by Josie Litton
Damnable woman! What did she possess that Krysta did not? No doubt her voice sounded like lark song or something equally insipid. Her hands would be lily white, and should a drop of blood ever appear on them, the cause would be an embroidery needle, tool of that gentle art with which Krysta had no experience. She would not have freckles earned by gamboling in the sun. She would never speak above a murmur. Never challenge her lord or disagree with him. Never labor like a peasant to save his crops … or dye her hair and pretend to be a serving girl or—
The fact remained, their promised marriage was the pledge of peace. They were both of them trapped in a promise they could not break lest they plunge thousands into untold suffering.
With such thoughts at her back, she descended to the hall and from there went outside to see what the storm had wrought. Her mood lightened when she saw how little damage had been done. Yet did she still glance around anxiously, wondering where Hawk was and hoping she would not have to face him anytime soon. It was a coward's wish and she despised it, but try as she might, Krysta could not help but wonder what hope there was for their future together.
She was trying hard not to think of that when Aelfgyth found her. The young maid looked entirely recovered from the past day's labors and in high spirits. “My lady, there you are! What a relief to have that over and how lucky we are to have escaped all but unscathed.” Her smile faded as she surveyed Krysta. “Are you still tired, my lady? Perhaps you did not sleep with all the noise last night?”
“Oh, no, I slept well enough,” Krysta said. She was anxious to put that subject behind her as quickly as possible.
“Good, then perhaps we could get started? There is much to do.”
“Started on what?” Surely, after all they had just done, there couldn't possibly be much of anything left. Could there?
“Why, preparing for the harvest celebration, of course. Is that not the custom in Vestfold?”
“Celebration? Yes, of course. But are you certain I should be—”
“Lady Daria never has anything to do with it. She says only prayers of thanksgiving are appropriate and the rest is pagan.” Aelfgyth wrinkled her nose but a moment later she laughed. “Fortunately, the Hawk feels differently. Edvard has seen to most of the preparations in recent years, but this time he thought you should be involved. He told me so last night—I mean … yesterday.” A blush suffused Aelfgyth's cheeks.
“I see,” Krysta said with a smile. “In that case, I would be delighted. Where do we begin?”
It soon became clear that the food was most important because everyone would expect a great deal. There were hundreds of sweet pasties to be made, stuffed with raisins and honey, and as many loaves of fine bread from the first-ground grain. Fruits had to be stewed, cider pressed, milk churned for butter and curds, and wood gathered for the outdoor fires that would roast entire sides of beef. All the servants helped but so did the townsfolk and the peasants from the surrounding farms. Hawk and his men hunted each day while the fishermen plied their curraghs along the coast, bringing in nets bursting with eel, mackerel, and herring. Young men were preparing themselves for the ritual dances beneath the encouraging eyes of young women. Everyone was happily busy save for Daria and Father Elbert, who went about scowling, muttering of damnation, and praying ostentatiously for the souls of those they called blasphemers.
Krysta noted they were careful never to do so when Hawk was about, waiting instead until he rode out each day and ceasing their efforts when he returned. As he remained ignorant of their doings, so did others simply ignore them.
“Since you are here, my lady,” Aelfgyth said, “folk are happy to harken to what you say and heed not the shrill harpings of one who has never meant us any good.”
Pleased though she was by such acceptance, Krysta felt driven to caution against disregarding Daria too much. “It would be as well to remember that I am not yet Lord Hawk's wife.”
Aelfgyth laughed as though this was a source of much amusement, but Krysta did not share in the joke. She still stung from the night of the storm and was well aware that her betrothed seemed disinclined to seek out her company. In the three days since she had awakened to find her bed empty, they had said scarcely a word to each other and those no more than courtesy required.
To be fair, everyone was well occupied from earliest morn to after dusk. That he was too busy to seek her out was no consolation for Krysta. She caught herself looking for him at odd moments of the day, listening for the sound of his voice, and trying in vain to think of some way to seize his attention as they sat side by side each evening in the great hall. But her tongue felt tied in knots and her mind seemed a hopeless blank.
