Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  He smiled, stretching her captured hands above her head, his gaze settling on her breasts. With his free hand, he played with her, stroking her nipples lightly, repeatedly, until her hips arched and she moaned. Pleased by her response, he released one of her hands and guided it down his body to close her fingers around him.

  Cymbra's cheeks flamed even as her eyes flew to his face in bewilderment. Keeping her hand firmly in place, he said, “Sweet wife, I let you sleep untouched for two nights in deference to your virginal state when first I took you. Be assured I feel no such restriction now.” As though to express its eager agreement, his cock hardened yet further beneath her touch, the velvety tip nudging her palm like a playful animal wanting to be petted.

  “Oh, my,” Cymbra murmured. Caught in helpless fascination, her body responded in kind despite its recent satiation. Lying back against the welcoming earth, she drew her husband to her.

  Chapter EIGHT

  HER LUTE WAS BROKEN. CYMBRA STARED at the splintered fragments of wood and tangled strings on the table beneath the windows that overlooked the harbor of Sciringesheal. Slowly she picked up the ruined instrument and turned it over in her hands, as though somehow her touch might heal it. The lute was beyond hope of repair.

  She had played it for Wolf just the night before, after they had left the great hall and sought the privacy of their lodge. The memory of that and what had happened immediately afterward in the great bed they shared was most pleasant, but this discovery cast a shadow of pain over it.

  Someone had done this deliberately. There was no other explanation. The lute had been fine when Cymbra last saw it scarcely an hour before. In that time, there had been no reason for anyone to enter the lodge.

  She had been busy elsewhere and Wolf was out all day hunting with the men. Brita, who, in gratitude for her new position had insisted on taking on myriad duties, including tidying Cymbra's quarters and caring for her clothing, had been with her mistress. While they were all so occupied, someone had entered the lodge, smashed her lute, and left the pieces where Cymbra would be sure to find them.

  A shiver moved down her spine. The wanton act of destruction carried a message she had no difficulty understanding. Since returning with Wolf the previous day, astride his great horse, she had been aware of a heightening in the resentment of Marta and some of the other women.

  Her full mouth tightened when she remembered how the older woman had looked her up and down, taking in the mantle Cymbra held clutched about herself to conceal the disarray of her clothing, the bits of moss and grass caught in her hair, and the high color of her cheeks. All this no doubt made it perfectly clear what the jarl and his Saxon wife had been doing during their absence from the hill fort.

  Wolf hadn't seemed to notice anything amiss but gave her bottom a pat, grinned, and went off to rejoin his men. Cymbra beat a quick retreat to the lodge, where she bathed and dressed before reappearing.

  Her first priority had been to seek out Brita and inform the young woman of her new duties. She'd had no time to think of anything else, much less notice what Marta and the others might be up to. Now, reflecting on it, she realized she should have made the time.

  So long as the Wolf took no wife, Marta had enjoyed a position of power and respect among the women. She wore the keys to the keep's storage rooms as the visible symbol of her authority. As yet, Cymbra had not asked her for them. She had thought to ease her way in, win the trust and if possible even the affection of the people before asserting her rights. Truth be told, she had also hoped that Wolf might notice the problem and simply order Marta to turn the keys over to her.

  She should have known better. Let a chunk of dirt fall from the protective berm around the fortress, let a fragment of rust appear on a weapon, let a man take an instant longer to react on the training field, and Wolf would know. But anything that smacked of the purely domestic he ignored completely

  She had noticed that he appeared oblivious to what he wore, what he ate, what the temperature was, and all manner of other concerns related to simple comfort. In that, he was very much like her brother, Hawk, who had precisely the same tendencies. She was far too wise to think her husband would ever change. To go to him with a problem he would think of no consequence would mean belittling herself. So, too, it would mean failing at her self-appointed task to be a good wife, a task she was desperate to accomplish. If Wolf and his people could truly accept her, if she could truly make a place of honor for herself among them, Hawk would be far more likely to accept both her marriage and the alliance that must of necessity go with it. That she might also wish to please the husband who had unleashed such unexpected feelings within her was a possibility Cymbra did not wish to contemplate. Confused, bewildered, and still deeply worried about her brother, she shied from her emotions as she had always shied from those of others.

