by Josie Litton
He moved on past a tavern popular with ship captains and their crews. Trestle tables were just being set up outside, yet a few stalwarts were already enjoying a morning tongue-tickler. Hawk received invitations to join them but declined cordially. He was climbing the mount toward the fortress itself when a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye stopped him. Instinctively, his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Thorgold snorted. He unfolded himself from his perch beneath a stone arch that held up part of the road and grinned at Hawk. “Easy there, lord, 'tis only old Thorgold. Good morrow to ye.”
“And to you,” Hawk responded automatically. He felt foolish reaching for his sword, although not as foolish as he had felt reaching for the green-eyed girl. That sensation prompted him to speak more sternly than he would have otherwise. “What do you here?”
“Restin' my bones, lord. 'Tis a long journey we've had.”
Still irked, Hawk said, “It must be as it is taking your mistress so long to make it.”
The strange fellow—bearded and stooped, barrel-chested above bandy legs—chuckled. “Impatient are ye? Well an' ye' should be. She's a fine lass, she is.”
“Lass? Are you that familiar with her then?”
“Ye could say so. Known her since the day she was born.”
Foolishness was dogging him this day. He might as well add to it. “Tell me of her.”
Thorgold grinned. “Are ye that eager to know her?”
“Eager? No, merely curious.”
The old man pursed his lips, nodding sagely. “Ah, curiosity, now there's the thing. Men have wandered the earth because of it.” He cast a sideways grin. “Or mayhap they only wanted to get away from the womenfolk. Trouble they can be, sad to say. Harpin' on this and that, never done. Voices like … well, I won't say ravens 'cause I want no trouble myself. But raucous they can be when they've a mind. Know what I mean?”
Hawk thought of Daria and sighed. “I suppose I do.”
“Ah, but then there's the other kind. Soft as a spring rain, strong as water running over rock. Wears down the rock, it does, but gently like. Rock hardly knows what's happening to it. Doesn't seem to mind neither.”
“I am not a rock,” Hawk said. He looked up at the sky so blue as to sting the eyes, down and around at the trees cut back from the fortress walls. Ravens were sitting in them. So many ravens. “I am a man.”
Thorgold chuckled again. He seemed pleased with the response. It made him generous. “She likes hair ribbons.”
“What … ?”
“Ribbons, for her hair. She likes 'em. All different colors, doesn't seem to matter. Ever since she was a little thing, she's liked hair ribbons.” He stared back at Hawk staring at him. “Keeps 'em in a little chest, she does. All curled up like flowers.”
“Are you suggesting I acquire some hair ribbons?”
Thorgold shrugged. “Couldn't hurt.”
“What about jewels, furs, silks?”
“Hair ribbons.”
“A fine mount, luxurious hangings for her chamber, rare perfumes?”
“Hair ribbons.”
“A mirror from the farthest reaches of Araby, cedar chests filled with spices, a harp strung from the tail of a unicorn?”
“Hair ribbons. And I'd forget that about the unicorn, if I were ye. They can't be caught.”
Hawk fought a smile, didn't win. “Are you telling me I'll be an old, old man and still buying her hair ribbons?”
“Ye will if ye be lucky, lord. Are ye? Is the fey gift of fortune sittin' on those broad shoulders?”
“Damned if I know.” Was it? He'd had good fortune in his life and bad. The Essex of his childhood had been a more dangerous and uncertain place than it was now. Yet no man of sense drew more than two easy breaths in a row. His mother had died too soon, yet gentle memory remained, elusive, sometimes filling him with yearning at unexpected moments. Odd things would set it off—a snatch of song, a whiff of scent, the murmur of a voice that was almost but not quite familiar. He was accustomed to it. By contrast, he scarcely remembered the selfish, unthinking girl who had perished in a foolish accident of her own making shortly after their marriage, taking their unborn child with her. He had done well in the terms of the world and was glad of that, yet were there times when he found himself wondering if there was anything more to be hoped for, something as yet undiscovered and unexperienced.
