by Josie Litton
“These things happen,” Brita observed, the very soul of tact. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began gently running the comb through Cymbra's knee-length tresses, beginning at the bottom and slowly working her way up. Her touch was so gentle that Cymbra winced only once or twice.
“Have you heard anything from Mikal and Nadia this morning?” Cymbra asked after she plucked yet another slice of warm, honeyed bread off the platter. She couldn't remember ever being so famished.
“Oh, yes, my lady. Mother and son are both doing very well and Mikal was especially delighted with the gift Lord Wolf sent. He said he had never seen such a fine drinking cup and would treasure it forever.”
Cymbra smiled, delighted that her husband had found so swift and thoughtful a way to show that he held the Rus trader and his family blameless.
“That's good then. And everyone returned safely? There were no injuries?”
“None, my lady. But—” She broke off, suddenly very preoccupied with Cymbra's hair.
“But what?” When this was greeted only with silence, Cymbra twisted around so that she could see Brita. “What's wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing, I shouldn't have spoken. It is for Lord Wolf to say—” She dropped her eyes and concentrated again on the tangles.
Cymbra didn't persist. She had no wish to make the Irish girl uncomfortable. A feeling of apprehension grew in her, making her glad when at last she was dressed and able to leave the lodge.
Sunlight welcomed her. Bright, glorious, almost forgotten sunlight. The rain had stopped. The gray, leaden clouds were gone and in their place was a sky of pure cerulean blue dotted with just a scattering of fleece. As she stood with her face turned to the sun, savoring its warmth, Ulfrich hurried to greet her.
“Good morning, my lady! Isn't it wonderful? The crops are saved, the jarl is back, and everything—” He looked at her with a wise smile. “Well, everything is just fine!”
“Tell me your chest feels well and I will agree with you.”
“It feels splendid, absolutely splendid. I could run rings around the young men here. However, as I have no wish to make them feel inadequate—” He laughed and Cymbra joined him as arm in arm they walked across the hill top.
Brother Joseph caught sight of them and waved them over to the chapel. “Good morning, my lady … Ulfrich,” he said with a smile. “Lovely day. Some of the children offered to find flowers for the altar and I thought I'd go with them.” He exchanged a look with the older man, then smiled again at Cymbra. “Perhaps you'd like to come with us, my lady.”
“What a splendid idea!” Ulfrich said. “We could all go. We could even take a meal with us, make a day of it.”
“Wonderful!” Brother Joseph exclaimed. “Brita, perhaps you'd like to come, too.”
Cymbra turned, surprised to see the Irish girl. For just a moment, she had the odd thought that Brita had followed her, although she could think of no reason why she would have done so.
“Oh, I'd love to,” Brita said. “My lady and I could gather more plants for the garden.”
“Then it's decided!” Brother Joseph said happily. “We'll all go. If we're going to make the most of it, I think we should set off immediately. Don't you agree?”
“Absolutely,” Ulfrich said.
“Certainly,” Brita replied. “In fact, why don't the three of you start with the children and I'll just follow right along after I've picked up the food. It won't take but a few minutes.”
A stillness settled in Cymbra. She looked slowly from one to the other, seeing the eager faces of people who were her friends, yet in whom she sensed a certain strain.
“Haven't you forgotten something?” she said gently. “I'm not supposed to leave here without permission—and an escort.”
“That's not a problem.”
Cymbra whirled to find Dragon standing directly behind her. He had come up so quietly that she hadn't heard him. He looked very fit, well rested and at ease, with no trace of the pain that had plagued him for so long.
“I'll be happy to escort you,” he said with a smile. “As for permission, I don't think my noble brother would begrudge you a day picking flowers.”
“Excellent,” Ulfrich said. “Then there's nothing to prevent us going. Let's be off.”
“Wait.” Cymbra took a long, level look at her brother-in-law. “You'll escort us … for a day of picking flowers?”
He shrugged shoulders as broad as Wolf's. “Well, I don't guarantee I'll actually pick any. I'll just keep watch, that sort of thing.”
