Dream of Me/Believe in Me (52 page)

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.

The scop intoned:

Before the last word of the song began to fade, tumultuous cheers broke out. The people slammed their horn cups against the table, calling out their approval. Such exuberance made Raven skittish and Thorgold grumbly, but Krysta was enthralled. She had heard snatches of the tale that unfolded the year before in the rich port of Sciringesheal, lair of the mighty Norse Wolf, of a woman of great beauty taken by cunning, of a marriage forged from vengeance that became the seed of true love, of the Viking army that set sail to reclaim the stolen bride stolen in turn by her brother, the mighty Hawk, and of the war averted by wisdom and grace. Indeed, she had a particular interest in all that for it was the alliance forged by Wolf and Hawk that her own marriage was meant to strengthen yet further. With that, she had no quarrel. If her life could be an instrument of peace, she would not have it otherwise. But she would be loved, lest the cold, gray waters that had claimed her mother claim her in turn.

Such gloomy thoughts had no place amid revelry. She put it aside, and a short time later she slipped away with Raven and Thorgold to find what rest she could in this strange new place she must call her home … evermore.

B
EFORE THE LAST STARS OF NIGHT HAD WINKED OUT
, before the first cock of morn had crowed, the stirrings of sparrows in the eaves of the women's hall woke Krysta from uneasy slumber. For a moment, lying there in the gray shadows, she had no idea where she was. The air smelled of wood and smoke, the same as at home. The birds rustling in beds of ivy sounded no different. But the
air was warmer, tangy with salt yet soft, and the murmur of waves in the distance was softer still for they made land on a gentler shore. Memory returned swiftly and with it the last wisps of sleep vanished as though they had never been. She rose and glanced at Raven, who still slept, head tucked against her chest. Softly, so as not to disturb her, Krysta dressed. She wore a simple wool gown dyed blue with a mix of dandelion root, woad, and juniper. Around her waist was a plain leather belt from which dangled the traditional tools of a trusted house servant—a knife, a thimble, a small felt case holding needles, precious scissors, and keys belonging to the chests that had come with her. Over her hair, she threw a finely woven white shawl, one end of which she tossed over her shoulder. Thus ready to face the day, she tiptoed past the other sleeping alcoves and stepped outside.

Her first surprise was the men on the walls. They were awake, alert, walking their posts. At such an hour? And not only a token watch but a large number, keeping guard through the night while she and everyone else in Hawkforte slumbered. More than anything else she had so far seen, that vigilance brought home to her the sheer power and determination of the keep's master. The keep's and her own …

Hastily, she looked away, noting the fires that were already lit here and there, including in the kitchens. A goodly number of servants were stirring despite the early hour. The gates remained closed save for a small door set to one side, through which other early risers were being admitted. Slipping through the shadows, Krysta made her way to that door. She waited until a gaggle of washer women were entering, then slipped out amidst the confusion of their greetings, their sallies, and their giggles. Making her way down the hillside, she felt a prickling at the back of her neck as though the fortress itself sternly observed her going.

Quickening her pace, she made for the woods near the bottom of the hill. Within the shelter of the first line of trees, she paused to catch her breath. Such a soft land, so gentle in comparison to her own, so enticing as to make her senses swim. A tiny brook gurgled softly nearby. Following it, Krysta found her way to a larger stream running over moss-draped rocks. Here and there, silver fish glinted and turtles dozed on fallen logs. The stream became a fall that spilled over boulders, flowing on into a tranquil pool that slipped almost unseen toward the sea. The ground turned from fecund soil to moist sand. Oaks gave way to pine. The sweetness of fragrant grass yielded to salt tang. She emerged from the coolness of the wood to stand suddenly on open beach. A bay stretched out before her, cradled within the curving arms of the land.

On impulse, she threw her own arms wide as though to embrace all that she saw. Her feet danced lightly over the sand. She whirled, laughing as she eluded the wash of foam advancing and retreating along the beach. Behind her, the sun rose in splendor, bathing the shore in golden light.

Bathing the woman, too, at her play. Her slender body moving this way and that, so lightly that she seemed not quite connected to the land, she appeared more sprite than human. From his stance on an outcropping of rock above the beach, Hawk watched, suddenly entranced even as he half expected her to vanish into the mist of sea spray. His keen eyes followed her progress along the beach. The breeze changed direction slightly and he caught a riff of her laughter, like crystalline droplets of sound. Abruptly, he realized he was smiling.

She amused him, that was all. There was something about her odd combination of shy awkwardness and innocent grace that pierced his reserve. It wasn't desire he felt, merely humor. Not that she wasn't lovely, she was that, but there were plenty of lovely women. He'd never had
any trouble taking or leaving them as he was wont. After all, a man had to be ruled by higher considerations. Only a fool was led by his cock.

