Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  For three days they had sailed on fair winds, anchoring only at night. For three days she had watched the passing countryside with its verdant valleys, plentiful rivers, and rolling chalk downs. For three days she had done her utmost not to think of the man who was never far from her side. Not once had he mentioned her confession of loving him, nor had he spoken again of her belief that they could not wed. He seemed intent on ignoring both, yet she wondered if what seemed to be lack of concern or interest wasn't instead the workings of a master strategist.

  He touched her, never carnally or romantically, but lightly and even seeming impersonally, the strength of his hand on her arm to steady her when the boat rocked, the quick stroke of his finger along her cheek to brush away spray, the pressure of his leg against hers as they sat together, on and on through each day in myriad tiny contacts that kept her constantly on edge and aware of him. And then there were the nights … Hawk insisted on sleeping beside her, pointing out that there was very little sleeping space on the vessel and what there was, everyone had to share. He made her concern sound silly, as though there could be no conceivable reason why she would object. To be fair, he did not touch her at night, but each morning she woke mortified to find herself curled against him, saved from humiliation only because he slept deeply and seemed unaware of her weakness.

  And weakness it was, of that she had no doubt, like sweet wine flowing through her veins and fogging her mind. A hundred times, nay a thousand, she caught herself staring at him. The beauty of land and sea, great as it was, could not hold her, but the beauty of the man proved a compulsion she could not resist. He was so perfectly formed, so ideally male, so innately graceful. It was all so easy to remember how he felt in her arms and in her body….

  Krysta groaned and turned her head away but not before Hawk heard her. “Something wrong?” he asked pleasantly. She murmured in the negative but that did not satisfy him. “Are you sure? The water's gotten rough. You're not feeling nauseated, are you?”

  His cheerful solicitude made her frown. “I don't get seasick.”

  “Anyone can, you know. I did myself one time when we hit a squall somewhere way the hell off the coast of Gaul. There wasn't a man on board who wasn't emptying up his guts. Why, the deck was slippery with it, and the smell— Oh, I'm sorry, that's probably not the best story to tell right now when you aren't feeling well.”

  “I'm feeling perfectly fine! Or I was until you chose to share your charming reminiscences.”

  He adopted an expression of such blatantly false repentance that it would not have gulled a newborn lamb. “Forgive me, I'm not used to having a woman on board ship. It's too easy to forget.”

  “You forgot I am a woman?” If she gave him a really hard shove, was there a chance she could knock him overboard?

  “Not forgot exactly. It's just that you fit in so well. You don't talk a lot or complain about the food. You do not need any special treatment. Believe me,” he added hastily, “I mean that as a compliment.”

  “And to think people laud the Dragon of Landsende for his way with women. I'm amazed it isn't you they go on about instead.”

  “Well, that's nice of you to say but …”

  “I wasn't saying it!”

  “Now don't get upset. Just because I won't let you steer right now—”

  “I don't want to steer!”

  “You're getting emotional. It's probably from being cooped up. You'll feel better when we get to Winchester. You'll be in the company of other women, you can sit around and do needlework, gossip, that sort of thing.”

  “You know, I'd be willing to bet one of these oars could put a really big dent in your skull.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You think so? I wouldn't be so sure. It's pretty thick.” He allowed her several moments to struggle against uttering the obvious response, then burst out laughing. The look he gave her was boldly male and sent a shiver straight down to her toes. “On top of everything else, you're fun to tease.”

  “Everything else?” Disgruntled, she couldn't help adding, “You mean besides being just like one of your men?”

  Hawk grinned. He leaned over and dropped his voice to a gravelly murmur. “Sweetheart, if that's what you think, we need to find another nice, secluded beach. Or better yet a large bed someplace where no one will disturb us for a very long time.”

