by Josie Litton
The words reverberated through the hall and straight through Krysta. She sucked in her breath and gripped the sides of her chair as though the sheer force of his anger might hurl her from it. A wave of coldness swept over her. In its path, she felt clammy and sick, gripped by a fever of the soul.
“I am sorry.” So weak and inadequate but there was nothing else she could say. She was sorry for it all—her mother, herself, her foolish hopes and dreams. Sorry for everything except the stolen hours on the beach. Those she would treasure forever.
“I will go.” She hardly knew what she said as she rose from her chair on legs that threatened not to hold her. Desperately, she glanced around for Raven but she was gone. How could she be, she who was ever faithful? Yet gone she was and there was no sign of Thorgold. Krysta stood alone before the eyes of the enraged Hawk and all his people.
Edvard had come back to the hall, his mission to dispatch Sven accomplished. Hapless Edvard, who knew not what he walked into. Hawk pinned him with his gaze. The steward came forward swiftly.
Hawk stood. He loomed over Krysta, a dark and powerful presence like night on a storm-tossed sea. “You will go nowhere,” he said, and gestured to Edvard. “Take the Lady Krysta to her quarters and secure her there.”
“L-lord?” Edvard stammered, he who had seen the tender regard his master had for this lady.
“You heard me. She goes nowhere. In time, this will all sort itself out. Meanwhile, what love and honor cannot bind, a solid iron lock will keep.”
“You cannot…. !” Krysta cried, but Edvard's hand was on her arm and already he was drawing her away. Hawk's lieutenants were on their feet, cold and stern-faced men who would obey his commands in a heartbeat, and all the others in the hall were watching her with somber, disappointed gaze.
All save Aelfgyth, who looked upon Krysta with shocked sympathy and touched the hem of her sleeve to tear-filled eyes.
EDVARD LINGERED IN THE TOWER ROOM, SENDING servants for more coal for the braziers and water for the ewers, fussing over the shutters across the windows, inquiring as to whether there were enough bedcovers, enough oil for the lamps, enough of this and that and everything.
“You have not eaten,” he said at length when all else was done and he had no other reason to tarry.
“I cannot,” Krysta said, moving her lips with effort.
“Oh, well, as to that, you must.” He looked with relief to Aelfgyth, who was at the door that stood, for the moment, open.
“You must eat, my lady,” Aelfgyth agreed. “Look at what I have brought you.” She held forth a tray. “The ten-derest greens plucked fresh this eve with the vinegar you like the best to season them, a round of your favorite cheese, loaves of bread warm from the oven, raspberries from the bushes by the cove—you know they are the best—and smoked herring that Cook swears you will like above all else.” She set the tray on the table and smiled encouragingly. “How could you say no to this? Oh, and cider kept lowered down the well until scant minutes ago so that it is crisp and chill.” She paused for a moment, looking at Krysta, and her smile crumbled. “Please, my lady, you truly must eat.”
“Later,” Krysta said, because she did not want to hurt her friends as they still seemed to be, despite all. “I will eat later. Now, if you don't mind, I would as soon rest.”
They left with backward glances and admonitions that she must take care of herself. After the door closed, she heard the iron lock clang into place and thought that she heard Edvard sigh as he obeyed his master's order.
Then there was nothing left to do save stand for a while in the center of the room, not moving and scarcely breathing, as she struggled to understand all that had happened. In the space of hours to go from virgin to woman, betrothed to … what? … was more than she could encompass. What was she now? Hawk still insisted on their marriage but she knew better. He would have time to think and in that time he would come to realize he could not take the risk of marrying one such as she … whoever and whatever she was. He would be glad, when all was said and done, to have turned away from her.
But he was a stubborn man, she reminded herself, and his pride was hurt. He would not give in easily. She walked to the door and tried to turn the handle, so as to leave no hope in her mind that she was other than a captive, the room her prison.
For a moment, her spirit rebelled like the wings of a bird beating frantically against its cage. She desperately needed to be free, to feel the wind and sea, to run and dive and leap, to vanish far from this life. As her mother had needed to do, in the end when she had known that love was not to be.
