Dream of Me/Believe in Me Page 12

  The moment she spoke, Cymbra regretted her words. She understood that her husband's faith was different from her own, and she did not wish to appear disrespectful. But what she had just heard appalled her almost as much as his ready acceptance of it.

  “I forget how soft you Christians are,” he said matter-of-factly. “You have a child's need for a happy ending.”

  Stung, Cymbra forgot about tempering her response. “Or you might say that we simply have more faith in our Creator.”

  He shrugged. “Yet your own tales tell of a great battle between good and evil at the end of the world, don't they?”

  “But evil doesn't win! The Savior comes again in triumph and the world is reborn as the Kingdom of God.”

  Wolf looked unimpressed. “It's a nice idea,” he allowed. “Brother Joseph speaks of this ‘Prince of Peace.’ I have trouble respecting a man who goes like a lamb to his own slaughter.”

  “He wasn't just a man, he was—and is—the Son of God. And he didn't die, he was reborn as all of us shall be reborn through God's love.”

  “All well and good, but I haven't noticed that Christians are any more peaceful than anyone else—on the contrary. At least we Norse live by the teachings of our faith. We don't pretend to be better than we really are.”

  “And at least we Christians aspire to something better,” Cymbra snapped. “We don't just accept an endless cycle of violence and death.”

  Fire-lit shadows danced against the shield-emblazoned walls. A servant poured golden ale into Wolf's drinking horn. He raised it, took a long swallow, and eyed her narrowly. “I warned you this is a hard land and we a hard people. You will do well to remember that.”

  When he said nothing more, but turned from her to speak to Dragon, Cymbra remained seated stiffly in her chair.

  Time passed. Wolf did not speak to her again. At length, she rose and left the hall. Outside in the cool night air, she paused. The smoke had burned her eyes. That was the only reason there were tears in them.

  She went through the darkness to the lodge, where kindly Brita had lit the lamps, left water still warm to the touch, and turned down the covers of the great bed. Cymbra slipped beneath them certain she would not sleep. Visions of a bloodred sky splitting open to pour forth demons were bound to keep anyone awake. But she hadn't counted on the exhaustion of the long day.

  She woke, some unknown time later, to the touch of callused hands stroking the satiny skin of her inner thighs. Heat ignited instantly within her. She moaned and reached out to her husband. In the darkness of the night she could see very little, but she was vividly aware of him covering her along every inch of her body.

  He spread her legs wider and moved between them. She had scarcely a moment to draw breath before he thrust into her, rearing back to thrust again and again, quickly, remorselessly. His possession was so abrupt, and with an edge of roughness to it, that Cymbra felt the stirrings of fear, but she had no time to think of that before her body, already so perfectly attuned to his, responded helplessly

  The pleasure built and built, became unbearable, and suddenly, without warning, release was upon her. She cried out, moaning his name against his sweat-dampened skin. His answer was a guttural rasp as he drove even harder and deeper, taking his own satisfaction.

  Scant moments later, he moved off her. Cymbra felt curiously stunned and bereft. The suddenness of his possession, his silence throughout, the lack of gentle caress, all made this time different from any other time between them. She reached out across the bed, seeking some small comfort and reassurance, but he had moved too far away. She encountered only empty space and the chill air of the Norse night.

  Chapter NINE

  WOLF LOOKED UP FROM THE WEAPON he was sharpening, saw his wife returning through the open gates, and scowled. Gloriously beautiful as always, she was still paler than she should have been and there were faint violet shadows beneath her eyes. The stubborn wench was wearing herself out.

  In the week since Marta had turned the household keys over to her, Cymbra had risen each day before the first hint of light, dressed quickly, and hurried about her duties. Wolf, who had never been one to lie about in bed, was damn tired of waking up alone. Especially when he invariably did so with a powerful desire for his Saxon beauty and no way to slake it before nightfall.