  Before such thoughts could run away with her, she walked swiftly out of the lodge, across the field, and into the great hall. As expected, Marta was there, directing the servants in preparation for the evening meal. Trestle tables were being set up and wiped down, benches put in place, and large platters of fresh-baked bread distributed.

  Cymbra walked directly up to Marta and held out her hand. “Give me the keys.”

  Around the hall, all activity stopped. The women stared at Cymbra.

  Marta looked her up and down very deliberately and sneered. How bold she was when there was no one she feared about, Cymbra thought. That would change, and soon.

  “You think because you satisfy the jarl's lust you should have the running of this place?” Marta asked. She raised her voice enough to be heard by everyone in the hall. “Any whore can spread her legs for a man. It means nothing.” Around her, the women tittered.

  “The keys,” Cymbra said again. She refused to give Marta the satisfaction of seeing her angered. “Then you will remove yourself from here and not return until I have given you permission to do so.” Lest there be any misunderstanding, she concluded, “You are a vindictive and destructive person. Until you change, you are not worthy of trust.”

  Marta's face darkened. “How dare you! You are nothing and less than nothing! Kiirla should have been wife to the jarl and would have been had he not been forced to wed you. If you think for one moment that gives you any rights—”

  “Forced?” Cymbra raised her brows. “Are you saying that Lord Wolf was forced to do something not of his own choosing?”

  The women glanced at one another nervously. One or two even smiled slightly, suggesting that Marta was not without critics herself.

  Reckless as she was in her prideful folly, even Marta knew when she had gone too far. Quickly, she tried to recover. “You twist my words! The Lord Wolf is a great leader who does not hesitate to sacrifice himself for the well-being of his people. However, that changes nothing where you are concerned.”

  “The keys. This is the last time I ask. Hand them over now or I go to the Lord Wolf.” Cymbra spoke with deceptive softness. “We both know there is much for me to tell him.”

  Marta paled slightly, perhaps remembering her intemperate remarks to Cymbra on her wedding night, but she did not give way. “My husband was foster father to the Wolf, the man who first placed a sword in his hand and taught him how to use it. You are nothing but a Saxon captive wed for political gains. Which of us do you think he will believe?”

  Cymbra wondered that herself but she did not show it by so much as a flicker. “I have no doubt that my husband will do what is right.”

  For just a moment, Marta wavered. She saw before her a young woman of glowing beauty, a woman whom recent days had transformed from innocence to awakened sensuality. So, too, had she seen the look on the Wolf's face when he rode back into the hill fort holding his wife in his arms. Never had a man appeared better satisfied, or more tender.

  It was well enough to think that this would pass, for men tended to lose interest in that which they possessed. But this enticing Saxon witch might have unexpected powers. Perhaps she tru
ly had been sent to tame the Wolf.

  “He will not appreciate your involving him with any dispute among the women,” Marta said sensibly enough. “Men hate such things. If you knew more about them, you would understand that.”

  As one, the other women nodded. This truly was wisdom.

  “Moreover, he will wonder why you seek to sow discord among his people. He will remember that you are of enemy stock and he will consider what harm you wish to do.”

  The line was drawn. Marta would not yield the keys despite Cymbra's threat to go to Wolf. Nay, not threat, for it had to be a promise. If she did not act on it, she would be disparaged among his people for all time.

  She almost regretted saying what she had, for she truly dreaded the thought of involving her husband. Now, she had no choice but to ask for his help.

  She left the great hall and did not return until it was time for supper. Wolf had come back from the hunt but gone directly to the sauna with several of his men. Cymbra did not see him until she came to the high table.

