Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Yet still did strong arms hold her and did she know herself to be safe.

  “These are not men,” Wolf said suddenly. He made a sweeping gesture of contempt in the direction of the killers. “They are but carrion feeders, no better than offal themselves.”

  He looked around at the crowd, which hung on his every word. “A man does not soil his hands with offal.”

  The crowd murmured agreement.

  Wolf glanced at Dragon and Olaf. Without warning, they dragged forward one of the men, thrust him down onto his knees, and yanked him across a wooden block that had suddenly appeared. In the space of a breath, Dragon took the ax Olaf proferred, swung it once, very high, and brought it down. A head rolled across the hard-packed earth.

  The crowd gasped. Dragon didn't wait. He seized the second man and dispatched him just as quickly. Olaf finished the next two just as efficiently. That left the last, the one who had dared to insult Cymbra.

  Wolf took the bloody ax from Olaf. With it dangling from his hand, he walked over to the man and gestured at the block. “Kneel, and when you do, know that only the value I place on my Saxon wife sends you from this life speedily.”

  The man stumbled to obey. The ax cleaved the air once more, singing its blood song as it went. The earth drank of the red river thirstily.

  No one moved, no one spoke. There was only the wind from the sea and, borne on it, the distant cry of the hawk.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  OH, LOOK! HE'S YAWNING AGAIN. NADIA gazed at her son in delight surpassed only by his doting father's fascination. Oblivious to them both, and to the gently amused Cymbra, the baby produced a prodigious yawn, smacked his lips together, squeezed his eyes shut, and drifted off to sleep.

  “He's such a good baby,” his adoring mother said as she settled him into his cradle. “He knows just what to do and how to do it.”

  “He's nursing well then?” Cymbra asked. There seemed little doubt as to the answer, for the baby was already putting on weight, but she wanted to be sure Nadia wasn't having any problems.

  “Extremely well,” the proud mother assured her. “Why, you would think he was born knowing how to do it.”

  Cymbra decided against pointing out that he had been born knowing exactly that. The new parents' happiness was contagious. She lingered awhile longer, enjoying it, before taking her leave.

  Back out on the street, she found Olaf leaning against a wall, surveying the passing scene. He straightened, nodding to her cordially. Several days before—shortly after the executions—he had appointed himself her escort. At least, she thought he had.

  Given her husband's inclination to arrange things for her, she couldn't rule out Wolf's having had a hand in it. But Olaf really was the perfect choice for such duty, vastly superior to the armed cordon of warriors Wolf had previously insisted accompany her. The older man had confided to her that he liked feeling useful, something that didn't come easily for those past their prime.

  “Surely Lord Wolf values your wisdom and experience,” she had said when they spoke of the matter.

  “Aye, he does but he's rare in that. Generally, the old are only a burden to themselves and to everyone else as well.”

  “But that should not be so! The old should be treasured for what they can teach us about life. Without their knowledge, passed on to us, we would always be starting over.”

  “That's a way to think of it,” Olaf agreed. “But think of this, too. The northlands are harsh, unforgiving. Food and shelter can be hard to come by. For many, there is little enough without stretching it to provide for those who can no longer contribute.”

  She remembered that now as she glanced around the busy street and beyond it to the even busier port. Everywhere was the evidence of the wealth of Sciringesheal, wealth made possible by the power of its jarl. The houses were sturdy and well appointed, the shops well stocked. The people themselves were well dressed and amply fed. They carried themselves with confidence and pride.

  Beyond the streets, along the stone wharves, several ships rode at anchor. They had arrived so recently that cargo was still being unloaded. One in particular drew Cymbra's notice.

  It was different from the vessels of the northlands, being broader in the hull and double-masted. The sides were painted in alternating bands of vermilion and gold. Brightly colored flags trailed from the rigging. She craned her neck a little to get a better view and noticed the dark-skinned men moving between the deck and the wharf.

  “They've come a long way” she observed.

  Olaf followed her gaze and nodded. “That would be the Moor … Kareem ben something-or-other. Hails from Constantinople. He's an old friend of Wolf and Dragon's.”

