behind and become one with the mighty currents of air and water. That such surcease from daily care could never be more than temporary made it all the more precious.

  He sailed the rest of that morning and into the afternoon. Fishermen in their small, swift hide boats waved to him. So did the captain of an incoming merchant vessel, who lowered his banner in salute when he spied the skiff's hawk-emblazoned sail. A herd of fat seals frolicked past. They had just vanished from sight when Hawk was startled by something else in the water, dark and sleek, that seemed to lift its head to look at him. For a moment, there appeared to be several of them, but mayhap they were no more than shadows for they were as swiftly gone.

  Gulls circled overhead, tracking the schools of gleaming herring that looked like darting streaks of silver beneath the water. The seals chased them, too, as did the men standing in their tiny vessels to fling their seining nets far out over the swell, then pulling them back into shore fat with their catch.

  The sun was slanting to the west, bathing the sea in gold, before Hawk finally turned his skiff landward. He had stolen a day and felt no remorse for it, especially not when he considered the change the hours of freedom had wrought in him. He felt far better able to deal with his trickster bride than he had that morning. Indeed, he found himself looking forward to it. The cheerfulness of his mood lasted right up to the moment he came within sight of the harbor.

  Daria was waiting for him on the quay. Seeing her there, a dry specter ever ready to cry doom, Hawk almost headed back out to sea. Only stern discipline enabled him to secure the boat and climb the stone steps. Scarcely had he come into sight than Daria drew breath and let it fly like barbed arrows.

  “Do you know? Of course, you must. How dare she! What game is that stupid girl playing? And the insult to you—” She moaned and clutched her breast like a mummer in a bad paschal play. “I can't imagine why you haven't had her lashed already, her and those dreadful servants. How is she ever to learn her place if you tolerate such disrespect?”

  Hawk had learned long ago that his half-sister thrived on irritation and anger, all the negative emotions. He refused to let her feed off her own fury. “Calm yourself, Daria. In your haste, you misspeak. It is for me to decide what to do and only for me.”

  She ducked her head and looked up at him sideways with false humility. “
Yes, of course, how foolish of me. But whatever could she have been thinking? Perhaps her mind is not as it should be. Surely, her reason must be questioned.”

  He began walking down the quay briskly, forcing Daria to run to keep up with his long stride. “Her reason is for me to know and judge. For you and everyone else, it is enough that she is who she is. Make no mistake, I agreed to take the Lady Krysta as my wife sight unseen because she brings the promise of peace and a dowry large enough to choke a horse. A dowry to be put to swift work making the defenses of Hawkforte yet stronger against the Danes. Nothing—absolutely nothing—matters more than that. Do you understand me?”

  For a moment, something deep and dark flared behind her eyes but it was gone so swiftly Hawk could not be sure he had seen it. “Surely I understand,” Daria said. “You have always been very clear as to what is important and what is not. Only my care for you compels me to say that there will be difficulties because of her. The people will not accept her readily, not after this display of foolishness. Best you be prepared for that.”

  Tempted though he was to dismiss her warning, Hawk could not. At the very least, his people would be surprised and puzzled. As loyal to him as they were, it was likely they would condemn Krysta for her deceit. He frowned at the thought. Much as she deserved punishment, she was his wife-to-be and she needs must have the respect of his people. They would take their lead from him, which left him with few options for dealing with her. Yet another problem she presented, and they not even wed yet. It did not bode well for their future.

  Leaving Daria behind, he strode on to the fortress. The bailey yard was busy as usual and all looked as it should but Hawk wasn't fooled. He caught the quick, apprehensive glances from all directions and knew that word had spread. No doubt his people were brimming over with curiosity but they had the sense to hold their tongues in his presence.

  Briefly, he considered seeking out his errant betrothed but decided to postpone so dubious a pleasure at least a short time. He never had finished his bath that morning and since then he'd been sprayed with enough salt water to leave his tunic stiff and scratchy. Glad of the refuge, he withdrew to the sauna after sending a servant for fresh clothes.

  The chamber half-submerged in the earth and roofed with stone would have been cool were it not for the fire kept burning in a metal box topped by heaps of polished rocks. Hawk added fresh wood and poured a ladle of water over the rocks before stripping off his garments. He washed himself down, then stretched out on a bench and let the heat take him. With it came memories. It was in this very sauna that his brother-in-law, the aptly named Wolf, had put forward the idea that Hawk should also make a marriage to strengthen the alliance between Norse and Saxon. Wolf had come to Hawkforte as an invader backed by a mighty Viking army to reclaim his bride, Hawk's own sister, the Lady Cymbra. Hawk still felt a twinge of guilt for having taken her from Wolf's stronghold at Sciringesheal, to which she had been brought a captive but where she had become a beloved wife. Not understanding that, Hawk had taken her by stealth … some might even say by trickery. That thought made his brow crease. His situation wasn't the same at all. He'd had every good reason to believe he should bring his sister home. What possible reason could Krysta have for what she had done?

  No doubt she had some excuse prepared by now, perhaps a whole host of excuses, but he wanted her actual reason even though he suspected he had little hope of getting it. He was still mulling that over when his stomach growled, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since morning. Reminding him, too, that the day was aging and he could not remain in the sauna forever. Steeling himself, he plucked up the fresh clothes left for him, walked down the short track to a deep pond, and plunged into its refreshing waters. When he emerged, he felt invigorated and ready to face whatever might come … or so he hoped.