A signal horn rang out, the warning of riders approaching Hawkforte. Its master took a quick step, levering himself up onto the arch, and looked out beyond the town. He spied the banner of the royal equerry fluttering above a party of a dozen horsemen.
Chapter THREE
THEY WERE LIKE MEWLING BABES, BRAYING their laughter, posturing, expecting their every whim to be obeyed. Watching the men newly arrived from the court at Winchester, prattling on with her dear brother, Daria sneered. They were such dung-for-brains, all of them, imagining themselves to be of worth and consequence when they could not even recognize the person of true consequence among them. And Hawk was the worst of them. Malicious fate had made them siblings of a sort. He suffered her presence under his roof because it was his duty to do so. She knew it and hated him for it. But he went his own way, brushing her off as lightly as he would a fly, scarcely noticing that she existed. She would change that. Oh, yes, make no mistake, she would change it once and for all.
Daria looked away from the men at the high table, trying to block out their deep laughter, but the very smell of them overtook her. She was engulfed in the scents of leather, wool, sweat, and something intrinsically male she did not care to know. Her senses whirled and for a moment she thought she would be ill, vomiting it all up right there for everyone to see.
Father Elbert's pale hand on her arm steadied her. “Be at ease, lady.” His voice was low, sibilant, oddly soothing. She stared into his narrow face lit by coal-black eyes and felt the tumult of the hall fading. Slowly, she exhaled, willing her weakness away.
“How I despise them,” she murmured, conscious of the need not to be overheard. Anyone observing them would see only a holy man in consultation with a righteous woman, her gaze suitably downcast, her manner humble. Appearance was all.
“As you should, lady, but the time of repentance is coming. They shall pay for all their crimes.”
“They cannot pay enough, it isn't possible.” She glanced again at Hawk—big, hard muscled, blatantly masculine in a way that made her strangely unsettled. Her late, unlamented husband had been a weakling, too stupid to do as she directed, too inept to seize the power that had gone to Alfred instead, an utter failure who, instead of making her the queen she was born to be, had dared to die and leave her to live on charity and dreams of revenge. Dreams that could not come true soon enough.
She had failed once, when that cow Cymbra everyone thought was so beautiful managed to survive being taken captive by the Norse Wolf and thwart the plot to provoke him into killing her, becoming instead his cherished bride. Merely thinking of that was enough to make Daria's gorge rise again. She would not fail this time—she couldn't. Hawk's unwanted Viking wife was due to arrive any day. Turning him completely against her and the peace she represented would give Daria more pleasure than anything else in her bitter, resentment-filled life. She glanced down the high table where Hawk sat in conversation with the lords from Winchester. A fierce, dark sense of anticipation rose within her. How eagerly she awaited his destruction, how fiercely she would relish it.
The prickling at the back of his neck distracted Hawk. He turned slightly, not taking his attention entirely from the man with whom he was speaking but seeking the source of his sudden unease. Such was his life that he had learned long ago the folly of ignoring his instinct for danger. But danger in his own hall, among his own people? Not impossible, to be sure, yet it was unlikely. He knew all the men lately come from the royal court, had fought beside them, shared hardships and hopes, and he trusted them. They were the pick of Alfred's most loyal nobles, the men who were rebuilding Engl
and, and he was proud to be counted among them. As for the rest …
His glance drifted past Daria, swiftly as always for he disliked being reminded of her. So, too, did he spare scarcely a moment's thought for his house priest, the dour Father Elbert. Hawk was of a mind to replace the fellow, he just hadn't gotten around to it yet. That left visitors to his hall, merchants passing through, some he recognized, others he did not. And, of course, the servants of his absent bride, the trio seated together at the farthest table. He had made a point of not looking at the girl but now he did so, finding the sight of her oddly refreshing, as though he had wandered into a cool, sylvan glen. He could almost hear the droplets of water falling through moss-laden rocks. So clear was the sensation that Hawk had to shake himself out of it.