  Excited by the prospect of meeting someone from so far away Cymbra did not tarry in the town but returned promptly to the stronghold. The gates were open and a steady stream of people hurried in and out. Some were bound for the fields where the harvest had begun. Others were off the vessels come to trade before the first blast of winter closed the northlands for another season.

  Some of the crew from the Byzantine ship were clustered near the doors of the timbered hall, talking with several of Wolf's men in the polyglot tongue common to traders everywhere. The strangers broke off abruptly as Cymbra neared, and stared at her in the usual slack-jawed way she barely noticed anymore. A couple of those with quicker reflexes than the others began to move toward her.

  Olaf growled deep in his throat and put a hand to the hilt of his sword but neither gesture was necessary. Scarcely had the newcomers taken a step than they were stopped by the local men. Cymbra heard the murmured words, warning and explanation together, as she hurried by.

  “The Wolf's woman.”

  The newcomers froze in place like men who had just noticed they were about to walk off the edge of a precipice. They stepped back hastily, averting their gaze from the vision of their own deaths.

  Cymbra entered the hall to be struck at once by a swirl of exotic colors, tantalizing aromas, and rich, male laughter. As always, her gaze sought Wolf. She found him standing at the far end of the hall near the high table. Dragon was with him and another man she couldn't identify but guessed to be the Moor.

  He was a few inches shorter than either of the Hakonson brothers but very fit and richly garbed in a vermilion tunic that complemented his dark complexion and neatly trimmed black beard. He happened just then to glance toward her and his jaw dropped, but he closed it again with a snap, as though he might already suspect who she was.

  “Ah, Cymbra, there you are.” Wolf held out a hand, drawing her to his side. “Come and greet an old friend, Kareem ben Abdul. Kareem, this is my wife, the Lady Cymbra.”

  Their guest bowed courteously but without taking his liquid eyes from her. His smile was broad and appreciative. “The legendary Lady Cymbra, I would say, my friend, for surely her fame precedes her.”

  “You exaggerate, sir,” she said softly, not in reprimand but in simple truth.

  His eyes widened at the sound of her voice, leaving her to wonder what surprised him—that she could talk or that she would. Her thoughts were refocused abruptly when Wolf hauled her against him, an iron-hard arm wrapped around her narrow waist. She glanced up to see him, too, showing his teeth, with the suggestion that he was ever ready to take a chunk out of the other man.

  Kareem held up his hands in the universal gesture of peace. “Be at ease, my friend. I honor your lady and you.”

  “But you understand I'm a bit sensitive on this score?”

  “Oh, absolutely, what man wouldn't be? With your permission, perhaps the Lady Cymbra would care to examine the fabrics I've brought with me?”

  While Wolf graciously allowed as to how he thought that was a fine idea, Cymbra prayed for patience. She had just gotten her Viking husband to the point where she didn't actually have to ask for permission to go into the town—provided Olaf went with her—but now she needed his permission to look at fabrics?

  “Perhaps later,” she told both men brisk
ly. “I'm going to see to supper.”

  Without waiting for a response from either, she nodded to the Moor, leveled a look at her husband, and took her leave. But not so quickly that she didn't hear a startled Kareem ask, “She cooks, too?”

  Wolf laughed. “Like a dream.”

  “I'm happy for you, of course, but there's no fairness in this world.”

  Since they seemed determined to speak of her as though she were not there, Cymbra was glad enough to absent herself. She spent the remainder of the afternoon in the kitchens, showing the women how to make several dishes she had yet to serve in her husband's hall.

  She had been planning to do that anyway. It had nothing to do with wanting to justify his obvious pride in her culinary skills, nothing at all.

  By evening, almost the entire crew of the Byzantine vessel had arrived. As regular visitors, they were well known and heartily welcomed. Instruments were brought out and soon the rafters rang to song and story. In the midst of all that, news and rumors were exchanged, old acquaintances renewed, and plans made for the coming year.