Raven suspected as much and scoffed but could not hide her worry. Thorgold muttered into his ale and frowned at Hawk each time their paths crossed. The day of the feast, Hawk caught him at it and paused on his way to the stable to rub down his stallion. He handed the horse's reins to a groom instead and gestured to Thorgold.
“What ails you?” Hawk asked when the troll-like man shuffled over.
Thorgold peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “Me? Nothing ails me. It's not me ye need to be worrying about.”
Hawk glanced around, saw that they were alone, and nodded. “All right then. What ails her?” He could not hide a certain plaintive note that surprised Thorgold and wrung a reluctant grin from him.
“Got ye flummoxed, has she?”
“Say so if it pleases you, but answer my question: Is she ill?”
“Of course not! Girl's healthy as a grass-fed colt. What makes ye think she's ailing?”
“She scarcely speaks to me, for one, nor will she meet my eye. I haven't seen her smile since I can't remember when, before the storm for certain. Is she angry about all the work she did? Is that the problem? Or is it all the work she has been doing to prepare for the harvest festival? That hasn't escaped my notice, old man, in case you think it has. But I didn't ask her to take on either task and she needn't think her life here will require such work.”
Thorgold was silent for a moment, twirling the ends of his great black beard. When he looked at Hawk again, his eyes were sparkling. “Tell me, lord, are ye prone to misdirection? When yer off sailing that fine boat of yers do ye have a tendency to lose track of where ye are? Or when yer riding, is it up to that great beast of a horse to find the way home for ye?”
“Of course not. What puts that in your mind?”
“Think about it, lord. If there's one thing the Lady Krysta has never shirked, it's hard work. Why, when she was just a little slip of a girl, she'd be out in the fields with the rest of us doing anything and everything she could to help. Her father was still alive then and he wouldn't have wanted her wearying herself, but she thrived on it and hated to be idle.”
“Then it's me. I've done something to upset her.” Hawk looked at the old man cautiously. It had been in his mind these days that perhaps he was wrong and Krysta did know he had come to her bed. She would have every right to be angry at him yet he still hoped she had not complained of it to her servants.
“I don't see what,” Thorgold said. “Seems to me ye haven't been half-bad for a mor—that is, for a Saxon.”
Hawk's mood eased a little. He even managed a wry smile. “I thank you for the vote of confidence but I would still know how to lighten her spirit.”
“I told ye about the hair ribbons, didn't I?”
“You did but I don't really think—”
“Trouble is you think too much,” Thorgold interrupted. “Get yerself a nice fistful of hair ribbons and go talk to the girl. Better yet, get her off someplace where she can't be rushing about doing this or that.”
Hawk knew good advice when he heard it even from so unlikely a source as a fellow who bore an uncanny resemblance to a troll. He went down into the town, paid a visit to a happy merchant, and left with what he had sought. But there was no time to seek out Krysta, for the harvest celebration was about to begin.
The sun was drifting w
estward but the sky was still well lit as all the residents of Hawkforte and the surrounding area gathered in the large field closest to the stronghold. There, tables had been cobbled together from trestles and planks of wood, covered with cloths, and loaded down with the bounty of all their efforts. Large fires begun much earlier in the day were being tended by young boys under the stern eye of the manor cook, who saw to it that the sides of beef and the whole pigs were kept well turned and basted. Aromas to make the stomach sing greeted the celebrants. Barrels of mead and ale were tapped, and eagerly attended. Children ran about underfoot, drawing indulgent smiles from all.
Coming out onto the field, Krysta paused and looked around anxiously. So far as she could see, everything was as it should be but as she had never participated in so large a celebration, she was yet unsure. Aelfgyth had stayed to help her dress in a gown of mauve and violet that looked woven from the last whispers of the setting sun, then had gone off at Krysta's bidding to see to her own preparations. She was in the crowd somewhere, no doubt with Edvard. Those two seemed destined to make a happy match. Krysta was glad for them even as she wondered what chance there was for her to do the same.