  The fiery red of her cheeks was due to the sun, Krysta told herself, nothing more. He did not have the power to make her blush with just a few well-chosen words. She was not some callow maiden overawed by the great Lord Hawk. No, she was some callow former maiden overawed by … She sighed and gave her attention to the sea. He watched her for a few moments, then chuckled and did the same.

  THEY RODE INTO W INCHE STER AS THE SUN WAS SET-ting, their horses having come ashore from the longboat that accompanied them bearing the animals and more men from Hawk's personal guard. Krysta's first glimpse of the royal city stole her breath. Hawk had told her it was far larger than his own burgh but she hadn't really imagined what that meant. Now riding up the broadest, straightest road she had ever seen toward massive stone walls surrounded by a vast double ditch into which it looked whole armies of men could vanish, she struggled to absorb what she was seeing. By the fading glow of the sun added to the light of high torches set every few yards, everything appeared new or almost new, the stone of the walls still showing the sharp white marks of chisels, the heavy oak gates bearing the pale sheen of young wood. “Alfred rebuilt Winchester,” Hawk said. He rode by her side, garbed in black, adorned with gold, a figure of undoubted power and authority. Behind him, the men of his guard rode in strict formation, the hawk-emblazoned banners flying from their upright spears. “The Danes sacked the town during the reign of his father. It was left no more than a burned-out shell.”

  “He has done a great deal of building, hasn't he? Or inspired it.”

  “Alfred has many faces. War leader, to be sure, and king above all. But he loves to build, is fascinated by even the smallest details. He has a rare gift for organization and it shows in all he does.”

  A moment later, as they passed through the main gate, Krysta saw what Hawk meant. The city was laid out as though on a grid, with a long wide street running from the central gate all the way to the far end and the king's own residence. Along that road were side streets leading off in opposite directions. Around the inside of the great wall was another broad road linking all the gates. Everywhere she looked, she saw houses, some grand and some much simpler, jostled together along with shops of every description and stalls selling all manner of goods. Despite all this, it was the people who surprised her most. Even at that hour, there were so many of them out and about, thronging the roads, hurrying in and out of the houses and shops, haggling with the stall keepers. In a single glance, she saw men and woman of nobility as well as peasants, scholars, priests, and monks. Along with their animals, they created a din, not to mention an odor, unlike any she had ever encountered before.

  Hawk glimpsed her wrinkled nose and laughed. “You'll get used to it. Besides, Alfred's residence is generally downwind from the worst of this.”

  “I hope so,” Krysta murmured. Courtesy forbade her from saying more but privately she already longed for the fresh sea breezes of Hawkforte. Which was a foolish thing to do since she had no idea what would happen to her or where she would go when she finally convinced Hawk that they could not wed. She had no doubt that he would ultimately see the implacable sense of that, for she believed no man who had fought so valiantly, endured so determinedly, and achieved so greatly would be willing to risk all for a tainted wife. And if he did not come to see what must not be, she would have to be strong enough to see it for them both, no matter that the seeing shattered her heart.

  If she continued with such thoughts she would weep, and she determinedly cleared her head of worry as they approached the very threshold of the royal court. Hawk dismounted, came around to her horse, and held out his arms for her. He lifted her from the saddle before she c
ould demur, took her hand in his, and led her up the steps to the mead hall of the king.

  Torchlight reflected off the hundreds of hammered shields hung along the walls, rendering vivid the hues of battle banners descending from the high-timbered ceiling, and revealing the curious faces of the lords and ladies who turned to see the new arrivals. Belatedly, Krysta realized they had come at such an hour when the royal court was gathered to sup. She was suddenly very glad that her hand was in Hawk's and that it was he who walked beside her, for elsewise she doubted she could muster the courage to enter so august a company. Never had she seen folk more lavishly dressed. Even the young pages serving at the long tables were garbed in velvet. But it was not the raiment that struck her most. Rather it was the swift, all-encompassing, and knowing glances of men and women more worldly and sophisticated than any she had ever met before.