  Cymbra left the kitchens for a short time to bathe and change. She chose a gown of spring-green linen so finely woven as to seem almost weightless. It was embroidered with flowers at the hem and bodice and along the flowing sleeves. Because the evening was warm, she chose to do without an over tunic. Leaving her hair to tumble in waves to her knees, she secured it with jeweled combs at her brows, then hesitated for just a moment.

  The gold wolf's-head torque her husband had given to her on their wedding day had remained in her jewel box since that single wearing. Now she took it out, feeling the weight of it in her hands. Before she could reconsider, she secured it around her slender throat.

  Thus armored, she left the lodge and returned to the timbered hall.

  SUPERB, KAREEM SAID. HE BIT THE LAST SUCCULENT meat off a plump chicken leg, tossed the bone on his trencher, and sighed. “I've never had a more splendid meal.”

  Devouring a slice of pork seasoned with peppercorns and saffron, Dragon paused just long enough to agree. “I used to think the best table I'd ever dined at was old Hakim Bey's in Alexandria. Remember him?”

  “I do indeed,” Kareem said. “A fine man, very fine. He had a fondness for almonds.”

  “But the honor goes to my noble brother now,” Dragon continued with a grin. “Soon every fancier of fine food will have to be able to say that he's been to Sciringesheal or no one will take him seriously.”

  Wolf laughed, picked up a spear of wild asparagus, and chewed it thoughtfully. When he was done, he said, “I hope you carry a full cargo of spices, Kareem. For a man who used to consider that anything not still moving counted as food, I've become damn particular of late.”

  The Moor grinned broadly. “I boast the fullest possible assortment, my friend, including some brought from the farthest reaches of the world, islands beyond Cathay.”

  “I didn't know there was anything beyond Cathay,” Cymbra said. She had been largely silent until now, content to listen, but this so sparked her curiosity that she had to speak. “Indeed, I will admit that I have heard some say even Cathay is a myth.”

  “Cathay is very real,” Kareem said pleasantly. “I myself have met men from there.”

  Wolf nodded. He turned to his wife. “Cathay is real, sweetling. Kareem has met men from there.”

  She frowned slightly. Although an excellent wine from the vineyards of Sicily had been served, her husband had drunk very little of it and Kareem none at all, being forbidden by his faith. Yet did both men seem to be behaving … peculiarly.

  Still, she was not about to comment on it. “How fascinating. Is it true that their eyes are shaped differently?”

  “Indeed they are, being slanted and drawn up at the edges.”

  “Their eyes are slanted,” Wolf told his wife, “and drawn up at the edges.”

  “They almost resemble the almonds Hakim Bey liked so much,” Kareem added.

  “Like almonds,” Wolf said.

  Cymbra stared at them. What strange performance was this? Why was her husband repeating what Kareem said as though she were incapable of hearing it?

  “Do you also carry almonds?” she asked.

  “Beautiful almonds as well as many other nuts. It will be my pleasure to bring a complete sampling tomorrow.”

  “He has all sorts of nuts, sweetling. You can try some of each tomorrow.”

  “And fabrics?” she asked.

  “Dozens of different kinds—the finest silks, the most beautiful brocades, the sheerest linens—”

  “Silks, brocades, linens,” Wolf repeated. “The best of everything.”

  “Any animals? I have the most desperate craving for a pet monkey.”

  “Alas, no, they do not travel well.”

  “No animals, elskling, but I'm sure—” Wolf broke off abruptly and stared at her. “Why would you want a monkey?”

  He'd called her sweetheart again, and this time he was sober. She couldn't help but be pleased. “I don't actually. I just wondered how long it would take for you to stop repeating everything our guest says.” She smiled at Kareem. “Your Norse is excellent and less accented than my own. I understand you perfectly.”

  “I am pleased your lady finds it so,” the Moor said to Wolf.

  Dragon laughed. He beckoned a servant to refill the goblets, then said, “I believe you are confusing Cymbra.” After a quick glance in her direction, he widened his eyes with mock alarm. “In fact, I think you're annoying her.”

