Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

She contented herself with a quick touch of her lips to his and a smile. “Thank you. That means more to me than you can know.”

  He nodded and she saw it again—something in his eyes. Regret? His brows drew together. She felt his hold on her arm tighten ever so slightly.

  “Cymbra … I do deeply appreciate all you have done. But now you must retire to our quarters and remain there until this gathering is over.”

  He spoke softly but audibly, the words were clear enough, yet they made no sense at all. Retire? Remain? She stared at him in bewilderment. “I don't understand.” She shook her head as though trying to clear it. Her eyes met his and she saw his implacable resolve. “You want me to stay in our quarters instead of attending the feast?”

  He nodded. “It is best this way.”

  Already, he was drawing her toward the doors. She saw Dragon waiting outside and realized with a shock that he was going to escort her back to the lodge while his brother went to greet their guests. Nor was he alone. There were other warriors behind him, their eyes carefully averted. She was to be well and truly guarded, it seemed, sealed away just like one of those women in … what had Kareem called it?—a harem. Say rather a prison.

  “This council of the jarls is important,” he said as he continued out of the hall with her in hand. “I cannot allow it to be disrupted by the temptation you present.”

  That she presented? As though it were her fault if men could not control themselves. The stinging unfairness of that burned through her. Though she wanted desperately to resist, pride prevented her from making a spectacle of herself before Dragon and the others. She knew with a sinking heart that Wolf would simply ignore her objections and do as he wished.

  “Let go of me,” she said under her breath. When he hesitated, she added, “I'll do what you want. It's not as though I have any choice.” Without attempting to conceal her bitterness, she added, “But I want to know something first. You intended this all along, didn't you?”

  He did release her then but stayed very close, his eyes never leaving her. She thought she saw a flicker of regret again but it was gone before she could be sure.

  “Yes,” he said simply, “I did. This is not merely a friendly meeting of the jarls. I called it to put to rest certain rumors.”

  Despite herself, Cymbra found her curiosity piqued. “What rumors?”

  He hesitated but only for a moment before answering her bluntly. “Rumors that I am so besotted with my Saxon bride that my will is weakened, my power lessened, and my holdings ripe for the picking. Moreover, that such attacks are deserved because a Norseman enthralled by a Saxon can no longer be trusted.”

  When she would have spoken, he held up a hand. Curtly, he continued. “The men who attacked the settlement at Vycoff were not Danes as I originally believed. They were Norse. They thought they saw an opportunity and they seized it. Their deaths were intended to assure that no one else behaved so stupidly, but because I allowed them to die quickly, the rumors have only grown.”

  Cymbra pressed her lips together tightly as horror burst in her. He had granted the men a swift death for her sake, because she had insisted on being there, because he wanted to spare her pain. Never had she considered that his action might be interpreted thus. The color fled from her face as she realized the implications.

  “I warned you,” her husband said quietly, “this is a hard land and we a hard people. No man holds power who does not show himself willing to use it.”

  “And now you will show your power over your Saxon wife by imprisoning her?”

  He made an impatient gesture. “Don't exaggerate, our lodge is hardly a prison. The jarls will understand what I do. They have heard the stories of your beauty and they will respect my prudence in guarding my property. They will take lesson from it and recognize that I will do the same for all that is mine. As for the rest, they will be left with no doubt where I stand.”

  Where he stood. She had believed she was coming to know this man, this husband, to know and to trust him. Yet she was not a wife he would have others see at his side, honored and respected. Instead, he meant to make an object lesson of her, to use her to display his power and ruthlessness.

  Why was she so surprised? Why did her throat suddenly hurt so much with tears she would die before she shed? Had he not used her from the very beginning—for vengeance, for alliance … and for pleasure? She must not allow herself to forget that last part for all that it was a knife stabbing into her.

  “I have been so foolish,” she said faintly, her voice little more than a thin wisp of sound. It was all she could muster. “So foolish as to forget …” Her gaze turned inward toward a landscape both real and nightmarish, the beach beyond the berm, the bloodred sand, the savage promise he had made to her on their wedding day.