  At the center of that court—and at the center of the high table—sat the man responsible for it all, the king already called Alfred the Great. Krysta was surprised to see a man of seemingly ordinary appearance, his height no more than moderate, his hair brown and worn to his shoulders, a neatly trimmed beard obscuring the lower part of his face. It was only as she drew closer that she spied the keen intelligence in his eyes and saw to her great relief the ready smile that curved an unexpectedly sensual mouth.

  “Hawk!” The king rose from his seat, went around the table, and embraced the man who was clearly his friend as well as his subject. “You must have had good winds to get here so quickly.”

  “I assumed you commanded them, my lord,” Hawk said lightly.

  Alfred laughed and turned his gaze to Krysta. “And this lovely lady must be …”

  “The Lady Krysta of Vestfold.” Hawk squeezed her hand rather more firmly than was absolutely necessary. “My betrothed.”

  “Of course, how good of you to bring her. You are most welcome, my dear. I had hoped for an opportunity to meet you. Your journey here was pleasant, I trust?”

  As he spoke, Alfred took her hand from Hawk's and with great courtesy led her to the high table. Already servants had hastened to bring forth additional chairs and place them on either side of the king's and that of his queen, a plump and pleasant woman named Eahlswith, with whom he was said to be well content, not in the least because she had brought him peace with the Mercians. Acutely aware that she was the target of all eyes, Krysta was deeply grateful for the queen's kind smile. She sank into the chair beside Eahlswith, wishing she could as easily have sunk into the floor.

  That was not to be. Even as she struggled to respond to the queen's quiet remarks and engage in the conversation that was obviously expected of her, Krysta dared a glance at Hawk. He looked very much at his ease seated beside the king and in high good humor as well. He was entirely at home in such surroundings, hardly surprising since she knew he visited Winchester often…. Certainly often enough to have realized that the timing of their arrival would place them foursquare before the court and destroy any chance for Krysta to remain anonymous. Although she managed to maintain her smile and nod courteously at whatever it was the queen was saying, inwardly she felt the pull of despair. Once again, he had arranged matters to his own liking but it was she who would have to deal with the consequences.

  That dark thought weighed her down, yet the excitement of her surroundings made it impossible for her to sink into gloom. As minstrels sang and strummed their lyres, and witty sallies darted around the table, a parade of exquisitely fashioned dishes passed before her. Perhaps sensing her unease, Eahlswith quietly suggested several Krysta might find appealing and showed no particular surprise upon hearing her soft admission that she did not eat meat. The queen had five living children, as she told Krysta, and she was by nature motherly. Before very long, Krysta found herself relaxing at least enough to draw her first easy breath since entering the great hall.

  But her relative ease did not last long for as her gaze drifted over the glittering assembly, she met the stone-hard stare of a beautiful woman seated not far from the high table. The lady was perhaps a year or two older than Krysta, magnificently garbed in velvet emblazoned with jewels, and endowed with hair so light it appeared spun of moonbeams. Her face was oval, her features dainty and perfectly formed, and her skin as smooth as fresh milk. Seeing Krysta looking at her, the lady tilted her head slightly to one side with poised grace and stared down her pretty, freckleless nose.

  Her obvious disdain embarrassed Krysta, who felt as though she had been caught gawking. She looked away quickly but not before noting the men seated to either side of the lady. They, too, looked at Krysta with unmistakable contempt.

  “Lord Udell,” the queen said quietly as she took note of the silent exchange. “And Lord Wolscroft. That is Udell's sister, Lady Esa, between them.” Eahlswith hesitated a moment before she offered gentle counsel. “You must not be troubled by Udell and Esa. Whatever they may wish people to believe, there was never any clear understanding of a marriage.”

  “Marriage?” The word emerged as little more than a croak, so startled was Krysta.

  “Oh, dear,” Eahlswith murmured, “perhaps I should not have said anything. Or perhaps it is best you know after all. Not that there is anything to know, really. Only that Udell and Esa would have liked to make an alliance with Lord Hawk. Esa fancied he would marry her but there has never been any indication Hawk himself really considered it.”

