Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  The chair he had called for last evening remained in place beside his own. He handed her into it and sat down, his lieutenants quickly following suit. There was a general rustle throughout the hall as everyone did the same. Only the servants who worked at meals were left bustling about with heavy platters and skins of wine. She caught a quick glimpse of Raven and Thorgold in their accustomed places. They both looked cheery, Thorgold going so far as to grin.

  His good humor might have had something to do with the feast being laid before them. With a day's warning that the Hawk's bride had arrived, the cook and his army of assistants had outdone themselves. An entire roasted pig was paraded in on a litter carried by four serving boys. The cheers greeting this sight had barely died away before haunches of venison and lamb followed, along with platters of succulent crabs, eels, and oysters. Heaps of round loaves of bread were distributed and bowls of fresh greens offered.

  As was fitting, Hawk was served first, but he in turn served Krysta, offering her only the choicest morsels. Such courtesy was duly noted by his people, who smiled and nodded among themselves. Surprised by the outpouring of such delicacies, Krysta was momentarily distracted. She returned to herself just as Hawk was about to place a slice of pork on her side of the silver platter they were sharing.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” she said hastily.

  “You do not care for pork?”

  “I'm sure it's excellent but I don't eat meat.” She smiled apologetically. “However, everything else looks wonderful.”

  Hawk frowned. “You must eat meat elsewise you cannot be healthy.”

  Krysta hesitated, seeking some way to respond without appearing to disagree with him. She shrugged lightly. “No doubt what you say is true for some but I have never eaten meat and I assure you, I am perfectly healthy.”

  “Never?” He was genuinely shocked. The only people he knew who eschewed meat were a few monks and none of them struck him as particularly vigorous. For everyone else, meat was much sought after and always appreciated. “Surely your parents had better care of you than that.”

  “My father provided for me very well. I wanted for nothing.”

  He was about to dispute that when her omission distracted him. “Your father? What about your mother?”

  Krysta suppressed a sigh. To be called upon for the second time in less than an hour's span to explain something she had never spoken of with anyone save Thorgold and Raven was unsettling, yet did she gird herself to reply honestly. “My mother left a short time after I was born. During their time together, my father had given her a manor of her own a day's ride from his main holding. It became mine and there I remained until I left to come here.”

  Hawk set down the pork she did not want, placing it on his own side of the platter. Her brief explanation raised far more questions than it answered. Yet was he reluctant to probe too sharply where hurt might well linger. “Where did your mother go?”

  “Away.” Hastily, she added, “But my father was a good man and, as I have said, I was well provided for.”

  “No doubt … But why did your mother have her own residence instead of sharing your father's?” He paused, not wishing to force an answer but driven to know all the same. “I understand that among the Norse the custom of a powerful man having more than one wife has not entirely died out.” He was imagining a senior wife who would not have welcomed into her own home the winsome beauty Krysta's mother undoubtedly had been, but that notion was quickly set aside.

  “It most certainly has died out in my family,” she informed him tartly. “My mother was my father's second wife only because the first had died. He had children by that first union, my half-brother Sven among others, and I gather he thought it best to keep his lines apart.”

  It still seemed an odd arrangement to Hawk but he said nothing more of it. He knew something more of her than he had a few moments before, and that pleased him. Moreover, he thought he had a glimpse into why she was so concerned that their marriage be a success. Her own parents' union had not been, elsewise her mother would not have left or, he thought more likely, been sent away. Understandably enough, she wished to avoid the same fate. That conclusion left him well satisfied. The business of getting to know a woman was not so hard after all.