  He ran a finger over the blade, confirmed its sharpness, and set it aside. Rising, he walked in the direction of the mounted escort that had accompanied his wife and was now drawing rein in front of the stables.

  Cymbra had wanted to go into town without being surrounded by armed men who looked inclined to kill as easily as they breathed. Wolf took that as further proof of her foolishness. Not that he actually believed anyone in Sciringesheal yearned for the savage death that would be his if he so much as looked wrong at the Wolf's woman, but he had to allow for the effect of her extraordinary beauty on even the sanest man.

  The escort, six grim-faced warriors well blooded in battle, nodded to him. He returned their silent greetings, pleased to see that none was so ill-disciplined as to actually look in his wife's direction. It took more effort to select the best men and train them solidly, but it always paid off in the end.

  He raised his powerful arms, lifting Cymbra from her saddle before she could attempt to dismount. She started a little in surprise. Smiling, he slid her down the long length of his body but did not let go of her even after her feet touched the ground “What have you bought now?”

  Caught within the circle of his arms, she tipped back her head and looked up at him. That he was her husband still amazed her. That she could touch and be touched by him as though that were the most ordinary part of life was astounding. After living untouched for so many years, the sudden intimacy left her feeling as though she had walked from a dark room into brilliant sunshine—bright, glorious, seductively warm, and yet a bit painful, leaving her as yet unsure of how she truly felt about it. She was doing her very best to hold on to her hard-won serenity but increasingly she knew herself to be losing the battle. And never more so when she was like this, so vividly aware of the warmth and strength of the man who held her. Aware, too—no, too aware—of her tremulous response to him. All the same, pride drove her to conceal the dishevelment of her senses he so effortlessly provoked. “Cloth for the servants' new tunics,” she said briskly, then reminded him, “you did say I might.”

  That was true, he had. Cymbra was meticulous about asking his approval for every purchase she made. Although he was astounded by the sheer variety of things she thought necessary he couldn't find it in himself to refuse her. And after all, he had to admit that from what he had seen so far, everything she bought had a practical use.

  Moreover, judging by the coin she was spending, she was a champion haggler. Of course, that shouldn't surprise him. The poor merchants who had to deal with her were probably startled to discover they hadn't just given their goods away for one of her smiles.

  He couldn't quite remember how but she'd made the idea of new tunics for the servants sound sensible. Something about people taking more pride in their work when they were better garbed, and something else about the reflection on his own consequence. He'd only been half-listening, distracted by the subtle play of light over the damask curve of her cheek.

  “You're working too hard,” he murmured, still holding her close against him.

  She didn't try to pull away but neither did she soften as he would have liked. “There is much to do,” Cymbra said. It was a simple statement yet replete with her deepest concern that she would fail to be a good wife, a bringer of peace to her people and his, and that all of this, all the bustle of ordinary life, would explode suddenly into devastating violence and lives would fall like so much discarded chaff upon the hard-packed floor of the winnowing shed.

  “How many servants are there in this keep, how many slaves?” When she would have answered, he stopped her with the light touch of a finger on lips he would far rather have been kissing. “Never mind, I know you know. My
point is that I fail to see why you think you have to do everything.”

  She could have told him—about the flour spoiled with salt, the watered ale, the pots improperly cleaned, the many and sundry small acts of sloth—or sabotage— that were making her days a constant trial. But pride wouldn't allow her to complain.

  There had been no further confrontations with Marta. The older woman was merely a silent, unsmiling presence hovering over all, a continual reminder that the outcome of this battle was yet to be decided.

  Brita did everything possible to help and had managed to enlist the support of the female slaves. But all the other women did the absolute minimum and did that as poorly as they dared. The food served in the hall was hardly edible by Cymbra's standards.

  She was astonished—but wearily grateful—that Wolf apparently hadn't noticed. Still, she wondered how much longer she would be able to keep beating her head against what increasingly seemed an immovable wall.