He frowned, struck yet again by his unwonted susceptibility to the girl, and turned his attention to her companions. The black-garbed woman was busy cleaning the meat from a small pile of bones on her trencher. Pigeons had been served and he supposed that was one of them. Beside her, Thorgold was quaffing ale. He saw Hawk looking at him and raised his cup in salute. The girl noticed and looked in the same direction. Her gaze met Hawk's and he saw, actually saw across the length of the hall, her cheeks redden. She looked away hastily but not before he was struck by a bolt of lust so intense as to rob him of breath. The sensation stunned him. He was no randy youth to be overtaken by winsome eyes and a fair form. Far from it, he was a man of power and discipline. Yet just then he felt as though the years had fallen away and he was no more than a callow boy confronted by the first mysterious stirrings of his body.
Absurd. Absolutely, utterly absurd. Also mad, for she was, he reminded himself for perhaps the hundredth time, his betrothed's servant. Even if his soon-to-be wife was the finest woman to walk the Earth, such lunatic behavior could turn her into another Daria. The thought of being shackled to a shrill, harping woman who would actually have some claim on his time and attention filled him with sensible dread. Something would have to be done. Perhaps he could persuade the Lady Krysta to send her servants home. He could provide her with all the servants she could possibly need but she might resist all the same, preferring the company of those familiar to her. So he would begin his marriage by making his wife sad and lonely, all in order to avoid making her jealous and enraged. He sighed, wondering how large a supply of hair ribbons he should set about acquiring.
He seemed vexed, Krysta thought, and wondered at the cause. Wondered, too, about the odd look he had given her just before ignoring her completely. That look had made her feel warmed clear through and oddly tremulous. How extraordinary that someone could make her feel that way merely by looking at her. How exhilarating that the person doing it was to be her husband. She felt buoyed, as though she floated on a cushion of water, elated yet calm all at the same time. That made no sense, she was contradicting herself. He was contradicting herself, making her feel all sorts of at-odds emotions that jumbled together inside her. He kept looking at her, on the beach, in the hall, in her dreams. She had thought to stay beyond his sight so that later he would not recognize the girl who came to him as his wife. Now she had to wonder if there was still a chance that would work, and if it did not, how would she explain? Laugh it all off as a joke? Admit her fears, cajole him to excuse them? Neither appealed to her but she might have no other choices. Not that it mattered in the end, not so long as he loved her.
He desired her, she knew that in some essential way of knowing she had never known before. But desire was not love. So, too, did she know that. How to bridge the gulf? Krysta toyed with the food before her, finding she had no appetite. Raven was too busy with another pigeon to notice, but Thorgold did. He shot her a sympathetic look before returning to his ale.
For all that, Krysta slept surprisingly well and longer than she was accustomed to. She woke to squeals of delight coming from just beyond the women's hall. Finding it empty save for herself, she dressed hurriedly and went out into a warm, bright day. Almost at once she spied the girl child Edythe, leader of the motley crew that tumbled at her heels. So, too, did Edythe see her and grin broadly. “Daria has gone to market again. One of the kitchen boys heard her say she wouldn't be back until supper.”
Before Krysta could think, she returned Edythe's grin and asked eagerly, “What shall we do first?”
The flicker of surprise in Edythe's gray eyes alerted Krysta to her misstep. How foolish of her; adults would not normally join in the antics of children. But her own childhood had been barren of such companionship and she had missed it truly. Not that she wasn't grateful for all she had known, only that she wished to know just a little of what it meant to be an ordinary child in an ordinary world.
“I meant what will you do first?”
Edythe continued looking at her. “I don't know.” She hesitated a moment, weighing the novel situation. Kindness, or perhaps curiosity, won out. “But you can come with us if you want.”
“I would be in the way,” Krysta said softly.
Edythe shrugged. “You weren't yesterday.” She turned to go, looked back over her shoulder. “C'mon then.”