The answer to that lay with the tall, powerful man who stood near the center of the field, chatting amicably with all and sundry and looking as though he had not a care in the world. Resentment tugged at her as she beheld his ease but it faded quickly before the rush of emotions at once tender and fierce. He was dressed with simplicity in a plain black tunic embroidered with gold. Around his taut waist was a belt of gold links that held the bejeweled scabbard of his sword. The thick curls of his chestnut hair framed his face bronzed by wind and sea and in which his light blue eyes shone brilliantly. He towered head and shoulders above most of the other people, and as she watched she saw him stoop to meet the eyes of an elderly woman who seemed bent on teasing him about something. They both laughed and the woman went away smiling.
He was straightening up when he saw Krysta. At once, his smile faded. Her stomach plummeted to see it go. For a moment she considered trying to lose herself in the crowd, but pride made her hesitate and then it was too late. Hawk walked to her with deliberate speed. As though he had sensed her intention, he put a hand to her elbow before he spoke.
“My lady,” he said gravely, “my thanks for all you have done. I can't remember a more splendid harvest feast.”
To her dismay, Krysta found herself blushing and unable to meet his eyes. “It is Edvard you should thank, my lord, and all the others. I did little but help.”
“That is not what Edvard and the others say.” His manner was lightening now that he was reasonably assured she would not elude him. He tucked her arm into the crook of his and led her deeper into the crowd before she could object. Quickly, they were surrounded by townsfolk and peasants alike, who smiled to see them together and in apparent harmony.
He led Krysta to the high table and seated her before taking his place beside her. Their arrival was the signal for the feasting to begin. Amid the parade of dishes, the flow of ale and mead, and the clamor of the guests, Krysta struggled to get her bearings. Everyone wanted to speak with Hawk and did so unhindered, calling out to him from other tables. He was involved in several conversations at once, juggling them all with gracious ease. High good humor abounded, and any barriers of formality that might usually exist dissolved in the spirit of the moment.
Cheers erupted as a young man and woman from the town came forward shyly to present Hawk and Krysta with poppets made from the last gleanings of the harvest. This was a custom with which she was not familiar and she was uncertain what to do until Hawk rose, taking her hand, and led her to an old oak tree that stood at the edge of the field. Following him, she placed her poppet together with his high on a branch of the tree as the watching crowd cheered. The sun was setting and torches had been lit. By their dancing flames, the world seemed cast in ancient shadows.
“King and queen of the harvest,” he explained, gesturing to the poppets. “Some folk still believe honoring them assures the fertility of the land.”
“Do you believe it?” she asked quietly.
He shrugged. “I don't see that it does any harm.”
Holding her hand high in his, he led her back to the table. As they resumed their seats, a line of young men garbed all in white with their faces blackened ran out into the open space before the diners. From their costumes dangled hundreds of brightly polished bits of metal that reflected the firelight over and over, making them seem as though they moved in the midst of tiny suns. They carried sticks that they began to bang together rhythmically as they moved in the patterns of a dance so old it seemed etched in their blood and sinew.
Krysta watched with delight, she who loved to dance, for here at last was something familiar. She had seen such dances, performed by Vestfold folk.
Hawk watched her watching the dancers and smiled to see her greater ease. He still had no notion of what troubled her but he was determined to set it to rights, whatever it might be. The business of getting to know each other had surely gone on long enough. He meant to tell her so but not here, not now in the midst of such revelry. It needed a private moment, that rarest of gifts but one he intended to give them both, soon.
He looked out toward the sea and smiled, knowing what the morrow would bring.