  Her decision to outfit the servants in new garb was intended partly to correct the obvious deficiency in their clothing, but she hoped it would win her some small degree of support. Without it, she feared she would flounder.

  Even now she felt compelled to hurry off to the kitchens to make sure there would be something served at supper that wasn't either rotten with maggots or still moving of its own accord. But Wolf's arms close around her kept her from doing so.

  “Enough,” he said, his voice low and rasping against her ear. “There are other duties you have neglected.”

  She opened her mouth to protest the injustice of that, only to stop when his smile stole her breath. Dragon was supposed to be the charming one in the family, but in Cymbra's opinion her husband beat him easily.

  She was just about to relent—and gladly so—when she caught sight of Brother Joseph hurrying toward her across the field. The look on his face made her forget her own inclinations.

  “I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I promised Brother Joseph I would … pray with him.” Before Wolf could react, she ducked under his arm. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “It shouldn't take too long, not more than an hour or so—” The fierce scowl her husband shot her made Cymbra decide she had nothing more to say.

  Wolf watched her go with mingled chagrin and what felt suspiciously like disappointment. He had come to realize in the past week that Cymbra was very devout, for she prayed daily with the monk. Had Brother Joseph not proven himself over the previous three years to be a man of rigorous self-denial, including unwavering celibacy, Wolf would have hesitated to allow him so much in his wife's company.

  As it was, he was trying hard to reconcile himself to this part of her life that apparently meant so much to her. Whether or not he would succeed remained to be seen.

  AFTER HER GLANCE BACK AT HER SCOWLING HUS-band, Cymbra did not dare look at him again. She intercepted Brother Joseph and quickly drew him off to the weaving shed.

  “Dame Mikal's pains are upon her,” he said with great agitation. “She begs you to come quickly.”

  Cymbra nodded. The woman was wife to one of the Rus merchants who traded so often in Sciringesheal that he had built a house in the town. She was expecting her first child and had approached Cymbra, through the monk, earlier in the week.

  Nor was she alone. Barely had the first rumors about her healing skills begun to spread, aided no doubt by Brita, than people began asking for her help. So far, they were all Christians, but she hoped that would change soon.

  Having assured Brother Joseph she would go at once, she hurried to the lodge and gathered up her supplies. Back outside, she sought Wolf. When she could not find him, she went up to one of the men of her guard.

  “Do you know where Lord Wolf has gone?” she asked.

  The big, hard-faced warrior looked down at the ground, then up at the sky, then to either side, anywhere but at her. Curtly, as though unsure that he should speak to her at all, he said, “To the river. To swim.”

  Cymbra thought briefly of going after him but time was rushing past. Besides, his absence might be a blessing in disguise. The man was so damnably protective, there was no assurance he would let her go.

  She murmured her thanks and walked away in the direction of the kitchens, but before she reached them she turned a quick corner that took her out of sight of the men on the field. Removing a plain gray cloak from her bag, the same kind of cloak worn by many of the servants, she put it on, raised the hood over her head, and walked straight out through the open gate. Consoling herself with the thought that Wolf would surely understand, once he knew the circumstances, she made her way back down to the town.

  As it turned out, Dame Mikal's time had not come, she was merely experiencing the false pains that could easily be mistaken for the real thing by first-time mothers. Cymbra sat with her for an hour or so, long enough for the pains to end and not return.

  “I am so sorry, my lady,” Dame Mikal said when she realized she was not in labor. Her Norse was slow but fluent, accented with the rhythm of her native tongue. “I should never have asked Brother Joseph for you until I knew for sure.”

  “Not at all,” Cymbra assured her. “It's much better to be on the safe side.” She laid her hand gently on the young woman's swollen belly and smiled. “You have a fine, strong child, but I suspect he—or she—will wish to remain within you several weeks yet. However, if you experience pains again, please call for me. Babies have been known to surprise people.”

