Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  At that irreverent thought, Krysta put a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle but could not hold it back entirely. Sprawled on the riverbank, her small fingers teasing a stone she looked about to toss, Edythe glanced at her with wisdom that belied her years. “My ma says we have more fun sneaking off than we would if we could just play whenever we want.”

  “Do you think that's true?” Krysta asked, settling herself beside the little girl. Edythe was about eight, slender without being thin, with alert, intelligent eyes and a firm set to her small chin. She seemed to have a mature way of looking at the world that belied her tender years.

  “I think my ma says it to make the best of things but that's all right, sometimes it's what you have to do.”

  Wisdom indeed, Krysta thought, yet did she dislike the idea that the good people of Hawkforte had to labor under such constraints. With all her heart, she hoped her husband would allow her to make such changes as would benefit them all.

  But first there was the river to play in and a happy afternoon to while away twining garlands of daisies, chasing butterflies, and seeking out the tender raspberries the children knew well how to find. Krysta contented herself with listening as they talked among themselves, now at their ease.

  She had no preconceived notions of children, but these children were very wise and aware. She wondered if the adults of Hawkforte realized how much these young ones saw.

  “Fat Betty is with child again,” Edythe remarked as she popped a raspberry into her mouth.

  A little girl seated beside her made a small O with her mouth and opened her eyes very wide. “No! Is she really? My ma says she only has to look at a man to catch a baby.”

  “That's not how it's done,” a lad named Howard informed them. “Besides, Fat Betty's husband's off in Brittany. He went months ago on Master Tyler's ship. So what's she doin' breedin'?”

  Edythe sighed, rolled her eyes, and plucked another raspberry. “Goes to show, all those foreigners runnin' around town sure stir things up. Least that's what my da says.”

  “Good for business though,” Howard remarked. “My da says we're plumper than he ever dreamed we would be this side of paradise. Lord Hawk knows a sharp sword, a strong arm, and a good mind are what it takes to get ahead in this world.” He looked around proudly as he added, “That's why Da says I ought to be after learnin' to read. Says he gonna have a word with Lord Hawk 'bout that, see if the monks here can teach me.”

  The good sense of this was greeted with nods all around. A little girl, Aedwynna by name, blinked her big blue eyes, smiled sweetly and said, “My da says Lord Hawk's the toughest son of a bitch he's ever met but it's all right because he's our son of a bitch.”

  Edythe coughed delicately and cast an eye in Krysta's direction. She also said, “Aedwynna, don't say bitch, it isn't nice. Leastways not unless you're talking about your dog.”

  The little girl shrugged. “Oh, all right. Anyway, my sister gets so silly every time she sees Lord Hawk. Her and her friends go all giggly. They say that woman who's coming better be really, really nice.”

  Suddenly, she remembered who was listening. “She is, isn't she, Ilka?”

  Caught off guard, “Ilka” did not answer at once, prompting Edythe to look at her with concern. “She's pretty and kind, and she'll be a good wife to Lord Hawk, won't she?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. But you know … she might be an even better wife if she knew more about Lord Hawk, knew what he likes and doesn't like, for instance. That might help her to do a better job right from the start.”

  Edythe understood that immediately. “We could help. We could tell you things and you could tell her.”

  “I suppose you could….”

  “Well, then … Lord Hawk is very, very strong. He's had to be all his life because he spent most of it fighting up until a few years ago when King Alfred got the Danes to stop trying to take any more of England.”

  “I saw him once pick up a man the size of a horse,” Howard declared, “and throw him all the way to the other side of the training field. The fellow wasn't hurt, fact they were both laughin', but it was really somethin' to see.”

  “I saw him lift up the whole back end of a cart loaded with rocks,” another young boy chimed in, “and hold it while a man who was caught under it crawled out.”

  “That was Old Finney, he could've gotten killed right then. You know, he goes to mass every single day and lights a candle for Lord Hawk?”

  “My ma always puts him in her prayers,” Edythe said.

  The other children nodded, one after another, as though this was common practice.

