by Josie Litton
Hawk hesitated. “First there are other matters we should discuss, bearing on the alliance. That's what you wanted in the beginning, isn't it? Have you changed your mind?”
Scant moments before, Wolf would have sworn that he had. The very notion of an alliance with the Saxons seemed an evil joke. But now he wasn't so sure. Hawk had apologized and invited him into his home. Honor demanded that he put aside old enmity and at least try for a new beginning.
“I am willing to consider it,” he said grudgingly.
Hawk smiled broadly. “Excellent!” He began walking toward the hall, Wolf beside him. As though they were engaged in no more than the most ordinary conversation, Hawk asked, “Did you have difficulty getting here?”
Silvery eyes blinked. “What?”
“You're a little earlier than I expected. There must still be ice in the sea lanes.”
Wolf shrugged. “We steered around it.” So did he brush aside a feat of seamanship that would become legend in its own right.
“Very sensible,” Hawk said and led the way into his hall. He gestured to the servants, who, despite their terror, hastened to bring forth refreshment.
“Let us dine together,” Hawk said, “and talk over our differences.”
“I will see Cymbra first, then we will talk all you like.”
“Alas, I regret she truly isn't available at the moment. Let us talk first.”
Hawk had already taken his seat and was waiting for him to do the same. With a spurt of impatience, Wolf yanked off his helmet, tossed it down on the table, and made himself as comfortable as he could be while fighting the lingering urge to hack his host to bits. As for Cymbra, he could only conclude that she was being recalcitrant about seeing him again. All things considered, he couldn't blame her. With an inner sigh, he contemplated how he might win back his wife's favor. Not killing her brother was probably a good first step.
A pasty-faced servant poured mead. Some of the liquid spilled onto the wide wooden table but neither of the warlords noticed. They drank eyeing each other over the rims of their goblets. Food followed. Wolf ignored it. Abruptly, he demanded, “Why did you take Cymbra from Sciringesheal?”
“Why?” Hawk shot back. “How could I have not done so after you whipped her.”
“She wasn't hurt,” Wolf insisted, though he flinched at the memory. “You must know that by now.”
“True,” Hawk admitted, “but I didn't then.”
Slowly, Wolf nodded. The first faint stirrings of hope began in him. Lest they grow foolishly strong, he asked, “What about before then, when you pretended to leave and came back? Did she ask you to do that?”
Hawk looked at him in surprise. “No, of course not. She had no idea I was coming. She only agreed to go down to the ship because I told her that was the only place I'd believe she was speaking freely.”
Hawk watched with interest as all the color drained from his guest's face. “Something wrong?” he asked pleasantly.
Dazedly Wolf said, “That's what Dragon thought. He's only her brother-in-law and he didn't lose faith in her, whereas I, her husband … I believed …”
“Believed what?” Hawk asked more kindly.
Wolf took a breath, let it out slowly. “I thought she was lost to me.”
With a moment's fervent gratitude for being spared the tortures of true love, Hawk said, “That's for the two of you to settle between yourselves. But first, I am charged by King Alfred to work out the details of the alliance between us.”
Reluctantly, Wolf dragged himself back to the matter of great issues. “He knows of it?”
Hawk nodded. “I told him when I went to court a few months ago. He is strongly in support of this and prepared to do everything possible to make it succeed.” Because he did not want any diversion from the matter at hand, he refrained from adding that he had also told King Alfred of the false message sent in response to Wolf's original proposal of the alliance. Britain's monarch had agreed that the Danes were most likely at fault, although how exactly remained to be discovered.
Thus encouraged, the two men buckled down to work. Parchment and ink were sent for, more food arrived, torches were lit as the sun angled westward. Outside in the bailey yard and beyond the walls, two armies waited to learn if there would be peace or war.
And upstairs, in the high tower, new life struggled to be born.
Cymbra gasped as yet another wave of pain struck her. The contractions were coming so fast now that she had no chance to recover between them. She was consumed by the fury of birth, striving with all her might, yet desperately afraid that her strength would not prove equal to the task. For all that she had assisted many women in childbed, she had never truly understood the experience. Now she did. Deep within her, she felt the ancient, absolute imperative to bring forth life overriding all else, even the instinct for her own survival. Again, her womb contracted. Again, pain devoured her.