Krysta walked over to the windows. There were many of them around the curved walls of the tower, most looking out toward the sea. Edvard had closed the shutters but she opened a pair now and gazed out. The night was moonless and the water very dark. She leaned out the window and looked at the stars blazing overhead. Long ago, her father had taught her about their shapes. She knew how to pick out the huntsman and the bear, among others, and she could reckon by the star that never moved, always showing the way north. The way barred to her now by Sven's decree. He was head of the family and he had the right to disown her. No one would dispute that, whatever Hawk believed. As for the dowry, she knew not what the Wolf would do but it scarcely mattered. Sven had forced her to confront what she had tried so desperately to deny, that the mystery of her past threw a shadow over her entire life and made it impossible for her to nurture the hopes and dreams common to ordinary women.
Her throat was very tight and she knew she was perilously close to tears. The long, tumultuous day had left her exhausted. She went to the table and managed to eat a very small amount of what Aelfgyth had brought. Not wishing to worry her maid, she crumbled up the bread and threw it out the window for the birds to find in the morning. Wondering again where Raven was, Krysta lay down on the bed, in the place where Hawk had been. Weeping, she slept, and sleeping, she wept. The two entwined in dreams of loss that haunted her throughout the night.
Aelfgyth came in the morning with fresh water, more food, frowns of concern, wobbly smiles and—wonder of wonders—several books. She herself carried the books, unwilling to trust them to the lesser servants who had brought yet more food and water as well as their own curious, worried glances. When they had departed, Aelfgyth set the books on the table with tremendous care, then breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped back.
“His lordship handed them to me just as I was on my way up the stairs, otherwise I would have gotten Edvard to carry them. I never thought to touch a book in my life and heaven knows I don't ever want to do so again. What if I bent a page somehow or left a smudge? But there his lordship was, pressing them into my hands and telling me to bring them up to you.” Aelfgyth shook her head somberly. “I must say, the poor man doesn't look well. I warrant he didn't sleep a wink.” She peered at her mistress to see how this news was received but Krysta was too distracted by the books.
He had sent her books. After damning her and locking her away, he had sent her objects more valuable to her than jewels, and apparently trusted her to look after them properly. She turned away quickly lest the finely turned leather covers be stained by her tears.
“Oh, there, now,” Aelfgyth clucked. “Everything will be all right, you'll see. The Hawk's not one to stay angry and he's good to his word. If you look out the window, you'll see the fastest ship he has setting sail for Sciringesheal. Your half-brother is leaving, too, but I don't think he's going to enjoy the trip. Word is his crew has already put him in irons, judging Lord Wolf will only reward them for it.”
“Do you really think that will matter?” Krysta asked.
The question surprised Aelfgyth. “How not? The dowry must be paid, it's only proper, and Lord Wolf will see to that. Lord Hawk doesn't blame you for the delay, not really, or he never would have sent the books.”
“But the dowry is only part of it,” Krysta said slowly. “What of the story my half-brother told?”
“About you being a change
ling?” Aelfgyth blushed at her boldness. “It's true everyone is talking about that. All agree he isn't anywhere near as good a teller of tales as the Lord Dragon. Why, I believed his story about the Irish lord and his bride from the sea. So did most folks. Sends a shiver down your back, doesn't it, to think such a thing could be? But no one actually expects to meet someone like that, not in real life.”
“You mean … it couldn't have to do with me?”
“Of course not.” Aelfgyth grinned at the thought. “Although Dreadful Daria is tearing about, moaning about demons and all manner of nonsense. The more she spouts it, the less anyone believes.”
So because the people of Hawkforte knew her, and because they both knew and despised Daria, Krysta was rendered innocent. Even as she marveled at that, Aelfgyth went on. “It's only natural to be nervous about marrying, or so I'm told. And of course you don't want to go to your husband without a dowry, what woman would? But it will all sort itself out, as Lord Hawk said.”