“And Wolf won't mind if I'm gone all day?”
“Of course not.”
“I think I'll just ask him. Where is he?”
Dragon frowned. “In the hall but he's very busy and I'm sure he doesn't want to be interrupted.”
“Really? What has him so occupied?”
The four of them—Dragon, Ulfrich, Brother Joseph, and Brita—exchanged glances. It fell to Dragon to answer her.
“Look, Cymbra, the thing is … we brought back prisoners, men who attacked the farmstead….” He hesitated as though deciding exactly how much he would— and wouldn't—say. “They have to pay for it, that's all.”
He fingered the hilt of the sword strapped around his lean waist, took a deep breath, and said, “It was actually Wolf's idea that you go pick flowers today. He wants you away from here.”
The others had the grace to look just a little shamefaced at this revelation of their mutual deception, but they were still resolved.
“We'd best be off,” Brother Joseph said firmly.
Still, Cymbra refused to budge. She looked from one to the other of them in astonishment. Finally, she addressed Dragon. “It was Wolf's idea? He started this?”
“He's only thinking of your well-being. You got so upset when that thief was lashed and he's—”
“The prisoners are going to be whipped?”
Dragon closed his eyes for a moment, summoning patience. He clearly wasn't experienced in dealing with recalcitrant women. Indeed, Cymbra had to wonder if he'd ever encountered one before in his whole life.
“They … killed people.”
Devastation. Burning rubble. Bodies thrown about, some in pieces. Women spread-eagle on the ground, raped, killed. Children—
Cymbra reeled. The vision came without warning, so vivid that she could have sworn she smelled it. For a horrible moment, she feared she would vomit.
When the world righted, Dragon was holding her and cursing vividly. “Dammit, that's why you have to leave! Whatever that is. Wolf doesn't know, I sure as hell don't, and I'm not even sure you do. We have to get you away from here.”
“She has the gift,” Brita said quietly. She stood with her hands tightly clasped, staring at Cymbra. “I suspected it a while ago and now I'm certain. The great healers are like that, my ma always said. They can feel the suffering of others but they have to be able to protect themselves lest they be destroyed by it.”
Dragon looked down into Cymbra's eyes, his own face grim. “Is this true? Can you feel what other people are feeling?”
“S-sometimes.” She stepped away from him and forced herself to stand very steadily. The sudden exposure of her most deeply held secret was shock enough but the realization that others had sensed something different about her was an even greater surprise. She thought she had concealed the truth so well. What else had she been wrong about?
Fighting to hide her sudden panic, she said, “That's why Hawk sent me to Holyhood. At first, he wouldn't allow anyone there who wasn't strong and healthy and if there was an accident, the person was taken away immediately.”
“He expected you to live like that for the rest of your life?” Dragon asked, astonished.
“I'm not sure what he expected. He was just trying to protect me. But I got better. I learned, as Brita said, to protect myself.”
“You couldn't just now,” her brother-in-law reminded her. “You saw something.”
She flinched at the memory
but stood firm. “It's true that I haven't been doing as well lately, but I can't just run away whenever something bad happens.”
“You wouldn't be run—” Ulfrich said.
“Be sensible—” Brother Joseph entreated.
“Please, my lady—” Brita added.
Dragon shrugged. “This is all very interesting but the jarl says you are to go pick flowers, so pick flowers you shall. You can sort this out with him later if he's of a mind. In the meanwhile, we've tarried long enough.”
He took her arm, clearly intending to drag her if he had to, only to find that she slipped between his fingers like quicksilver.
“Cymbra!”
She heard him but she didn't stop. Holding her skirts up, her long hair flying behind her, the Norse Wolf's Saxon bride raced to the timbered hall.
HE SAT IN STATE, IN THE LARGE, HIGH-BACKED CHAIR behind the high table. His tunic was gray trimmed with gold. Gold bands glinted on his arms. He wore a gold torque around his neck, the ends joined in a wolf's head emblazoned with eyes of bloodred rubies.
He radiated power and authority. And no mercy whatsoever.