After all the hours of anguish, for the first time, Cymbra screamed.
In the hall, Wolf heard. Shock roared through him. He leaped from the table on which the draft of the Norse-Saxon alliance lay and raced for the stairs. Two men-at-arms foolishly stepped into his path. He tossed them aside like so much chaff before the wind and took the steps two at a time. Behind him, still seated, Hawk reached for his goblet and took a long swallow, trying to ignore the fact that his hand shook.
On the upper level of the keep, Wolf paused for a moment, uncertain which way to turn. Another scream told him. He raced down the corridor and thrust open the door at the far end just in time to see—
“Cymbral”
In the grip of the most intense contraction yet, Cymbra was stunned to see her husband suddenly appear. After all the months of longing for him, he seemed like an apparition. One armed for war, to be sure, but still wonderfully welcome.
Trembling, she held out her arms to him. “Wolf …”
He was at her side in an instant, one quick, shocked glance enough to tell him what was happening.
“Help her to sit up a little, lord,” Miriam directed calmly. Wolf had the great good sense to do as he was bid even as his mind reeled from the stunning discovery. Cymbra clung to him desperately. He bent over her, a huge, powerful presence seeking with all his might to add his strength to hers.
“Push!” Miriam ordered. Cymbra did … and again … and once more …
A baby's lusty squall announced her success.
Moments later, Miriam smiled broadly. She straightened from the foot of the bed, cleaned the infant swiftly, and held him out to his stunned father. “You have a son, lord.”
Wolf's knees felt so weak that he thought it wise to sit down before accepting the precious burden. He looked from the baby lying in his arms to the woman on the bed, and felt such all-encompassing love that for a long moment he could not move, or speak, or indeed even breathe.
Finally, he said the only thing he truly could when confronted with such a miracle. Gazing into the eyes of the woman he loved more than life itself, he whispered, “Thank you.”
Cymbra blinked back tears. Weary though she was, she was also exultant. Raising herself a little on the pillows, she touched her husband's face with gentle awe. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Miriam turned away from the tender scene, giving the three their privacy. She ushered the other women from the room and went downstairs to inform the Lord Hawk that he was uncle to a fine little Viking.
That same uncle waited a discreet time before knocking on the door of Cymbra's chamber. She was asleep and did not stir but Wolf came to admit him. He had removed his sword and armor and wore only a simple tunic. His son was nestled asleep in the crook of his arm.
“How is Cymbra?” Hawk asked.
“Good,” Wolf said, all his infinite relief in that single word. Softly, he added, “She has great strength.”
The two men were silent for a moment, dwelling on the unknowable mystery of women. At length, Hawk smiled. He peered at the baby, who yawned broadly but did not
open his eyes. “Sturdy little fellow.”
Wolf grinned with pride. “A good combination, Saxon and Norse.”
Hawk nodded. “You might tell your friends outside that. I think they're getting a little restless.”
Only then did Wolf realize that he had been inside the Saxon stronghold for hours. He was amazed that Dragon had been able to hold the men in check so long. Quickly, he wrapped the baby in a warm blanket and followed Hawk down the steps.
The Viking array stirred when the gates of Hawkforte were thrown open. Men looked up, blinking in the fading light of day. The sun was going down in glory. Already, a few stars could be seen.
The Norse Wolf stood in full view of his men and of all those who were gathered on the walls of Hawkforte. He stretched his powerful arms high above his head, holding his child to the heavens, and shouted for all to hear.
“I have a son!”
High up in the tower room, the full-throated roar of warriors proclaiming their approval drifted through Cymbra's dreams. She turned over against the cool linen of the pillows and smiled contentedly.
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
THE SCREAM WOKE WOLF JUST AFTER DAWN. He was out of bed, sword in hand, before he realized he confronted not the demented enemy he had momentarily assumed but only a woman. A very dour-faced, shrill woman.