  He was already seated, laughing with Dragon over some sally the latter had just made, but the sudden lapse of conversation that always seemed to accompany her appearance alerted him. He broke off and rose, pulling out the high-backed chair next to his.

  “Prompt as always, my lady,” he said with a smile. More softly, for her ears alone, he added, “And as beautiful.”

  She flushed, pleased by his praise but nervous, too, at the thought of what lay ahead. As she took her place beside him, Dragon lifted his goblet to her.

  “Greetings, sweet sister, and thank you.”

  “Thank me? Whatever for?”

  “For inducing in my brother so good a mood that he cursed only mildly when we failed to find a boar and had to content ourselves with stag.”

  “You don't care for venison?” Cymbra innocently asked her husband.

  Dragon grinned at the chiding look his brother shot him. “Oh, he likes it well enough,” he answered for Wolf. “But he prefers the contest with a bad-tempered boar. Although in all honesty, I've wondered a time or two if he might not rightly feel some kinship with such a beast.”

  Cymbra dared a quick look at her husband. He merely rolled his eyes. “Ignore him, sweetling. Dragon has always believed wives were to be avoided at all costs. It pains him to confront evidence of his misjudgment.”

  “It's true,” Dragon said, sighing deeply. “You've upset my whole understanding of how the world works.

  Rather than go back and begin again, I've decided to regard you as a unique exception.”

  “I see,” Cymbra said although she didn't really. It was enough that her brother-in-law seemed to approve of her. That was a beginning. Now, if she could only make as much progress with the several thousand other people at Sciringesheal …

  “If you do like venison,” she ventured, “I have a wonderful recipe. Perhaps you'd like to try it.”

  Wolf had no interest in the intricacies of preparing food. It was enough if it arrived at the table reasonably hot and not entirely raw. But he was inclined just now to please the beautiful wife who had pleased him so greatly. “Do whatever you'd like with it,” he said magnanimously.

  Cymbra had the opening she needed and hesitated only a moment before taking it. She could see Marta at one of the lower tables, watching her with narrowed eyes, and was aware that she was an object of attention for many of the women scattered around the hall. Most of them looked at her unkindly but Brita and the other female slaves dared to offer her small smiles of support. Her throat tightened with nervousness but she forced herself to speak calmly and pleasantly.

  “I would be delighted to do so, my lord. Unfortunately, lacking the keys to the household storage, I cannot obtain the spices needed to make the dish.”

  It took Wolf a moment to realize that there was a significance behind her seemingly casual words. A vague sense of disquiet stirred in him, as though something he should have done but hadn't itched at his memory. Distantly, he recalled that women in charge of households always wore keys. Indeed, a gaggle of good wives at market could be heard some distance off by their jangle.

  He frowned. Why hadn't Marta simply turned the keys over to Cymbra after the wedding? For that matter, why hadn't Cymbra simply asked for them rather than employ this transparent subterfuge to involve him in what she should have handled for herself?

  His eyes drifted over the hall. Among the men, all seemed as it should be. They were eating, drinking, talking, laughing, fingering their knives, and generally behaving normally. But the women … Sensible male dread stirred in him at the sight of their averted eyes and alternately smug and tense expressions.

  Lest the situation go any further, he caught Marta's eye, noting as he did that she was watching him intently, and beckoned her to him. She came promptly and smiled. “Lord?”

  “Give the household keys to my wife, Marta. She is mistress here now and they are hers by right.”

  The older woman's smile deepened. With a kindly look at Cymbra, she said, “Of course, my lord.” She unhooked the keys from her belt and handed them to Cymbra. Returning her attention to Wolf, she said, “I hope you don't mind, my lord, I thought it best to wait until her ladyship decided to take up her duties.”

  Cymbra inhaled sharply. She did not thank Marta for the keys or acknowledge her in any way. Wolf disliked that. He had known Marta all his life and she always seemed to do her job well enough.