  In good humor, Hawk decided to overlook her curious notions about food until a later time. In the meanwhile, he made sure she had a decent meal of crab and oysters, which, truth be told, he also enjoyed. It also pleased him to hear her impressions of Hawkforte, which he drew from her steadily in between succulent bites and the sips of wine he urged on her. Edvard seemed to have done his usual thorough job, for Krysta had seen aspects of the domestic side of Hawkforte unknown even to its master. He knew cloth was woven … somehow … just as he knew food was preserved, clothes made and washed, children and animals tended, and a hundred sundry other tasks done that were so much a part of ordinary life as to be noticed only in their absence. But he had never inquired into the actual doing of them until now. Not that he had suddenly become interested in such matters. Rather, he was too absorbed in the delectable soft tones of Krysta's voice and the pleasure of watching her full, rose-hued lips move for it to matter much what she was saying.

  Indeed, so enjoyable did he find the experience that when she fell silent, the master of Hawkforte, the stern taskmaster of several thousand fighting men, the war leader who scarcely ever let a day pass without rigorous training, tossed down the remainder of his wine and said, “Come riding with me tomorrow.”

  IT WAS IN HIS MIND TO SHOW HER HAWKFORTE HIS OWN way. He hoped that under his guidance she would feel some small measure of the tug he experienced whenever he returned from a journey and caught the first sight of smoke rising from his fires. At any rate, it seemed the thing to do. The stable boys had received his instructions and carried them out to the letter. The pretty little mare they led out for his inspection was agile and obedient. She was pure ebony from end to end, the color so rich as to glow with a silver sheen. When he rubbed her nose, she blew softly and tried to nuzzle into his pockets for the apple he ended up giving her sooner than he had intended. With a laugh, Hawk reflected that such behavior was useful in both a horse and a woman. He was indulging that notion when Krysta arrived. She had almost, but not quite, managed to tame the mass of her curls beneath a veil that matched her dun-hued gown, chosen, he suspected, because it would continue to look well when splattered with mud. He smiled approvingly at her foresight but sobered when he saw the expression in her eyes. She was unmistakably wary if not outright afraid. When the mare pranced gracefully, no more than showing off, Krysta backed up hastily.

  “I think perhaps you should know that I haven't ridden all that much.”

  Hawk was surprised. Everyone rode; even a peasant could sling his leg over a donkey and get where he was going. Ladies no less than lords took great pride in their ability to sail over any obstacle and ride for miles without tiring.

  “How much is ‘all that much’?” he asked.

  She looked away, her cheeks coloring. “Almost not at all.” Hastily she added, “In Vestfold there really isn't all that much reason to ride. We use boats to get everywhere.”

  He supposed that made sense, although every Viking he had encountered rode extremely well. Still, he had to take into account her unusual upbringing.

  “Here we ride,” he said gently, “and so will you. It really isn't difficult.”

  As she continued to look doubtful, he drew the mare forward and gently placed Krysta's hand on her nose, then laughed at his betrothed's reaction.

  “She's so soft!”

  “She is that and she's very well behaved.” He gestured to a stable boy to hold the mare's reins. Krysta's eyes widened when Hawk placed his hands on her waist and lifted her easily into the saddle. For the first time, Krysta found herself looking down into the face of her husband-to-be. The strangeness of that heightened her unease.

  “Oh, I don't think … I'm not really ready to …”

  “Of cou
rse you are. Now hold the reins like this.” She fumbled with them for a moment but caught on quickly. When he was sure she was seated securely, Hawk called for his own mount. The gray stallion was led out prancing and snorting, causing the mare to shy. Instinctively, Krysta reached down and patted her side, murmuring to her reassuringly. Beneath her touch, the mare quieted. Pleased, not to say surprised, Krysta laughed. All night she had tossed and turned, worrying about how she would manage to ride with Hawk. Not for the world would she have attempted to refuse but she had dreaded making a fool of herself. Now, it seemed, she would not.

  Near giddy with relief, she beamed him a smile so beguiling as to rob him of breath. They rode out past the high walls of the fortress, down the path that led behind the hill and away from the town. He kept the pace slow at first but picked it up as she gained confidence. They were trotting when they came up out of the wood onto the broad cliff above the sea. Gulls whirled overhead and sunlight sparkled off the water. The tang of salt mingled with the perfumes of wild grasses and flowers. Although the day was still young, the air was already warm.