For a brief moment, Krysta thought of confiding the truth—that the story might not be false, that there was more to the “real” world than Aelfgyth wanted to believe, that it might be fundamentally wrong for her to marry Lord Hawk for reasons that had nothing to do with the missing dowry. But she kept silent, unwilling to burden the young woman and to expose so deep and painful a part of herself.
Aelfgyth went away a short time later, trailing behind her reminders to eat, to rest, and not to worry. She would be back in just a few hours, she could stay with Krysta if she was lonely and wanted company, she could bring more amusements. When the door finally closed behind her, Krysta breathed a small sigh of relief. Much as she appreciated Aelfgyth's concern, the strain of concealing her true fears was difficult to bear. Alone, she did not have to conceal anything, including how touched she was that Hawk had sent the books.
She did not open them at once but sat at the table, running her fingers over the leather covers. Without the books, the long hours would quickly grow torturous. But with them … For the first time in her life, she had nothing to do but read. No people to care for, no responsibilities to carry out, no duties to fulfill. How very odd that she should find such freedom only in captivity.
Through all that day and the next, Krysta read. Given her choice, she would have stopped only when her sight grew so blurred and her head so heavy that she had no alternative but to sleep. But Aelfgyth came with food, spotted an untouched tray, and sternly stood over Krysta until she was satisfied her mistress had eaten. She came again with hot water, the effort of heating and carrying it up the stairs being more than Krysta could ignore. The bath was welcome and she felt the better for it, but she sped back to the books as soon as she was dry. She read the psalms, delighting in the beauty of their poetry, savoring the stories they revealed, wondering at the men who had first written them. She plowed through Augustine, struggling to understand him, going back over and over to dwell on passages that eluded her. And Boethius—Hawk had even sent the book he himself had been reading. In it were notes carefully written in the margins giving Alfred's thoughts on the work he had translated. On and on she read as the second day blended into the third. Morning had turned to afternoon when she heard through the open windows the peal of a signal horn announcing the arrival of noble guests. Carefully setting down her book, she went to see who they might be. Her tower perch was too high for her to do more than make out the royal insignia waving from the banners carried by the equerries. But that was enough to shatter the strange peace of the last several days and remind her that the problems of the world were never to be denied for very long.
Day had fled when Hawk came. She heard his step outside the tower door before the iron lock opened. He stood for a moment at the threshold, garbed in black shot through with gold, gold again at his neck and on the powerful muscles of his upper arms, gold in the glint of his hair shining in the light of the braziers. Krysta sat curled on the bed, wearing only a shift for she had expected no visitor save faithful Aelfgyth. She started when she saw him but resisted the urge to reach for a cover.
He turned, closed the door behind him, turned again to face her. She heard him clear his throat. “You are well?”
Despite the books, she had braced herself for some admonishment. His concern surprised her. “Fine, thank you, and thank you also for the books. That was very kind.”
He looked a little embarrassed. “You are not accustomed to doing nothing. I thought it best if you had some activity.”
“It is true, the days would be very long without diversion.”
He nodded, standing with his hands tucked behind his back. Silence drew out between them. Before it became unbearable, Hawk's gaze lit on the table where the latest tray Aelfgyth had brought stood barely touched.
“Your maid says you aren't eating.”
Was that why he had come? Krysta wondered. Silently, she chided Aelfgyth for having said such a thing and for planting such worry in Hawk's mind.
“I most certainly am eating. If it appears I'm not, it's because my maid insists on bringing me meals five and six times a day. If I ate even half of what she sets before me, I'd look like the Christmas goose in short order.”
He started to laugh, caught himself and stopped, and continued to look at her sternly. “Be that as it may, you still aren't eating meat.”
“I've never eaten meat,” Krysta corrected.
“I would you do so. You cannot be healthy without it.”
“Do you think me sickly and a weakling? I assure you I am not.”
“Not now, but you will be if you do not eat properly. A good slab of beef, that's what you need, nice and rare, plenty of juice to strengthen your blood. I'll tell Aelfgyth to—”
“Nay, do not! I swear I could not swallow such a thing. If you try to compel me, I will be ill.”