  “You stand against the Saxon and for the Norse. That is where you stand, isn't it?” Despair threatened to choke her but she managed to speak her deepest fear. “Is that the real reason you've called the jarls here? To plan yet more attacks against helpless people, to plot my brother's death, to sate your bloodthirsty gods?”

  A dark flush of color stained his high-boned cheeks. His eyes glinted dangerously. “I am Norse. If that displeases you, it is unfortunate for it is also unchangeable. And you know I want peace, elsewise none of what has passed between us would ever have occurred.”

  He cast a swift, hard look over her, lingering at her breasts and hips until it was all she could do not to squirm with self-consciousness. His mouth tightened. “I took you captive but made you wife. You have known only gentleness from me. Remember that and think well how different your fate could have been.”

  Before she could reply, he looked over her shoulder, saw the watch guard on the berm signaling urgently, and gestured to his brother. “Escort my wife to her quarters.” To Cymbra he said, “You will have to bear your anger alone, lady, I have no time for it now.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked away.

  CYMBRA FROWNED AT THE BRIGHT RED DROP OF blood on her skin. For a moment, it appeared to have blossomed all by itself. Only belatedly did she realize that she had pricked her fingertip. That small sensation of pain was scarcely noticeable beneath the far keener ache of the past three days.

  Slowly she lowered the length of finely spun blue wool she was fashioning into a tunic for her husband and stared at the opposite wall. She guessed the day to be very fair but she couldn't be sure. Nor could she know how the two days previous had been except that it had not rained, for she would have heard and smelled that.

  The shutters had remained closed all that time, permitting only what sunlight could enter through the narrow slats. To see well enough to sew without tiring her eyes she needed the added light of braziers, but they also added heat to the chamber, which warmed enough as it was as the summer day passed. The air was very still, she could hear the hum of bees just beyond the windows. When the door opened to admit Brita with a tray of food, the sudden bolt of bright light was so intense that Cymbra had to look away from it. But not before she caught a glimpse of the guard standing just outside.

  Brita set the tray on the table, glanced a little anxiously at her mistress, and smiled. “I've brought some of the cardamom rolls, my lady, your favorites, and there's a wonderful stew made just as you like with chicken and rosemary.”

  Cymbra shrugged, disinterested. She had no appetite. The trays Brita brought thrice daily went back scarcely lighter than they arrived. Indeed, she had eaten so little that the serving girl was growing anxious.

  “I can fetch something else,” Brita said. “Perhaps you'd like some goose liver spread on warm bread?”

  Cymbra shuddered at the thought. Her stomach was uncertain these days. She ascribed it to the stressful circumstances. “I'm really not hungry. How goes the feast?”

  “They are bottomless pits, these jarls. It is fortunate you planned so generously for they consume everything in sight. Their hunger is exceeded only by their thirst.”

  “They rode
out again today. I heard them go.” The pounding of their horses' hooves had sounded like thunder shaking the walls of the lodge.

  Brita nodded. “Drunk or sober, they love to hunt. Fortunately, only a few have fallen off their horses and those have hard enough heads to bear it.”

  “What about the man who was knived last night?” Brita had told her about that when she brought breakfast. It was the only kniving so far, something everyone considered a sign of how well things were going.

  “Ulfrich says he will be fine but thanks you for the salve all the same.”

  Cymbra set her sewing aside and stood up. Her neck and shoulders felt stiff from lack of movement. Despite having done almost nothing for three days, she felt oddly tired. But then perhaps it was not so odd after all, for she had slept poorly when she slept at all.

  “And the rest of it?” she asked, looking at Brita.

  The Irish girl shrugged. “I think it safe to say there will be no such thing as a poor whore left in these parts, only rich ones.”