  “My ma helps cook for the high table,” Aedwynna said, “and she makes Lord Hawk's favorite rhubarb pie whenever she can.”

  “My ma weaves,” said Howard. “She says he doesn't pay much mind to what he wears but she's still always trying to come up with colors and things she thinks he'll like.”

  “He definitely needs a wife,” Edythe decided. “After all these years of Daria—” She shuddered.

  “A good wife,” little Aedwynna amended, and they all nodded firmly.

  Edythe kept an eye on the passage of the sun and called a reminder to the rest when it was time to return. They were back within the walls of the fortress as Daria's litter bumped and swayed up the river road.

  The berries were apportioned behind the wash house with Edythe handing out shares in what was apparently an established process. Krysta would have declined hers, not wanting to take from the children, but Edythe stood firm.

  “You helped gather so you must have some, too.”

  Thus did she return to her quarters with an apron filled with summer's fruit and a bemused expression. Raven joined her a short time later.

  “Wonderful berries,” the black-garbed woman said as she settled on a stool beside Krysta. “I've been eating them all afternoon.” Yet her appetite must not have been sated for she made quick work of a handful while she described what she had seen.

  “Rich land, orderly farms, far more people living closer together than we're used to. I suppose that's because of the milder climate.” She popped another berry into her mouth and continued. “There are watchtowers in both directions along the coast for miles. I saw several patrols, all wearing the colors of the Hawk. They looked as though they knew their business.”

  “Anything else?” Krysta asked.

  Raven hesitated. She tilted her head to one side and peered at her mistress. “I saw him, too. He has a chamber at the top of the keep.”

  Krysta shifted on the stool, pretending great interest in whatever was going on outside the small window. “Was he alone?”

  “No.”

  At her mistress's exasperated look, Raven laughed. “Oh, all right, he was with that fellow I think must be his steward. They were going over correspondence. He reads, by the by.”

  “Really?” That was surprising since few lords could claim such a skill. Her half-brother mocked the very idea of it, saying it was the province of eunuch priests. She smiled at the thought of him trying to fit Hawk into that category.

  Her smile wobbled a little as she realized she would shortly see her intended husband. It was almost the supper hour. Tantalizing smells wafted from the kitchens and people were beginning to move into the great hall on the first floor of the tower.

  “Come along,” Raven said. Seeing her young mistress's hesitation, she added, “A few berries won't hold you. You need more than that.”

  Perhaps so, yet did she feel so swamped by sudden nervousness that she doubted she could eat a morsel. Had it not been for the reassurance of Raven on one side of her and Thorgold on the other, Krysta truly wondered if she would have managed to set foot in the hall of the Hawk.

  Chapter TWO

  THERE WAS THE GIRL A GAIN, JUST NOW ENTERING the hall with her two od d companions. She seemed unsettled, although Hawk couldn't imagine why. He surveyed her over the rim of his drinking cup while listening with one ear to the ever-diligent Edvard.

 
“Although the rains have not been as generous as we would wish, lord, yet the crops do well thanks to the channels you ordered dug three seasons ago. The harvest will be less than last year when rainfall was greater, but we should have ample grain for the stores.”

  “Ample …” Hawk murmured, still watching the girl. She held herself stiffly and darted an anxious look here and there, yet for all that she moved gracefully. Her body was slim, well-formed, with lithe strength that suggested an active life. But then he supposed it would be for she was a servant, undoubtedly accustomed to physical labors, although her skin was very smooth, giving no sign of excessive exposure to the sun….

  “Salt supplies are sufficient for our needs, yet we might be advised to lay in a larger quantity should there be an opportunity to do so at a reasonable price. As you know, due to the unsettled situation along the coasts, supply lines are subject to sudden interruption with the result that—”

  Her hair was a deep black without shine. It was the only unattractive part of her.