“You exaggerate, but if you must be so finicky, I'll tell her to see it is cooked more, although that is a waste of good beef. Even so, you will eat it.”
“Hawk, truly I cannot! Please believe me.”
“Such a fuss over a little beef …” He paused, eyeing her. “I suppose I might be persuaded to relent.”
She was aware suddenly of her heart beating very fast. “How … persuaded?”
“I have been summoned to court. Come with me.”
Her mind stumbled over that. Surely he did not mean … “To Alfred's court?”
“It is the only one of consequence. You will enjoy it. There are more books, interesting people, all manner of diversions.”
He was there before her, looking utterly solid and real, yet the words he spoke made no sense. Bewildered, she shook her head. “How can I possibly come with all that stands between us?”
He ran a hand through his hair, unsettling it. She wished she could smooth it back and had to stop herself from doing so. “Nothing stands between us but what you have put there,” he declared. “There is naught but your own imaginings.” He looked at her closely. “Unless you merely seek some excuse to prevent this marriage.”
“No! How can you accuse me of that? It is only your own good I look to. You must marry a lady and one without any taint of … of anything.”
“Of magick. Say it, Krysta, do not deny the word for it is of that you speak. Of magick and all the nonsense swirling around it, of pixies and elves and little people, of shape changers and changeling babies and even skelkies, that's what they're called, isn't it? Granted, you swim admirably well, but I have lain with you and you are as purely natural as I could ever hope a woman to be.”
She straightened up on the bed, on her knees, heedless of how her movement drew the shift more tightly around her. Her hair tumbled in glistening disarray down her back. Green fire like that caught in emeralds burned in her eyes. “You need not remind me of what passed between us! I remember it all too well. Indeed, the memory taunts me, for now I know the full extent of what can never be, even if you will not accept it. How is it I have a greater care for your honor and well-being than you do you
rself? Have you thought of that? In your wisdom, great Hawk of Essex, do you know the reason for that?”
He shrugged broad shoulders and a flash of tenderness passed over his rugged features. “I suppose because you love me.”
She choked, struggled to breathe, emerged from a moment of panic to stare at him aghast. “I do not!”
“Krysta, delude yourself with tales of fantasy if you must, but do not lie.”
“I'm not, I'm not!” Hot tears flowed down her cheeks, “Oh, God, I am! Curse you. I love you! I should not, cannot, but it does not matter. I lost my mother, my father, my home. I can lose you and survive.”
He took a step nearer to the bed, even held out a hand to her, but he caught himself and let it fall. He was there to challenge, not to comfort. To win rather than console. “And beyond that, more than mere survival, can you do that, too?”
“Damn you!”
“As I damned you in the hall when you said we would not wed. But, sweet lady, it is not for you to decide. You will come with me to Winchester, to the king, and we will see what fate holds for both of us.”
“And if I will not?”
“Your half-brother gave you to me as servant, slave, whatever I desire. You will come, Krysta. As I stand before you, so shall it be.”
Never, Hawk of Essex!
The words remained unspoken. He could compel her, as she knew full well. He could take her to Winchester as he had sent Sven to Vestfold, in irons if necessary. Her pride rebelled and her curiosity was caught, a potent combination made more potent still by her simple longing to be with him.
To Winchester and the king. The scholar-king of books and learning. The valiant warrior against the Danes and all the ravages they represented. The hope of peace … and love.
To Winchester then and fate be damned.
Chapter TWELVE
WIND FILLED THE SAILS OF THE LONGSHIPS passing through the strait to the south of the port of Hamtun. There where the rivers Test and Itchen joined, just opposite the diamond-shaped island with the ridge of chalk running like a backbone along its breadth, the water took on a hard chop. For once, Krysta had no wish to be at the rudder, glad simply to watch Hawk as he expertly maneuvered their vessel between the pebbly shore of the mainland and the chalky cliffs of the nearby island. Sunlight glinted off the thick mane of his hair. When he smiled, his teeth flashed brightly against his burnished skin. He was shirtless, wearing only breeches for even out on the water the late summer afternoon was pleasantly warm.