  Entering his hall, Hawk took a cautious look around. The servants were at work preparing for the evening meal. They glanced his way before returning to their duties with great diligence. Daria was making herself scarce, for which he was grateful. He hesitated, half hoping Edvard would appear with some matter that required Hawk's immediate attention. When there was no sign of the steward, Hawk mounted the stairs to his tower. He went rather more slowly than usual, mindful of the servants' eyes on him and not as eager as he might have been to discover what awaited him above.

  He found his door ajar and eased it open with the same care he might have used to gain entry to a Danish stronghold. It swung soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. The room was as he had left it but tidier, the tub and all traces of it gone. The bare wooden table, the one where he sat going over the endless tallies of his estates, the correspondence from Winchester, and the tide of petitions that came to him from all directions, the table where he occasionally snatched a few precious hours to read his beloved books … There was a book open on that table now and it was being read but not by himself. His bedraggled, dye-stained betrothed had been snatched away and in her place sat a creature spun of sunlight and sea foam, surely not human and yet seemingly so, if the blush that overcame her when she glimpsed him was any indication.

  Slowly, she set aside the book—with care, he noted. She rose as though preferring to face him on her feet. She tried to smile, but the effort wobbled. “My lord …”

  She sounded the same, her voice soft and faintly husky. Looking more closely, he saw that she appeared much the same. Her eyes were still a hue of green he had never seen before. And her nose was still splattered with freckles. For all that, he was most grateful, elsewise he truly doubted he would have recognized her.

  She was not, even now, precisely beautiful if judged by the standard of his sister, who was said to be the most beautiful woman in all Christendom. But what she lacked in classical perfection, she made up for in her uniqueness. He caught himself staring at her and tried to look away but had no success. She was, after all, his almost-wife and he supposed he could be pardoned for being curious about her.

  “What are you doing?”

  His voice sounded gruff to Krysta and he looked gruffer yet, frowning down at her from his considerable height. He seemed to have brought the outside in with him, filling the chamber with the power of wind, sea, and earth. She wasn't afraid … precisely … but she did take a step back before catching herself. It was absurd to retreat when there was nowhere to go. She gestured to the book now lying closed on the table. “I was very careful.”

  He followed the direction of her gaze, his frown deepening. “You read?”

  It was not a foolish question for there were many who were pleased enough merely to gaze upon the intricate designs that decorated the vellum pages without any understanding of the words written upon them.

  She nodded and searched his gaze anxiously for censure but to her great relief there was none. He merely looked surprised. “A rare accomplishment,” Hawk said. Later, he would deal with the notion of having a wife who read and who might therefore share his love of books. Just then it was enough to wonder what other skills she might conceal.

  “What do you think of it?” he asked, indicating the book.

  “It is beautiful but disturbing. Who is this man … Boethius?”

  “A Roman who lived several centuries ago. He loved music and mathematics but, as the book says, he found his greatest consolation in philosophy.” Hawk stared at the book a moment longer. “He wrote it in prison shortly before he was executed for something he had not done. If the doing of this truly consoled him, all to the good.”

  It was Krysta's turn to frown. “This book is not so old. The vellum is still fresh. Moreover, there is commentary within it from the present day. How comes all that to be?”

  “The commentary is Alfred's, as is the translation. The king is a great admirer of Boethius even if he does not agree with him completely. It is thanks to Alfred that copies of this and other books are made so that they may become known to those with skill to read or wit at least to listen.”

  “Then your king is a scholar as well as a wa
rrior.” Krysta nodded thoughtfully. “I understand better now why you serve him.”

  “It is my duty to serve him.”

  “Only duty makes you loyal?” She spoke softly, knowing she might be trespassing upon his private thoughts yet driven all the same to take the measure of this man who would determine her fate, did he but know it or not. “Does nothing else inspire it?”

  He did not answer her at once but considered his reply before he spoke. “Trust comes before loyalty and is necessary to it.”

  She paled, understanding too well how low she stood in such regard. “I can explain—”

  “Can you?” He leaned against the wall beside the window, his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking as though he was no more than mildly curious. She was not fooled. Already she knew him to be a man of deep currents. The surface of him could look unrippled, but below anything might be happening, anything at all.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You disguised yourself because you feared capture by the Danes. Once you arrived, the natural shyness and modesty of a maid hindered you from announcing yourself.”

  It was perfect, an excuse with which no one could argue and which reflected well on her. Even as she wondered why he was offering her so easy an escape, Krysta almost succumbed to the temptation to take it. All that prevented her was the barrier of truth.

  “An interesting idea,” she said wistfully, “but not one that had occurred to me. I came as I did because I thought if I could learn to know you a little from those in your household before we wed, I would be a better wife.”

  She had a glimpse of his surprise before it was hidden behind the mask his eyes so easily became. Sardonically, he said, “I suppose I cannot dispute such selfless intent. You did it for my own good, is that it?”

  Short of revealing to him the entire truth, including her desperate need to be loved by him, Krysta could say little more. Still, she tried. “No, not entirely. We will both benefit if this marriage is a success, as will both our peoples.”