  Despite the queen's reassurances, Krysta's heart plunged. She glanced again at the lovely Esa and knew in an instant she must be looking at the woman Daria had described as a lady of true nobility and worth whom Hawk had wanted to marry. She was as beautiful as any woman could ever hope to be, as well as graceful, elegant, and poised. No doubt she also had a respectable dowry and a family proud to claim her. No wonder Esa looked upon her with contempt. She must regard her as having stolen her own proper position.

  Crestfallen, she stole a quick look at Hawk but he was deep in conversation with the king and a priest who sat at Hawk's other side. They were talking animatedly about something or other. So far as Krysta could tell, Hawk appeared unconcerned by the presence of the woman who had expected to marry him. Nor did it appear that he gave her any notice throughout the evening. Instead, it seemed to be Krysta who drew his attention for just as she realized how tired she was, Hawk said a quiet word to the king, who spoke in turn to the queen, who summoned several servants.

  “Forgive me, my dear,” Eahlswith said, “I have so enjoyed talking with you that I've overlooked how weary you must be from your journey. Quarters have been prepared for you. Do get a good rest.” She gave Krysta an affectionate smile. “I believe my husband has plans for an excursion tomorrow and you are invited along.”

  Hardly hearing that last part, Krysta murmured her thanks. Hawk rose as she did and accompanied her from the hall. At the foot of the stairs leading to the guest quarters, he took her hand and touched it lightly to his lips. His eyes, meeting hers, were watchful. “Sleep well.”

  She nodded although she believed there was very little chance of that. She hardly noticed that the room to which she was shown was as luxurious as that which she occupied at Hawkforte. A smiling young maid did her best to make up for the absence of Aelfgyth, who had remained gratefully at home with her Edvard. When Krysta had bathed and donned a shift, the maid brushed out her hair, then took her leave. Left alone, Krysta sat at the window for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of revelry still floating up from the great hall. But before long, they began to lessen. Her head felt very heavy. She made her way to bed scant moments before sleep claimed her.

  IN THE DEPTH OF THE NIGHT, KRYSTA AWOKE. TURNING over in the bed, instinctively reaching for the warmth and strength to which she had become accustomed, she encountered only emptiness. It was enough to drive her from her dreams. She sat upright, looking around with some confusion until she remembered where she was. Realized, too, why she had awakened. With a small sigh at her own indiscretion, she hugged her knees and tried to convince herself tha
t she could go back to sleep. Her effort failed. Instead, she left the bed and padded back to the windows from which she could look out over the town below. As at Hawkforte, the walls were manned. Torches blazed along them and she could see the guards walking back and forth. Otherwise, it seemed as though everyone slumbered save herself. The lamps were extinguished in the houses and shops, the cooking fires well banked.

  Yearning for some distraction, she looked around the room. The stone floor was covered with woven rush mats instead of the more usual loose rushes. The walls were paneled with wood set in intricate designs. Along one wall hung a tapestry depicting huntsmen pursuing a wild boar. As she was admiring it, Krysta noticed a door set in the wood paneling that she had overlooked previously. Surprised, she tried the latch and was yet further startled when the door swung out into an adjoining room.

  Hawk heard the door open and went very still. Under ordinary circumstances, even here in the residence of the king, his hand would have sought the sword never far from his side. But he knew who had been given the adjoining room because Alfred's steward, spiritual kin to the redoubtable Edvard, had told him so. The man had mentioned it matter-of-factly as Hawk was retiring for the night, thereby giving evidence of the skill and discretion he brought to his position. That such thoughtfulness had been shown him did not surprise Hawk. Alfred, for all his genuine piety, was a man who had struggled in his youth with what he regarded as excessive love of women. In marriage he found the reconciling of passion and piety, and was a happy man for it but he had not forgotten how hot the blood could run.