  Hawk turned his horse in a half-circle and looked back toward the town. When Krysta did the same, she gasped. They were on the other side of the bay with all of Hawkforte spread out before them, from the busy town clustered at the water's edge to the proud fortress on the hill above. She could see boats moving in and out of the harbor, and could even make out carts moving along the docks. When she squinted, she thought she glimpsed the guards on patrol along the walls.

  “It's beautiful,” she said softly, seeing the town for what it truly was, a place of hard-won peace and prosperity.

  Hawk nodded. “It is that.”

  She looked into his rugged features, the skin drawn tautly over bone and sinew, and had to fight the urge to reach out to him. “Edvard told me it used to be very different.”

  “It was a charnel house,” Hawk said bluntly. “Burned fields, burned homes, and burned hopes.” He gestured toward the line of trees closest to the town. “Do you see there, how those trees are younger than the ones farther out? The Danes even burned the forest, at least that part of it they didn't cut down and haul away to their shipyards. When they realized they weren't going to be able to hold this place, they tried to lay waste to it. Even the wells were poisoned.”

  “It must have taken great courage and determination to remain here and rebuild,” Krysta said softly.

  “It took desperation. There was nowhere else for those left alive to go. So many people had fled farther west that the land there couldn't support them and they faced starvation.” He leaned forward in the saddle, his arms folded over the pommel, and looked out toward the town. “I vowed there would be peace here. At the time, I had no idea how I would fulfill that vow but I knew I would give my life to it.”

  Krysta said what was in her heart. “Your people are fortunate to have you as their leader.”

  He shook his head. “We are all fortunate to have Alfred of Wessex. Without him, we would have been a few lone men trying to hold off the Danes.” He raised his hand, the sun-burnished fingers splayed wide.

  “Separately we could not have accomplished anything except more death.” He folded his hand into a mighty fist. “Together we were able to change everything.”

  Hawk shook himself abruptly. “I did not mean to speak of such things. This is supposed to be a day for relaxation.”

  “I would rather it be a day for getting to know each other,” Krysta said.

  He laughed a little, as though that thought still made him uncomfortable. “It should also be a day for you to learn to ride. Come.”

  She followed him down a path that led from the cliff-side by easy stages to the beach below. Even so, Krysta held her breath a time or two as the mare picked her way daintily in the stallion's wake. When they reached the sand, she let out a sigh of relief so heartfelt that it prompted a grin from Hawk.

  “There, that wasn't so bad, was it?” he asked as he helped her from the saddle.

  More aware of his strength and nearness than of her fast-fading fear, Krysta shook her head. “It was fine.”

  She was lying and he knew it but her spirit pleased him so he let the small untruth go by. Besides, he was preoccupied with the way her slim waist fitted between his hands, hands he had only to raise slightly to caress the swell of her breasts. The temptation to do so was strong within him, as was the even greater temptation to lay her down on the sand and satisfy the passion that had been between them from the beginning.

  But the business of knowing lingered, that and the stray thought that just perhaps what Cymbra and Wolf shared might not be unique to them. He had never considered love except to dismiss it as fantasy, but now he found himself wondering…. That he should wish for anything so foolish was impossible. He was merely surprised and a little puzzled, that was all.

  Thinking she needed a rest from the saddle and remembering her pleasure on the beach below Hawkforte, he left the horses tethered to a bush and took her hand in his. Together, they strolled along the shore. Hawk could not remember ever walking along a beach with a woman. Indeed, he could not recall walking with one anywhere save into supper at Alfred's Winchester palace. He felt at a sudden loss as to what to say to her. It seemed doubtful she would want to hear about the new spear he had designed and which his men were learning to use. Nor did he think she would enjoy discussing the battles he sometimes worked out in his mind, designing strategies to repel their enemies. The women he knew at court excelled at intrigue and loved politics; never would he make the mistake of underestimating any of them. But Krysta seemed different. There was a softness to her, a quiet gentleness that roused memories of his mother. Yet, he reminded himself, she was no milksop; she had flown at him like a Fury. He smiled a little, remembering how she had looked dripping wet and dye-stained. The sons he got of her would not lack for spirit, nor, he suspected, would the daughters.