  That was no surprise. The noise coming from the feasting halls late into the nights included the bold laughter of women floating above the beat of drums and the lilt of pipes. Nor was it confined to the halls. Those seeking a bit of privacy had often stumbled past her lodge. One pair had fallen to coupling right up against the wall, only to be shooed away by whoever happened to be on sentry duty at the time.

  No man stood post outside her lodge for more than a few hours. She wondered if that was Wolf's way of making sure the guard was always alert and fresh, or if he thought longer contact might cause a hapless male to fall victim to her wiles. Did he imagine she would try to escape, and if so, where did he think she would go?

  She might have asked him had she been given the opportunity, but since their angry confrontation in the great hall her husband had absented himself. He had not returned to their lodge that night or the next. Lying awake, listening to the ribald sounds of merriment, she tormented herself with thoughts of how he was amusing himself.

  “I heard some of the whores complaining,” Brita said, eyeing her mistress. “The most beautiful of them vie for the attention of the Norse Wolf but he ignores them all.”

  Cymbra wished heartily to believe her. The pain of imagining Wolf with some other woman—or women— was so great that she could scarcely bear it.

  When Brita left, still urging her to eat, Cymbra glanced at the food on the tray but could not bring herself to taste a morsel. It was growing too dark to sew, she did not wish to play her lute for herself alone, there were no medicines that needed making. She had read her precious scrolls over and over until every word was imprinted on her memory. There was nothing left for her to do.

  Night came and with it the steady increase of sounds from the feasting halls. The warm, still air of the lodge seemed to press in, smothering her. She jumped up suddenly and paced back and forth across the room but the activity gave her no ease. Too soon, she slumped again in the chair beside the table. A flicker of movement barely visible through the slats of the shutters drew her eye. She leaned closer, peering out, even as she prayed that no one would notice her. To be caught in such a humiliating pastime would shame her even further.

  By the light of torches set up at intervals around the hill top, she saw Brita walking toward the women's hall. It looked as though she was retiring for the night, which Cymbra was glad to see for surely Brita needed her rest.

  But wait … there came three stumbling louts, so drunk they could scarcely walk upright. They saw Brita, stopped for a moment, then continued toward her eagerly.

  “Jus' wha' we need, a whore ready to hand,” the largest of the three said. He was tall, with the lanky strength of youth, dark haired, and well dressed for all that his clothes were in disarray.

  Another—shorter by a few inches and stockier— agreed. “Sthupid to leave the hall without one.”

  “No mind, she'll do.” The third was between the two others in height and perhaps a few years older but still very much a youth. He spoke not just with lust but with a note of cruelty that made the fine hairs on the back of Cymbra's neck rise.

  Her hand flew to her mouth as she tensed with anger. Was this how they repaid the hospitality of the jarl of Sciringesheal, by assuming that every woman within his domain was a whore available for the taking?

  She stood up quickly, intending to call a warning to Brita, but before she could do so she heard the young Irish woman scream. The sound was terrified and terrifying, sending Cymbra scrambling to yank open the door. She all but fell through it and almost tumbled into the guard, who whirled at her sudden appearance and stared at her with mingled disbelief and wariness.

  “My lady …”

  Brita screamed again. The three youths had hold of her and were dragging her around a corner of the women's hall.

  “Go to her!” Cymbra screamed at the guard. Vaguely, she recognized the young man as one of those who had been at Holyhood with Wolf and afterward on the ship coming to Sciringesheal. He was a good sort, always smiling, but he had watchful eyes. His name was … ? “Magnus, you can see she needs help!”

  The young man hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder to where Brita was struggling desperately. Already, the top of her gown was torn, almost exposing her breasts, and the veil over her hair had been knocked off. He turned back to Cymbra.

  “Go back inside, my lady.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. How could he possibly take even a moment to tell her that when—? “Help her!”

  To her horror, he shook his head. “I am forbidden to leave this post.” He took hold of the door, as though to close it in her face.

  “Stop! You can't just stand here, you can't!”