  Hawk's hand jerked, sloshing ale over the rim of the cup. What was he thinking? He had no business finding the servant of his intended wife attractive or unattractive, or for that matter noticing anything about her at all. Only a man born for folly would make so elemental a mistake, and Hawk was very far from that. As reluctant a bridegroom as he might he, he wanted the marriage for the peace it would bring, and he fully intended for that peace to extend into his own household. His wife's servant! God's breath, he must be in dire need of a woman if he was that susceptible to green eyes and a winsome glance. Yet it wasn't all that long since he had been at Alfred's court and eased himself with a pleasant widow who knew better than to expect more of him than a sweet tumble or two…. All right, more than two, but then he was a man in his prime who had deliberately turned away from the monkish life because he knew he would stumble over the obstacle of celibacy. Maybe when he was older … much, much older. Or better yet, dead.

  His bride would arrive, the bride his brother-in-law swore—absolutely swore—was “not unappealing,” whatever the hell that meant. Damn Wolf for refusing to say more. Hawk would do his duty by her, and if she proved cold, he would take a mistress. But not his wife's servant. The very thought appalled him.

  “… Charcoal could be a problem if you wish the smiths to increase production. While our sources for iron remain good, we might consider … Lord—?” Aware of his master's preoccupation, Edvard broke off.

  Several moments passed before Hawk noticed the silence. He waved a hand, trying to cover his lapse. “Enough, Edvard, I am in awe of your diligence. But now is the time to relax, enjoy your supper, perhaps even talk of something other than production tallies.” Around them, the lieutenants who were privileged to share the high table with their lord laughed. They had a sensible appreciation of the steward, who was both a fair man and one rising in power, but they didn't mind seeing him mildly embarrassed.

  Neither, it seemed, did Edvard, whose momentary surprise gave way quickly to a grin. Tucking the slate upon which he kept his numbers into his tunic, he took his own seat. A pretty serving girl, the same one who of late always seemed to be close by, seeing to his needs, gave him a mug of ale and what even the preoccupied Edvard knew to be an encouraging smile. That prompted a fresh round of chuckles from the other men, including Hawk, who was glad to shuck off gloomy thoughts of his impending marriage, if only briefly.

  They were certainly in a good mood at the high table, Krysta thought. As the deep, male laughter mounted, she tried very hard not to stare but caught herself doing it anyway. Laughter made her husband-to-be look younger and more approachable. For just an instant, she considered doing as Thorgold and Raven had advised, going to him and revealing her true identity. The idea was tempting, all the more so for the stirrings of desire awakening within her. She had a brief, flashing glimpse of herself in his arms but turned from it firmly. For all its enticement, the idea was also fraught. Even if the Hawk forgave her deception, perhaps even laughed over it as he was doing now at some sally from one of his men, she would be no closer to her goal of eluding the fate that had overtaken her mother. She must—must—be loved by her proud Saxon lord. Nothing, not even her own yearnings, could be allowed to draw her from that course.

  Seeking distraction, Krysta glanced around the hall. It was a large timber structure, similar to the hall where the women servants slept, but much more spacious and of an indisputably male nature. The walls were hung with banners, shields, and weapons, all glinting in the light of the center fire and the torches set on tall iron spikes. The lord's table was massive, made of polished oak and set with platters of beaten bronze. For Hawk, there was a high-backed chair of equally imposing design. His lieutenants, the steward, and the others privileged to be seated there were accommodated on stools of finely tanned leather. All in all, it was a display of wealth and power that left no doubt the master of Hawkforte was a man to be reckoned with.

  Nor were the humbler folk forgotten. For them, there were large trestle tables and benches, platters of tin and pottery, and even cups of carved horn. For all, there was an array of foods carried out by servants under the watchful eye of the Lady Daria, who, from her own seat at the high table, glared over them. Alone among those closest to the Hawk, she and one other, a priest who sat next to her, did not share in the general merriment.

  Raven's sharp elbow in her side drew Krysta from her thoughts. She jumped a little in surprise. “He's staring at you again,” her servant informed her. Raven scowled down her long nose and sent a sidelong glance toward the high table. “Seems puzzled, he does, and who can blame him? What were you thinking of, gawking like that?”