“Viking!” the creature screamed again. “Save us! We'll be—”
“What on earth … ?” Cymbra murmured sleepily. She sat up, looking from her irate husband to her frenzied half-sister. Softly, she said, “Daria, this is my husband, Lord Wolf Hakonson. He is a guest here. Pray treat him as such.”
Daria's eyes glazed over. Tiny flecks of spittle shone at the corners of her mouth. She had told herself this could not be, not even her despicable brother could go so far as to make peace with Vikings because the contemptible cow lying before her had spread her legs for one and gotten a son in the process. It could not be, yet even through the twisted darkness of her rage she saw that it was and knew she had failed. But only for the moment, only that. She was better than they were, smarter, more deserving, superior in every way. This was only a setback; she would prevail in the end if only because any other possibility was utterly unthinkable. But to win, she must survive, and to do that, she must hide herself quickly from the too-keen gaze of blue eyes focusing on her now in belated but growing puzzlement.
“A guest?” Daria shrieked. “In here? It isn't bad enough that there are thousands of them outside, they are to be allowed in, too?”
Cymbra summoned patience, finding it easy to do when she was filled with such joy. Her gaze was drawn irresistibly to Wolf. Vaguely, she remembered him returning to her the night before and laying their son in her arms. He had made to go then but she called him back with a soft word. After so long apart, she could not bear to be without him. He stayed gladly, sleeping in his clothes beside her on the bed, waking in the night to bring her the baby to nurse. Still dazed and weary from the exertion of childbirth, their first tender hours together as parents touched her deeply.
But now the world intruded and she was resigned to it. “They will all be in here soon enough,” she told her half-sister gently. “Hawk plans a feast to celebrate the birth of his nephew as well as the alliance.”
“Vikings within our gates! I cannot believe it. What can he be thinking of? And a feast—it's impossible, absolutely impossible, we could never manage.” Her small, flat eyes glared at Cymbra. “You've caused all this, it's your responsibility. How long do you mean to lie there? Surely you can get up and—”
Whatever Daria would have said next was cut off by the infuriated Viking who pointed to the door and snarled, “Out!”
She skittered away but not without a look of pure venom. Cymbra promptly forgot her. She leaned back against the pillows, regarded her husband, and smiled. “You do that so well.”
He raised an eyebrow in question. Her smile deepened. “Remember that day in the kitchens?”
He did, and to her delight, he blushed. Cymbra laughed and held out her arms to him. He was just drawing her into his when Miriam bustled in.
“Enough of that. My lady needs looking after.” She glanced at Wolf. “And if you don't mind my saying so, you could do with a clean-up yourself.”
Far from taking offense at the old woman's directness, he rubbed a hand over his whiskered jaw and grimaced. Pausing only to drop a light kiss on Cymbra's brow, he said, “I'll be back when I'm more fit, elskling.”
“That dear man,” Miriam murmured as the door closed behind him. Smiling, she went to help her mistress.
SEATED ON A SMOOTH WOODEN BENCH, NAKED AND dripping sweat, Wolf studied the man across from him. Allowing for a certain tendency to provoke thoughts of murder and mayhem, Hawk wasn't a bad sort. For one thing, he had a sauna, which he claimed to be the only good idea he'd ever gotten from the Danes. Then, in all honesty, he'd only done what Wolf himself would have if their positions had been reversed. And lastly, he was Cymbra's brother; it was in their interests to get along for her sake and for the sake of both their peoples.
Reflecting on what they had accomplished so far as well as what remained to be done, Wolf said, “This alliance puts us in good position to withstand the Danes, but more is needed.”
Hawk tossed a ladleful of water on the fire stones. He was amazed—and relieved—to find himself so at ease with his sister's abductor. Love bewildered him; up until very recently he would have sworn it didn't exist. Now he was willing to admit that in this one solitary case, it had worked wonders.
“Closer ties between our peoples,” Wolf went on, “would strengthen our mutual security.”
Hawk nodded. This was good sense. “We should look to trade more. That would help.”