Chapter TEN
KRYSTA PAUSED AND LOOKED AROUND CAUTIOUSLY before descending the last few steps into the hall. There was no sign of either Daria or Father Elbert, for which she gave silent thanks. She had no doubt that having been made to endure the spectacle of the harvest feast, albeit from the distance of her quarters, Daria would be in even worse humor this day than was usual. She would be looking to take back her own in any and all ways available to her, with Krysta her most likely target. Therefore was it Krysta's notion to see what she could do to absent herself for at least some little time. She was thinking over that, and munching on an apple, when Hawk strode into the hall, saw her, and smiled.
“I was in search of you, my lady. Did you sleep well?” How she had or, more to the point, had not slept was not a subject she cared to discuss with him. Toward the end of the harvest feast, when ale and mead flowed in abundance, couples took to going off hand-in-hand to find their pleasure. Even staid Edvard was nowhere to be seen by the time the feast was over, nor was Aelfgyth.
Envy was a petty emotion yet Krysta could not elude it. It had kept her restless throughout the night.
“Why in search, my lord?” she asked, dodging the question.
“I wondered if you might like to go sailing.”
“Sailing … with you?”
“I was not suggesting you go alone.” He spoke with gentle chiding.
“No, of course not, I only meant …” Flustered, she took a breath and tried again despite the sudden racing of her heart. “Yes, thank you, I would like to go sailing.”
He grinned at her formality but looked relieved in the bargain. “Come then, before a host of well-intentioned folk appear with dozens of matters requiring our immediate attention.”
Our. A sudden carefree spirit seized her. She laughed and took the hand he offered. They slipped away down back lanes to the pier where Hawk kept his boat. He helped her into it, untied the mooring rope, and jumped down to join her. A cat prowling among barrels of salted fish watched them go.
Hawk raised the single mast and unfurled the sail. The wind filled it, skimming them lightly over the water. He put a hand to the rudder and guided the boat out into the bay. Seated beside him in the stern, Krysta breathed deeply of the salt air and turned her face toward the sun. She had been too long without this and had missed it sorely. With each moment, she felt her emotions become less frayed. She looked out toward the white-gold curve of the shore and smiled.
“Your lands looked marvelous from the back of a horse, my lord, but I must tell you, they look even more beautiful seen this way.”
He laughed, pleased by her spirit. “Should I conclude you prefer sailing t
o riding?”
“You would be safe thinking so.”
“Then perhaps you would like to try your hand at it.” The day was clear, the wind mild. He saw no harm in letting her take the rudder.
She glanced at him in surprise. “You would not mind?”
“So long as you don't capsize us,” he said with a smile. “Here, let me show you how—”
As he spoke, Krysta took hold of the rudder. She laughed with sheer delight to feel the power of the wind and sea in her hair. Without hesitation, she turned the boat so that the wind was directly astern. In response, they seemed to leap forward. At Hawk's startled look, she grinned, tacked smoothly to port, and brought them across the wind so that their speed slowed.
“You know how to sail,” he said, looking just a little grumpy about it.
“When I wasn't swimming, I was doing this,” Krysta confessed. She wondered if she had overstepped herself but as she made to turn the rudder over to Hawk, he shook his head.
“Oh, no, my lady, if you can sail, then by all means do so. I'll sit back and enjoy myself.”
She glanced at him doubtfully but he insisted, going so far as to lean back with his arms stretched out on either side along the boat railing, looking as though he had not a care in the world. He even made a show of closing his eyes although she noticed he opened them frequently to check on her progress.
“There are rocks over that way,” he said finally, a moment before Krysta spotted the telltale roiling of water over submerged stone. She steered easily around them and continued north along the coast. It was dotted with bays and inlets, all smaller than Vestfold's, but lovely just the same. Beyond them came mainly dense forest almost to the water's edge, although here and there she saw clearings that spoke of human habitation. She considered how greatly this soft landscape contrasted to the ruggedness of Vestfold and realized for the first time that she could not remember when she had last thought of the place that had been her home.