  It was a mistake to think of that for immediately he felt himself growing hard. Surprised and a little ruefully pleased, he let go of her hand and reached down to pluck a pink-gray shell from the damp sand. The shell was intact and polished to an opalescent hue. He turned it over between his fingers, struck by the simple perfection of the shell and its ability to survive the tumult of the seas. He was about to toss the shell back into the waves when he reconsidered and handed it to Krysta instead. She took it with a shy smile. He stood for a moment, absorbed in that smile, before abruptly returning to himself.

  “Sometimes there are dolphins by those rocks over there.”

  She followed his gaze toward the blue-green water lapping at boulders that looked as though they had been scattered along the beach by a playful giant. “I have never seen dolphins. They do not come so far north as Vestfold.”

  “Let's see if they're about.”

  They continued on to the rocks but as they approached, Hawk cautioned, “Be careful. They're wet and slick.”

  Krysta nodded but she was preoccupied by the sea. As always, the sight and scent of it filled her with longing. The wind stung her eyes, and brought tears to her cheeks. She brushed them aside impatiently. A shape moved far out in the water, coming swiftly nearer. She peered more closely, wondering what she might see. The head rose suddenly and she laughed with sheer delight as she saw the wide smile of the dolphin.

  “Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed and moved forward, unthinking, wanting only to see more. She was very near the edge, and Hawk was just reaching out his hand, when she stepped on a patch of seaweed clinging to the rock. Her balance faltered. She stretched out both arms, trying to steady herself, but the effort was futile. With a gasp, she fell into the frothing water.

  Hawk froze. The man who had never hesitated in a hundred battles, whose reactions were lightning quick, stood for an instant staring down into the sea and felt only disbelief. His intended bride could not possibly have just disappeared beneath the waves. The day begun with such promise could not possibly have turned so suddenly, savage
ly dark.

  Could and had. With a roar of rage at capricious fate, Hawk threw off his cloak and dived into the water. He surfaced moments later and looked around frantically. When still he did not see Krysta, he inhaled deeply and dived again. For long, agonizing moments, he searched for her but without success. Burning lungs forced him to rise again. He gasped in air and was about to dive once more when a swift shape moving nearby caught his attention.

  Krysta surfaced, laughing. Her hair dark and sleek around her head, her body moving with lithe ease despite the weight of her gown, she looked utterly delighted. “This is wonderful! Why did no one tell me the water is so warm?”

  Before he could do more than gape, she dived from sight. He treaded water, looking around in all directions. Moments later, she surfaced again but easily fifty feet from where she had gone under.

  “You can swim,” Hawk said, rather stupidly he thought for it was hardly necessary to comment on something so supremely evident.

  Krysta grinned. “Raven and Thorgold claim I was born swimming. I suppose they're exaggerating but I've always loved the water.” She disappeared again and this time surfaced near him. Her face alight with happiness, she said, “I've swum in a few rock pools that were this warm but the sea near Vestfold is always colder even in high summer. This is incredible.”

  Hawk, who was finding the water pleasant but cool, could only sigh. He was, of course, infinitely relieved that she had come to no harm. But the sheer terror he had felt when she vanished beneath the waves lingered within him. He could not remember ever feeling such fear, even on the battlefield where fright was the boon companion of the sensible man.

  Fear made him sterner than he would elsewise have been. “The water is not so warm that you cannot take ill from it. Enough of this.”

  She looked surprised and disappointed, but she did not argue. At least she was obedient, he told himself as they regained the beach. But as she bent over, wringing out her sodden gown, Krysta said, “I suppose it doesn't make much sense to swim in all these clothes.” She glanced up at him hopefully. “At home, I swam in a shift.” She did not add, although some imp of mischief tempted her to, that there were times when she swam in nothing at all save the silken sheath of her hair.