Cymbra stopped just beyond the large double doors. She stood, heart pounding, unsure of what to do now that she had done it.
She had disobeyed him—again.
But she could not be so weak, so craven as to be unable to face the reality of their lives. He was jarl, he carried great responsibilities. She was his wife, it was her duty to stand beside him and help him in any way she could. Not run away and hide.
Still, she could not bring herself to walk farther into the hall thronged with grim-faced men and only a handful of women. There were no children at all even though they normally went everywhere and were part of everything. With a start, she realized they had already been gathered up and removed. As she was supposed to have been.
So then the punishment would be very bad. All right, she could face that. The men had killed savagely. Wolf was right when he spoke of the need to maintain order lest chaos descend. In his own life, he had seen the terrible results when that happened. He had lost his parents, his home, almost everything save for his life and that of his brother.
A brother who was still bound and determined to carry out the Wolf's orders. Cymbra just managed to dodge aside when a grim-faced Dragon bore down on her. He stood, glowering at her like an enraged thunder god who, rather absurdly, was trying to be discreet.
“Cymbra, come with me now,” he hissed from between clenched teeth.
She shook her head and edged farther away, staying beside the wall. Short of drawing everyone's attention to them, there was little he could do.
“Wolf!”
Apparently, Dragon didn't have as many qualms about drawing attention as she'd hoped. He strode right into the middle of the hall, faced his brother, and said in a loud, clear voice, “Your wife is here.”
All eyes swiveled in her direction. But the only ones she cared about were silver gray and lit by fire.
Slowly, he rose. Slowly, he came to where she was standing, wishing for all the world that she could dissolve right into the wall. That being unlikely, she straightened her shoulders and mustered a smile.
“There seems to have been a misunderstanding, my lord. I don't think this is a good day to pick flowers.”
His gaze raked over her. “Yes, I'd say there's been a misunderstanding. Let me correct it. I want you to go pick flowers.”
“I think there will be better days to pick flowers whereas—”
“Do not argue with me.” If he had spoken harshly, she might have been able to resist him. But his tone was soft, for her ears alone, with such gentleness as to bring tears to her eyes.
She blinked them back fiercely and blurted the fear that drove her, fear of what he might believe, what he might truly think of her. “I am not a weakling!”
“I never said you were. But you are—” He hesitated, uncertain.
Dragon caught his eye. “She feels the pain of others. That Irish girl calls it a gift.”
Wolf's gaze locked on his wife, his own impenetrable. He appeared neither shocked nor surprised, merely curious. But then why should it be other when he knew her so well? “Is this true?”
“Yes, but it doesn't make me any less strong. I can still do all the things your wife should be able to do.”
His composure broke. He stared at her dumb-founded. “That's what you're worried about? That you would somehow disappoint me?”
“How can I not if I am too weak and craven to stand at your side? What kind of wife is that for a jarl to have? People will say you made a mistake to wed me. Perhaps you will say it.”
They continued to stare at each other for several moments. Abruptly Cymbra gasped and lashed out, striking Wolf on the chest. “Don't you dare laugh at me!”
“I'm not … All right, I was. I'm sorry. It's just that how any woman could think … after last night.”
Abruptly aware of their avid audience, Wolf caught himself. He cleared his throat and said loudly, “The Lady Cymbra, my wife, has requested to witness this judging. As I know her to be a woman of courage and strength, I agree.”
Beneath the approving comments of the assembly, he murmured to Dragon, “At the first sign of trouble, get her out of here.”
Grim-faced, locked in their mutual determination to do right by one stubborn female, the Hakonson brothers took their places at the high table. Dragon held out the chair beside Wolf's for his sister-in-law. He positioned himself right behind her, prepared to carry out his jarl's orders with dispatch.
Cymbra sat down gladly, afraid her legs would no longer hold her. She could scarcely believe what she had done or how Wolf had reacted. Truly, he was the most princely of men, kind, thoughtful, understanding—
Ruthless. She bit back a gasp as the prisoners were led into the hall. There were five in all, large men and very fit, or at least they had been. Their arms were drawn behind them and chained to wooden staffs that ran across their backs. They were hobbled over, dirty, bruised, and cut, and showing clear evidence of having been dragged. Their mouths were cracked and parched, their eyes frantic.
