Dream of Me/Believe in Me (69 page)

“But for your prudent warning, lord, fully half our crops would have been lost. As it is, damage is minor. One of the docks was ripped loose but that will be easily repaired. What looks to be the trunk of a tree is lodged in the wheel of the mill, but I have men on that right now and it should be removed forthwith.”

“Were there any injuries?”

“Only one, lord. Alwin, the fellow who helps the tanner, needed to relieve himself in the night and for unknown reasons thought a pot wasn't good enough. He went outside instead, was knocked over and blown a fair distance, but he landed up against the baker's door and Wilhelm took him in. He's all right except for a bump on the head and some bruises.”

“And I suppose by this time tomorrow, he'll be gifted with at least half-a-dozen pots to remind him not to repeat the experience,” Hawk said with a smile.

“No doubt, lord. At any rate, we must count ourselves very fortunate.”

“We are that,” Hawk agreed.

In Edvard's company, Hawk rode out to survey the fields. The damage to them was as great as he had anticipated. Anything left in them would have been flattened. Dismounting, he handed his reins to Edvard and went down on one knee. The soil was very wet, as was to be expected after such a rain. He touched his fingers to it, then raised them to his nose and inhaled.

As he remounted, he said, “It will be a day or more before the ground is dry enough to stack the oat. In the meantime, send out men to remove the top few inches. Tell them to dump it into the sea.”

Edvard's brow furrowed. “I will, lord, of course, but may I ask why?”

“It smells of salt. The rain was not pure but was mixed with spray from the sea. If it is not removed, next year's crops will be stunted.”

“Your pardon, lord, but if I may say, you think like a farmer.”

Hawk laughed and remembered suddenly what Krysta had said about him being startled by the sound of his own laughter. He was finding it impossible not to
think of her at the oddest moments. “Am I supposed to be insulted by that, Edvard?”

“No, lord! Such was not my meaning, I assure you. It is only that I find it surprising a warrior would know so much about the land.”

“I fought for this land,” Hawk said quietly. “That would have been a damn foolish thing to do if I didn't know how to take proper care of it once I had it.”

The young steward nodded thoughtfully. They continued back to Hawkforte.

W
HERE KRYSTA WAITED, HAVING AWAKENED SUD
-denly not long after the Hawk flew from her bed. She opened her eyes surprised to find it a fair morning and stunned to find him gone. Gone without word or touch. Gone as though he had never been.

Had she imagined him? Had her exhausted mind somehow conjured his presence from no more than wisps of longing? Barely had such a tentative notion sprung up within her than Krysta quashed it firmly. No, by heaven, she had not. He had shared her bed and the lingering warmth on the sheets proved it. Not to mention the depression of a head on the pillow next to hers.

She stared at that pillow as she dressed and made some scant order of her unruly hair. Far in the back of her mind, a memory stirred of safety and warmth, of being held against hard, smooth skin, in arms at once gentle and strong.

A light flush stained her cheeks. She nibbled at her lower lip and wondered how she was to face him.

He had not wanted her. That much was evident, for all too clearly she recalled her audacity at slipping back between the covers naked. He had been kind to her, true enough, but it was not kindness she sought. Or at least not
entirely. Humiliation stung her. Her one and only effort to tempt a man had failed spectacularly. She could not think how she was to go on.

But go on she must and as though naught had occurred, for her pride would allow nothing else. Yet was she tormented by the growing fear that Daria was right: Hawk wanted a different bride, the “lady of true worth” who so held his heart he could lie naked in bed beside another woman, even hold her for the sake of kindness, and remain immune to passion's lure.

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 westward 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.