Krysta went, trailing after the little girl until they linked up with her friends, who, after their initial surprise, accepted her reappearance among them with the ease of open-hearted children. They went first to the river for an extended bout of frog hunting, which gave way to a frog-jumping competition won by a shy little sprite of a boy who glowed with pleasure when Edythe declared his frog the victor. From there, they gathered berries and wild greens, lolling in the grass to eat them. The day warmed and they paddled in the river, venturing along it all the way to the beach, where they rooted about for clams and mussels, finding a bounty of both. Thus laden, they returned home to deliver their treasures to their mothers, who received them gladly. The women spared a few curious glances for Krysta but did not question her. Indeed, no one had questioned her since her arrival at Hawkforte save for its master. She wondered if being a servant, and a foreign one at that, rendered her in some way invisible or if this was only an expression of courtesy on the part of people naturally inclined to respect the privacy of others. Whatever the answer, she observed that the parents were indulgent, kind to their children and glad to see them have a day of leisure. Nor did it end then, for Edythe led them back out to a circle beyond the fortress walls where, so she informed Krysta, the older boys bound for knighthood trained. They were done for the day, gone off to polish their weapons and talk of manly things, thus leaving the circle available for gentler pursuits.
The children danced. They whirled around in circles, sometimes alone, sometimes holding hands. They sang, nonsense songs mostly that they made up as they went along. They whistled, clapped, stamped their feet, flung their arms to the sky, and laughed. Krysta watched, entranced. She had never seen so much lovely, glowing energy blossoming in one spot. Instinctively, she was drawn into it. Edythe took her hand, grinning up at her, and suddenly Kysta, too, was dancing, around and around, the steps becoming more intricate, the tune playing in her mind, the song forming on her lips. The children became a line behind and around her, following where she led, their darting bodies creating ancient patterns that coiled back upon themselves before bursting out again in new shapes, new forms, new energy. It was a dance for starlight and hidden places, for strands washed by moon-bright foam, for children of another ken. Yet here it was in the bright sun of a Hawkforte afternoon, among children who held within them, all unsuspected, marvels beyond reckoning. Those might be hidden but their exuberance was plain for all to see. Certainly it did not escape the Hawk, who, coming off the training field thinking of nothing more than a good steam and a mug of cold cider, stopped suddenly at the sight of them.
Children dancing? Had he ever seen that before? Of course, he must have for children were ever-energetic, yet did memory elude him and without it came the stirring unease that perhaps such merriment should be more in evidence in his domain. Since it was not, he sought some explanation for its sudden appea
rance and found it quickly enough. The green-eyed girl was right there in among them, noticeable only because she was taller but otherwise gamboling along with the rest. The air seemed to shimmer around her. The glow must be dust raised by their feet, glimmering in the sun. Yet it had rained in the night, softly like a benediction, and there was no dust. Only that glimmering, shimmering ripple of the air right to the edge of the circle.
He blinked, looked again, saw the children and the green-eyed girl bathed in radiance. He was no dancer but he knew the morris dances and the other revels, still indulged in on the holy days or, more often, the night before them. This dance he did not recognize. The steps were more complex. Yet did it seem he had seen it somewhere … sometime … as though in a dream. A tune rippled on the air, very faint, taking him by surprise for he saw no players to make such music. He heard a reed, high and fluting, and beneath it the throb of a drum beaten lightly. Then it was gone and the children had stopped, suddenly, as though frozen in place. They were staring at him.
Only then did he realize he had come almost into the circle, so absorbed was he in watching the dance that he might have joined it.
“My lord …” the green-eyed girl began. He sensed an explanation forming, perhaps a request for pardon. He felt the tension of the children, looked around at their faces set in expectation of reprimand or worse. Thought of the child he had lost unborn when his feckless wife went to her death, felt the old pain of that for the first time in more years than he could count.
“You should dance more often,” he said, and smiled.
They stared at him as though he had grown a second head. All but the green-eyed girl, who, after a moment, cast him a smile of gratitude and … vanished. No, she didn't really, but they all moved off suddenly before he might have a chance to reconsider the good humor they apparently did not trust. In an instant, it seemed, she was gone, yet did she linger in his thoughts after his steam and the mug of cider, after the evening's meal was eaten, the stories sung, the fires banked. Later, even as he slept, she danced through his dreams, laughing. God's blood, he was a fool after all.