  “I am not annoyed,” she said. “I merely seek to understand why Kareem does not address me directly.”

  “Because you are the property of another man,” Dragon said cordially. “It is as unthinkable for him to speak to you directly as it would be for him to touch you.”

  “That's absurd!” Quickly remembering herself, she addressed the Moor. “I am sorry, I don't wish to be rude, but I have never heard of such a thing.”

  Wolf shrugged. “It is commonplace in the East.”

  “A very civilized place, the East,” Dragon commented. When his sister-in-law glared at him, he laughed. His gaze fell to the torque at her neck. “You bristle at being called property yet you wear my brother's mark.”

  “I wear a bride's gift.” Her eyes flared. “Or do you perceive no difference between a wife and, say, a horse?”

  Dragon was seized by a sudden fit of coughing that, oddly enough, seemed to be contagious. It afflicted Kareem as well. Only Wolf appeared immune, and he seemed to be having a hard time keeping a straight face.

  “Is it so absurd to say that a wife is different from that?” she demanded.

  He shook his head until he was sure he could speak.

  “No, elskling, of course it isn't.” Whatever kindly thoughts she might have had for him as a result of that vanished in an instant when she saw his look of masculine amusement.

  Abruptly, she realized what a wife and a horse had in common—both were mounted by a man. Her face flamed. Before she could react, Wolf moved judiciously to calm her.

  “The ways of the East are different from ours but that isn't to say they are wrong. Wives are deeply respected, sheltered and protected, provided with every possible luxury. Surely that isn't so terrible.”

  “Quite right,” Kareem affirmed. “The harem is a fine custom. There's a great deal to be said for it.”

  “What is a harem?” Cymbra asked. She'd come too far to back down now.

  Before Wolf could reply, ever-helpful Dragon did so. “Where the women live, secluded from the world, seen only by their lord and master.” He raised an eyebrow, inviting her reaction.

  Kareem glanced from one brother to the other and stepped in hastily. “All the women of the household, old and young, mothers, aunts, cousins, daughters as well as wives, and the very young boys, too. It's a very spacious part of any residence with its own gardens, courtyards, fountains, and so on. Very pleasant, very nice.”

  “But the women are not allowed to le
ave there?”

  “Oh, no, they can leave. They must only go veiled from the eyes of other men, of course, and with escort. That is all for their own comfort, obviously.”

  “I see.” She glanced at Wolf and murmured, “However did you miss requiring a veil, husband?”

  “There are other kinds of harems,” Dragon commented. He ignored his brother's quelling look and went on cheerfully. “Remember Erik Leifson?”

  “Dragon …” Wolf's tone of warning went unheeded.

  “He had the villa just outside Constantinople, near the beach. Still does, as far as I know.”

  Kareem nodded. “Yes, of course I remember him. He is still there and doing extremely well for himself.”

  Dragon grinned. “I'm sure he is. Very generous fellow, Erik. Always wants his friends to be happy.”

  “I don't think this is—” Wolf began.

  “Now there's a harem,” Dragon continued blithely. “Erik isn't just a collector, he's a connoisseur.” He sighed deeply, savoring memories. “There was a Circasian … incredible woman, had hair red as fire … and a Nubian with remarkably beautiful eyes who had trained as a gymnast and could—” He sighed again. “Remind me why we finally dragged ourselves away, Wolf, I forget.”

  “What I'm trying to remember is why I didn't leave you there,” his brother muttered.

  Dragon laughed. “You need me to liven things up?” As Kareen stroked his beard and chuckled, Dragon nodded thoughtfully. “All in all, I'd say the way of the East is better. A man always knows where his women are, at his beck and call, exactly as they should be. As for the women, they have no thought but pleasing their master and they're the happier for it.”

  Silence followed this ringing declaration. Wolf studied his drinking cup, apparently with an eye to crushing it. Dragon lounged back in his chair, well pleased with himself. As for Kareem, he made a manful effort to conceal his amusement but did not entirely succeed.