They were men who teetered on the very edge of death and knew it.
Devastation. Burning rubble. Bodies thrown about, some in pieces. Women spread-eagle on the ground, raped, killed. Children—
She had seen. She remembered. And she kept silent, stifling the impulse to show kindness even in the face of evil.
Wolf held up a hand. The assembly which had been yelling curses at the killers, became silent.
Into that stillness, his voice cut deep and hard. “You fell upon the peaceful settlement of Vycoff. You slaughtered the men, women, and children dwelling there. You showed no mercy, not to oldest or youngest. No crime had been committed against you or yours. This was not payment for harm done, it was murder. For it, you will die.”
Several of the men moaned, a few tried to hold out their hands in supplication but were restrained by their chains. One, the largest of them, looked at Cymbra. Weak as he was, in pain, afflicted with hunger and thirst, facing death, yet still his eyes widened at the sight of her. He stared, unable or unwilling to draw his gaze away. Slowly, he leered.
“The Saxon bitch.”
His voice was hoarse, rasping in the silence. Yet were the words unmistakable.
Pandemonium erupted. Several men rushed at him and began to pummel him with their fists. He went down but even so, through the tumult of bodies, he continued to stare at Cymbra.
She refused to respond; not by so much as a flicker would she acknowledge his presence. Dragon felt no such constraint. He caught his brother's glance, nodded, and wadded into what was rapidly becoming an enraged mob. Pulling men away, he yanked the offender back onto his feet.
Wolf had not moved. He appeared utterly unaffected. “This one merely seeks to hasten his own death,” he told the crowd. “Do not oblige him.”
Murmurs of understanding replaced shouts for blood. The jarl was wise,
he saw what they had not. He was right, of course. Why should the scum die quickly? Let him suffer as was fitting.
Cymbra held herself very still. She heard what was being said, she could hardly fail to do so. Yet her mind reeled from the implications. Not only death, then, but slow death. And she had insisted on being present.
Instinctively, she sought the walls that had sheltered her for so many years, those she had built in her mind to protect herself from the too-violent world. But the walls were gone, vanished as though they had never been. There was nowhere to run, to hide, nowhere safe.
Her heart beat frantically. For a sickening, dizzying moment, she felt herself utterly open and exposed to every pain, every cruelty, every sorrow. It would destroy her. Yet scarcely had she thought that than another sensation seized her. She felt strong arms close around her, drawing her near, cradling her. Arms she knew very, very well.
Yet did Wolf remain unmoving in his seat, not touching her at all. Only looking at her. She met his gaze, saw the understanding there, and felt the terror ease from her like water flowing unhindered over smooth ground.
He was her wall now, her shelter, her protection. His arms were strong and they would never let her go.
She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation of being safer than she had ever been in her life. When she opened them again, she was calm, resolved, as ready as she could be for what was to come.
And Wolf was still staring at her.
He looked away, looked at the killers, looked at her again. Abruptly, he stood.
“Olaf!”
The old, one-eyed man Cymbra had become fond of on the voyage to Sciringesheal strode forward. He nodded to her and stood before his lord.
“Fetch the ax.”
The crowd shouted its approval. Eager hands fell upon the killers, dragging them out of the hall, into the open area beyond. Ulfrich was there, looking grim and somber. Brother Joseph stood beside him, his head bowed. Between them was Brita, her face very pale, her eyes dark smudges, yet clearly determined not to desert her mistress at such a time.
Cymbra wanted to order her away, but her throat was too tight to emit any sound. She could only gather herself inward, praying she would not break, would not disgrace Wolf. She stared at the punishment post, remembering the thief who had been lashed and the horrible tortures Brother Chilton had told her about, those that would make a mere lashing seem as nothing. She braced herself for the wave of pain and terror that she knew would overwhelm her.