A shower of pebbles rolling from beneath his boots drew Hawk's attention to the fact that he was walking down the hilly slope to the beach. He hadn't meant to do that, but what of it? He'd come out for a bit of time to himself before the hurly-burly of the day. Who said he couldn't spend it strolling along his own shore. Indeed, she was the interloper, not he. She and those two other strange ones had come uninvited, unaccompanied by his tardy betrothed, and apparently now with nothing to occupy themselves save amusement. He was surprised Daria hadn't organized some work for them, but then he supposed she had no reason to allow them any usefulness that might reflect well on their mistress. Briefly, his mind drifted to Daria's likely reaction to being supplanted by the Lady Krysta. He'd have to deal with that, he supposed, and firmly, but he couldn't very well until the lady herself arrived and he had some sense of how assertive she was likely to be. From what he could see so far—or rather not see since she did not deign to present herself for his perusal—she was either extraordinarily bold in delaying her arrival or equally timid. Either way, he suspected he was going to be troubled.

And that being the case, there was all the more reason to take a pleasant stroll down the beach.

Krysta was bending to examine an opalescent stone gleaming in the little eddies of water near a rock pool when a shadow fell across her. She looked up, shading eyes that widened at the sight of the dark shape silhouetted against the rising sun. The Hawk. She knew him in an instant even though she could not make out his features. He was a very large man, easily standing head and shoulders above her, and she herself was tall compared to many of the Saxon women. Those shoulders were very broad
indeed, so much so that they seemed to block out the sun. There was no softness about him, neither in his stance nor in the strength he radiated, save perhaps in the curls of his hair moving gently in the breeze. Krysta forced herself to focus on those curls where they clustered near the nape of his neck. Truly, they looked as fine and delicate as the silk on a baby's head. The thought made her smile.

“Good morrow, woman.” His voice was deep, like water far in the earth. He held out a hand. She took it without thought and stood. His palm was large, hard, and callused. His skin was very warm. She snatched back her hand and squinted against the sun.

“Good morrow, my lord.” She spoke clearly enough yet her voice sounded weak in her own ears, like the song of a reed cast upon urgent wind.

“Where is your mistress?”

The question was abrupt, the tone all the more so. Krysta stiffened. Without meaning to, she looked up, meeting his eyes. “My mistress … lord?”

“The Lady Krysta. Do you not remember whom you serve?”

Was he always so peremptory? So rude? This man whose love she must win? Her mouth thinned. “I remember well enough, lord. The Lady Krysta is coming here.”

He ran a hand through those silken curls and frowned, his impatience manifest in the way he turned, half-away as though wishing to be done with her, yet turning back as though uncertain in his desires.

“I know that, woman. What I am wondering is why she is not yet here.”

She had not anticipated that he would ask her. Indeed, she had not expected to have speech directly with him while she was no more than the servant of his absent betrothed. She had thought merely to observe from a safe distance.

There was very little distance between them now and she did not feel safe at all.

“I cannot speak for the Lady Krysta, lord.”

A small jolt of fear went through her as he scowled. Was he a violent man, her betrothed? Yes, of a certainty he must be for he was a mighty warlord, but was he violent to those weaker than himself? Would he strike a servant unable to provide him with the information he sought?

Would he strike a wife who displeased him?

He sighed and shook his head. “No, I suppose you can't. Mayhap I should not have asked.”

So easy was he then? So ready to forgive? A spurt of hope surged within her. Seeking she knew not what, perhaps to please him, she said, “But she does come, lord, most eagerly.”

“Eagerly? Really?” He looked surprised, almost boyishly so, and what else was that there in his eyes blue as the sky? Hope?

Impulse took her. She wanted to confirm that hope and nourish it. “Of a certainty, the Lady Krysta is most eager for this marriage. She wishes for there to be peace between Norse and Saxon, and she believes this marriage is the best chance for that.”

“You have her confidence then? She tells you what she thinks?”

Krysta hesitated. How much to say, to claim? How far dare she go? “I am but a servant, lord, yet do I believe I know my lady's mind at least in this matter, for she has made no secret of it.”

He looked out to sea, looked at her again. “She has no concerns … no hesitations?”

“Ah, well, as to that, marriage brings great changes, does it not? Especially marriage in a far land and to an unknown lord. But my lady is resolved to do her utmost that all should be well between you.”

“Arriving would be a good first step.” He sounded disgruntled rather than angry. Even perhaps a little puzzled.

“Oh, but she will! And soon, I am sure. It is just that … she has always lived among the same people and leaving them is difficult. She needs must do all she can to see they will be well cared for.”

“Surely her half-brother—what's his name, Sven?— can be expected to look after her people?”

Krysta hesitated. Frantically, she tried to think what a servant would be likely to say about Sven. She had met her half-brother only thrice in her life, once after their father's death, the second time when she was summoned to be presented to the jarl Wolf Hakonson, the third to be told she was being given in marriage to the Lord of Hawkforte. Despite such brief acquaintance, she had an unpleasant feeling about Sven. He struck her as a man of empty smiles and even emptier promises.

“Even so, lord, I believe the Lady Krysta feels a personal responsibility for her people.” All perfectly true, for she had racked her brains and worn herself down with worry until the few dozen families clustered at her cliff-side manor were safely snug, with relatives in distant villages.

“That is … good.”

Krysta began to smile.

“Unless, of course, it is vanity.”

The smile turned to open-mouth amazement. She gaped at him. “V-vanity … ? It is vanity to care for her people?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes, people have difficulty telling the difference between caring about something and just trying to control it.”

“I assure you, the Lady Krysta knows the difference.”

He nodded as though to note her assertion but not necessarily believe it. “You are loyal to her, as would be expected.”