  He did look again toward where Brita had now disappeared from sight but he remained implacable. “The jarl was clear in his orders, my lady. Do I move from this spot, it is worth my life.”

  “What of her life?” Cymbra cried. Horror rose in her. She could still hear Brita's frantic struggles and pleas for help. Abruptly, she made up her mind. She couldn't get past Magnus; he had clearly anticipated her trying to do so and had the door well blocked. But she could—

  Without another thought, she darted back into the lodge and slammed the door, shoving the bolt into place. She heard him call to her as she raced for the back window. Tearing the shutters open, Cymbra yanked up her skirts, climbed through the opening, and jumped to the ground.

  She landed hard but regained her balance at once and ran around to the front of the lodge. The moment she came within Magnus's sight, he yelled at her to stop. She ignored him and sprinted toward the women's hall and the dark corner where Brita had disappeared. As she intended, he had no choice but to follow her.

  Beyond the women's quarters stood the long, peak-roofed stables. The startled nickering of horses drew Cymbra in the right direction. There were no further screams from Brita. Cymbra came upon her, sprawled unconscious in an unused stall. Blood dripped from a blow to her forehead. Her gown was pulled up around her waist and her legs were yanked apart. Already one of the attackers was kneeling between her thighs as he fumbled with his trousers.

  “Scum!” Cymbra shouted. “Filth! Rapist!” She threw herself at him with all her strength, knocking him sideways as she kicked and clawed at him.

  “Bitch! Get her off!” He reared up, trying to get away from her but Cymbra held on. She was fueled by rage greater than any she had ever known before and determined to inflict as much damage as possible. Her fingers were going for his eyes when he managed to get hold of her shoulders and throw her against the stable wall. Her head struck a wooden pole and for a moment her vision dissolved into splinters of light. As it cleared, she saw Magnus, his sword drawn, look at her in horror.

  Time itself seemed to slow. In the pace of a heartbeat that went on and on like the distant echoing of a drum, Cymbra saw what that moment of distraction cost him. Drunk though they were, the three assailants were trained warriors. They had their weapons out and were
advancing. Too late he saw them coming and had no time to prepare before they attacked as one.

  Cymbra screamed. She lurched away from the wall, frantically looking for something, anything to use as a weapon. When nothing came to hand, she flew at the attacker in the middle, pounding his back with her fists. He flung her off with a curse. She struck the floor, pain lancing through her shoulder, and looked up in time to see the blades converging on hapless Magnus. The air left her lungs in a soundless rush as he was slashed first in his sword arm, then in his thigh. Blood poured from both wounds. He collapsed onto the floor, his eyes locking on hers for a moment before unconsciousness claimed him.

  “Tie him up,” ordered the lanky youth.

  The stocky one made to obey but hesitated. The struggle had stunned them all out of their drunken haze yet left them disoriented. “He's bleeding bad …”

  “Let him,” said the oldest, the one Cymbra had instantly thought cruel. It was he who had been kneeling between Brita's thighs but now he glanced at the Irish girl with scorn. His gaze shifted to Cymbra and with a surge of horror she saw the rapacious fire ignite in his eyes.

  He recognized her fear and his mouth twisted in cold pleasure. “Forget that one.” He jerked his head toward Brita. “This bitch needs lessoning.”

  The other two hesitated only a moment. They stared at Cymbra, disbelief at her beauty dissolving swiftly into mindless lust.

  She managed to scramble to her feet but there was nowhere to go except back against the wall. It took all her courage and pride to refuse to yield to the stomach-churning terror that seized her. She lifted her chin and spoke with forced calm. “I am the Wolf's wife. If you harm me, he will kill you.”

  To her horror, the oldest merely laughed. “He will have to know who did it first. Mayhap we will not leave you alive to tell.”

  Before she could even attempt to reply, he reached out, seized hold of the top of her gown, and tore it from neck to waist. As she clutched at the garment to keep it from falling open, he knocked her backward onto the ground and came down hard on top of her.