“That's true,” Wolf agreed, “but I had something else in mind.” He paused deliberately, then said, “You're not married.”
Hawk's broad back stiffened. He moved quickly to quash any thought Wolf might have along those lines. “I was married many years ago. She died. That was enough for me.”
“I'm sorry,” Wolf said sincerely. “But even after such a loss, you must go on.”
“You misunderstand. We were not close, on the contrary. The experience convinced me that marriage is not for me.”
From a nearby bench where he was stretched out, letting the heat draw out the excesses of celebration that had followed news of his nephew's birth, Dragon raised his head briefly. “Don't let him persuade you otherwise,” he warned. “He used to have a perfectly sane, sensible attitude toward the whole thing but that's all changed. If we're not careful, he'll be looking to get everyone married off.”
“Not everyone,” Wolf said. He glanced from one to the other, his silvery eyes alight with amusement. “Just both of you.”
“Both?” That was Dragon again, truly caught by surprise and outraged. He'd assumed his brother's scheming extended no further than their host, who also was having none of it.
“Not likely,” Hawk scoffed. “Once was more than enough.”
Wolf refused to be deterred. The soul of patience— and ruthless determination—he asked, “What could be more reasonable? If Hawk takes a Norse bride and you, Dragon, take a Saxon bride, the alliance will be secured three times over. I have no doubt King Alfred would agree.” He paused. “Indeed, that's why I've already suggested it to him.”
Hawk stared at him. “What do you mean, suggested it?”
“I sent a letter to him outlining this plan.” The Saxon's look of unbridled shock was, Wolf decided, ample recompense for the anguish Wolf himself had experienced over Cymbra's loss. Indeed, he could not have devised a better punishment. The best part was that it had only just begun. He would have months, possibly even longer, to savor the Hawk's twisting on the matrimonial hook.
“It's too late,” Wolf said cheerfully as Hawk turned toward the door, clearly intending to send men to intercept the message. “It went this morning, you'll never catch them.”
He did not mention, althou
gh he would tell them later, that in the same message he had asked for Alfred's help in discovering the identity of whoever had intercepted his own message to Hawk the year before and forged the response that set all in motion. Grateful though he was for the outcome, he was still determined to unmask the miscreant lest he be tempted to strike again.
Slowly, Hawk subsided but he continued to stare at Wolf in stunned disbelief. “Alfred may not like the idea. …” Even as he spoke, he knew he was grasping for hope where there was none. It was exactly the sort of suggestion the king would seize upon to further his own aims to defeat the Danes. Hawk had sworn fealty to Alfred. If the king ordered him to do so, he would have no choice but to … marry. And marry a Norse woman at that, a stranger he wouldn't even be permitted to choose for himself. Gloom over the prospect cast him into silence even as he grabbled for some way—any way—to escape the trap closing around him.
“Praise Odin I'm not beholden to any Saxon liege,” Dragon said fervently. He swung his legs over the bench and sat up, the better to observe the other two. Hawk's plight was amusing, but his brother, Dragon decided, needed much more careful watching than he'd realized.
“You're not,” Wolf agreed, “but Alfred isn't a man to anger.” He looked at his brother pointedly. “Neither am I.”
Dragon stared at him, incredulous. “That's the thanks I get? Not only did I plant the seed in your mind about what actually happened between Cymbra and this one”—he gestured at Hawk—“but purely out of compassion, I refrained from telling you she was pregnant so you wouldn't madden yourself waiting for the sea lanes to open. This is how you would repay me?”
Wolf was on his feet so suddenly he almost brained himself on a low beam of the sauna. “You what?”
“How did you know?” Hawk asked, vengefully pleased to see the scheming Viking discomfited.
Dragon shrugged his broad, bare shoulders. “That Irish girl, Brita, told me. She overheard you by the stable, telling Cymbra you wouldn't believe anything she said until you were sure she wasn't under duress. Brita tried to intervene later when everything happened, but some of the women dragged her off, thinking they were doing it for her own good. You can imagine how she felt since she was more or less certain Cymbra was with child.”