  Krysta darted a quick look at Hawk, saw that he was indeed staring at her, and ducked her head. Briefly, she wished a hole would open and consume her. A little sigh of relief escaped her as the man beside Hawk said something, diverting his attention.

  Thorgold seized a platter of herring and began helping himself. He was as quick with a basket of bread, ignoring the chiding glances from those around them.

  Raven took a few of the small fish, popped them into her mouth whole, and swallowed with a grimace. She looked with scorn at the partridges being carried to the high table. “Those would have tasted so much the better on the wing.”

  “Best hope the cook isn't too inventive,” Thorgold chuckled, “elsewise, you could be seeing one of your cousins in the same condition.”

  Raven's small eyes flashed. “Not even these savage Saxons are that foolish.”

  “Hush,” Krysta murmured. They spoke in Norse but there was no telling who might understand them. She had needed scarcely a glance around the great hall to tell her that much of Hawkforte's prosperity came from trade. Trade made possible by the might of its lord, who protected the fine harbor adjacent to the fortress and the ships coming and going from it. The Norse, too, were great traders and Thorgold had his own ways of acquiring little luxuries from far lands. If that involved lurking beneath bridges to exact a toll from unwary travelers, Krysta did not care to inquire too closely. She recognized fine velvets from Byzantium, the scent of spices from the legendary lands of the rising sun, jewels from beyond the great desert said to lie near the southern shore of the Mediterranean, and much more. Trade brought with it sophistication, which meant it would be a grave mistake to underestimate these Saxons, however jovial their manner.

  Especially jovial when they were eating as they all were save herself. Realizing that would seem very odd, Krysta looked around hastily for something from which to make her supper. She smiled with relief to see the bowls piled with fresh summer greens and, nearby, rounds of cheese. With that, a bit of bread, and one of the tasty herring she was well content. At the high table, they were supping on roasted haunch of venison. A stew of the same meat was ladled out for all to share. Krysta made herself busy with the cheese, and after a moment the bowl of stock, herbs, and floating chunks of flesh passed by her.

  She didn't eat much, Hawk noticed.
Mayhap that accounted for her slenderness rather than did the usual hard work of a servant. Mayhap his wife-to-be was an indulgent mistress. Mayhap the unknown Krysta of Vestfold was a kind, gentle woman who would prove a balm to his life. Particularly if he stopped staring at her servant. God's blood, what was wrong with him?

  The thud of his cup as he put it down hard on the table was lost in the general talk and laughter. For that, Hawk was glad. He wanted none of his people to notice his preoccupation—or his susceptibility. Both were weaknesses, therefore to be denied. He was relieved when the scop came forth, taking up his position near the central fire, and flung his arms wide, his deep voice calling out over the assembly, his words punctuated by the soft thrumming of the tabor held by the scop's young apprentice.

  “Hearken!

  I sing of great lords and noble deeds

  Deeds of valor and daring to smite our enemies

  Enemies who flee before us

  We who triumph by the mercy of God

  God-giving great leaders

  King-over-all, Alfred

  His strong right hand, the great Hawk

  Swift of wing, deadly of talon

  Holding us safe within his grasp

  Great lords and noble deeds

  Enemies fleeing

  Our lands our own

  Evermore!”

  Cheers greeted this evocation but a quick hush followed as the tale resumed. Krysta settled in to listen, knowing how much there was to glean from the songs of the skalds and judging this teller-of-tales was of the same brotherhood.

  He did not disappoint but went on to recite with eloquence and fervor the events of the age. He sang of Alfred's flight into the Athelney marshes to escape the invading Danes, his return to Somerset to rally his men and bring the armies of the fyrd to great victory over the Danes at Edington. Scarcely a soul in the hall breathed or moved. Though already well known, the story was told with such power as to seem to be unfolding at that very moment. When the scop sang of Alfred's skill as both maker and keeper of peace, the people smiled among themselves. And when his song turned to Hawkforte's master, they grinned and reached again for their drinking cups, casting amused looks at the lord, who appeared resigned to sitting through the recitation of his deeds yet again.