  “Thank you, Marta,” he said, feeling compelled to make up for his wife's silence. “I'm sure my wife is aware of your wisdom and experience, and will depend on you to help her.”

  Marta's face softened yet further. So moved was she that her eyes glistened. “You are too kind, my lord,” she murmured, and with a deep bow withdrew from the high table.

  Cymbra sat frozen, hardly breathing, her hand so tight around the hard metal keys that they dug into the soft flesh of her palm. She had underestimated Marta. The woman must have realized that in a direct confrontation, Cymbra would win. Marta had turned the tables on her effectively, and in the process made it impossible for Cymbra to carry through on the second part of her promise, namely to remove Marta from the household until she changed her behavior. Now, by her husband's own word, she would not be able to do that.

  Wolf said little to her through the remainder of supper. He gave his attention to his brother and the other men of rank who were privileged to share the high table with him. Late into the evening, when the meal was finished and the more serious drinking begun, a skald stepped forward. The assembly hushed, settling comfortably into their seats in anticipation of the stories they would hear.

  At first, Cymbra was drawn into the great epic the storyteller unfolded. He did not offer its name for it seemed well known to all save her. The tale began in the dawn time of the world when a Seeress spoke.

  In the beginning, when Ymir lived, there was neither sand nor sea. The earth was not there, nor the sky—there was only a gaping chasm, with grass nowhere!

  In the night-dark hall lit only by torches that flickered in the summer breeze entering through the great doors left open at either end, Cymbra felt an ancient stirring deep within herself and shivered at it. So she imagined men and women had gathered beside fire since time immemorial, finding comfort and protection in one another, holding off the unseen monsters of the night until day could reclaim the world.

  The skald's voice, deep and sonorous, rose to the high timbered roof. Smoke curled and sparks flew from the huge logs dying down now to embers. The tale continued as Odin and his brothers created the world and all things in it, including man. The mighty god Thor battled giants, and the purest of the gods, Baldur, was murdered.

  So caught up was she in the tale that Cymbra only gradually realized that the tone of it was changing. The cock of Valhalla crowed, followed by another “soot red” bird of Hell. The watchdog Gram bayed and tore free of his bonds. The watchman Heimdall let loose a blast from his signal horn. The great world tree, Yggdrasil,
trembled and catastrophe was unleashed upon the earth. Men descended into depravity. Mercy became unknown.

  Images of fire and death filled the hall. Men perished in vast numbers, homes and hearths vanished as though they had never been. The sky caught fire and split in two. Evil was unleashed and walked the earth. Ragnarök descended, the twilight of the gods.

  One by one, Odin and his brothers gave battle and one by one they died. The sky turned black and the stars were extinguished. The world was utterly destroyed.

  The skald's voice fell away. Cymbra waited for the storyteller to resume, sure he would say something more, offer some hope, but he had nothing to add, nor did anyone else seem to expect it. Slowly, the silence of the hall was punctuated by a deep, rhythmic banging.

  Still caught in the hideous visions of the tale, Cymbra looked around dazedly as first one, then another of the warriors brought his drinking horn down hard, thumping the scarred tables again and again in full-hearted approval of the despair-ridden tale.

  The skald smiled, bowed, took his seat. More ale was poured. Conversation resumed.

  “What was that?” Cymbra murmured. She spoke so faintly that for a moment she thought no one had heard. But then Wolf turned to her quizzically.

  “That is Völuspá, the Seeress's Prophecy, our greatest epic. It explains the origins of the world and foretells its end. You have never heard it before?”

  She shook her head. “The world just ends like that, with the triumph of evil? There is no hope?”

  He shrugged as though the notion surprised him. “Some say the world will be reborn and the cycle begun again but with the same end. Always there will be the battle between good and evil, and evil will win as death always wins, but the gods and man will always rise to try again.”

  “It doesn't seem … futile to go on like that, over and over, with no chance for anything better?”