  Her gentle reassurance calmed the Rus woman, who clasped her hand in gratitude. So, too, did her husband, who had returned rapidly from an expedition into the hills to meet with the fur and amber traders whose goods he bought.

  “We cannot thank you enough, my lady,” he said huskily. His gaze on his wife, he said, “My Nadia should be home safe with her own mother but she insisted on coming with me. Glad though I am to have her near, I worry for her safety birthing a child in this harsh place.”

  “It is hard to be far from home,” Cymbra agreed. She still missed Holyhood although she tried very hard not to think about that, or indeed of what lay ahead when her brother realized what had happened to her.

  Most especially, she tried not to think about the inevitable day of reckoning and how she would bring about the peaceful reconciliation between her husband and brother that she was determined to effect.

  “However,” she continued, “women have babies here all the time. You mustn't worry.”

  She left the small house a short time later, reflecting on the couple's obvious devotion to each other. Unbidden, the question rose in her mind of how Wolf would feel once she was with child. That she would be was not in doubt given her husband's obvious virility. It was even possible that she might be already.

  A smile tugged at her mouth as she touched a hand very lightly to her belly. If life was there she didn't know it yet, nor was she likely to early on, for her body had never been particularly regular in such things. But when there was … She didn't dare hope he would show the same care as the Rus trader, yet she couldn't help but wish for it all the same.

  Cymbra had little opportunity to consider this before she slipped back in through the stronghold gates, returned her cloak and medicines to the lodge, and hurried off to check on preparations for supper. She was crossing the open area in front of the great timbered hall when she saw a crowd had gathered.

  Even as she stepped closer to see what drew them, a dark wave of pressure overtook her. She heard a buzzing in her ears as though a swarm of insects had suddenly surrounded her. Panic rose in her as her heartbeat accelerated wildly.

  Desperately, she fought against the sensations that threatened to overwhelm her, taking deep, steadying breaths as she frantically summoned up the vision of the wide, high, sturdy wall within her that she had learned to build stone by stone over the years.

  When she could finally proceed, she walked slowly and carefully toward the crowd. Before she could see what lay beyond, what she heard confirmed her worst fears.

 
; A man was tied to the punishment post a short distance to the side of the timbered hall. His tunic had been stripped away, leaving him naked to the waist. Long, red welts darkened his back.

  As Cymbra watched, her lips pressed tightly together to contain the scream that threatened to break from her, a guard positioned behind the man raised a black leather whip. It coiled like a snake, lashed through the air, and struck with a harsh crack. The man cried out and arched against the pain, straining at his bonds. The guard drew the whip back, raised it once more, and delivered another savage blow.

  Watching impassively from the side, his face a mask, Wolf raised a hand, signaling the guard to stop. The man slumped against the post, unable to stand upright, blood trickling from his wounds. Instinctively, Cymbra took a step toward him.

  At that moment, Wolf saw his wife—and in the same instant realized what she intended. He grasped her arm and yanked her back against him. “Do not,” he said.

  She stared at him in disbelief. “You can't mean that. He's been punished for whatever he did. Surely, that's enough.” So shocked and sickened was she that she paid no heed to the startled looks of the crowd, their attention diverted by this new spectacle. Wolf, to the contrary, was keenly conscious of the avid gazes directed at the jarl and his defiant wife.

  “He stole a man's plow and another's horse,” Wolf said through gritted teeth. “Had he not been caught, the thefts would have robbed two families of their livelihood. For such a crime, he is lucky to get off this lightly.”

  Cymbra looked again at the man who now appeared unconscious. What she saw sickened her. His back was a mass of wounds. She judged he must have been lashed at least several dozen times. Bile rose in her throat. She spoke with loathing.

  “Lightly? He's been all but whipped to death. You must let me care for him.”

  Wolf did not answer, but walked away, the crowd parting before him. He still grasped Cymbra's arm so that she was compelled to run alongside him. When they were some distance from the post, he stopped.