Dream of Me/Believe in Me (10 page)

“Such a tree stands at the center of every Norse settlement. It represents Yggdrasil, the world tree with roots reaching into the netherworld and branches reaching to the sky. From the branches of Yggdrasil, the great god Odin hung for nine days and nine nights without food or water, giving of his life's blood in sacrifice. On the ninth day, as he was dying, he looked down and beheld the
runes, givers of divine knowledge. Through them, he was reborn so that his wisdom may be shared by all mankind.”

Ulfrich reached out, took their joined hands, and held them in both of his. “Wolf Hakonson, you have come to declare before all that this woman is your wife. You must pledge to protect and care for her, to shelter her beneath your roof, to share all you have with her, and to give her children. Do you agree to this?”

“I agree,” Wolf said quietly.

“Cymbra of Holyhood, do you agree to be wife to this man, to keep his home, bear his children, and guard his honor throughout your life?”

Her throat tightened. It was all so very different from what she had ever imagined. Not that she had thought much about marriage. So long as Hawk did not speak of it, she saw no reason to concern herself. But she had assumed that if she ever did marry, she would have the blessing of the Church. Although she did not doubt the sincerity of this pagan ceremony, it was just that—pagan. And it left her longing for something more.

Yet she was a woman of courage and sense, not to mention of deep, unnamed yearnings she could no longer deny. Quietly, she said, “I agree.”

Ulfrich nodded solemnly. He accepted a gem-encrusted goblet offered by a young boy, poured honeyed wine into it, and handed the goblet to Wolf. “Drink then to seal this bond.”

Wolf raised the goblet to his lips. He was about to drink when he hesitated, lowered the goblet, and instead handed it to Cymbra. He did not release it but held the goblet steady as she slowly set her mouth to it and tasted the sweet, tangy liquid sliding down her throat. When she raised her head, he turned the goblet, set his mouth where hers had touched, and drank deeply.

The crowd roared its approval, but Wolf held up a hand before the well-wishers could engulf them. “One
thing more,” he said. He glanced at Ulfrich, who nodded and stepped back. From the crowd came a tall, thin man in a monk's simple brown robe. At Cymbra's startled look, his gentle face creased in a smile. “I am Brother Joseph, my lady. I have the honor to bring the word of the Lord to these good people.”

“I didn't know you had a priest here,” Cymbra said, looking at Wolf.

He shrugged, as though it was of no account. “Brother Joseph is just passing through. It is a Norse tradition to give hospitality to travelers.”

“I have been passing through for three years now,” Brother Joseph said with a smile. “Lord Wolf is most generous—and patient—with his hospitality.”

“Perhaps I always knew I would have a use for you,” Wolf suggested with a grin. “Proceed, Brother Joseph. The night grows no younger.”

The young monk nodded. Quietly, he said, “You must kneel.”

They both did so, Cymbra still stunned by the sudden fulfillment of her wish. Had Wolf truly anticipated that this would be important to her and granted it without her even asking? Or was he simply astute enough to use her faith as one more way to bind her to him irrevocably?

“Holy Father,” Brother Joseph said, “we beseech Your blessing upon this couple united in marriage. May You who gave Your only Son for the salvation of mankind shine Your great love upon this man and woman, light their way in this world and make their life together a gift of joy to one another and all who know them. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost”—his hand moved above them in the sign of the cross—“I declare you husband and wife.”

There was no containing the crowd then. They surged forward, the men hoisting Wolf on their shoulders as the women did the same with Cymbra. As the music
resumed in a fury, they were carried around and around the tree until at last, breathless and laughing, the crowd deposited them in their seats at the high table. As others found their places, and the servants darted forward to fill cups and bowls, Wolf leaned over and covered Cymbra's hand with his own.

“Are you all right?”

Was she? She really didn't know. She was dazed and very uncertain. And yet … Her eyes drifted to the place on his jaw where her fist had landed. Again she felt a tremor of shock at her own behavior.

There was no mark but at the very least she must have stung his manly pride. Yet he had said nothing of it to her, offered no recrimination and inflicted no punishment. Dare she hope he thought her small attack in some way deserved?

Slowly, less sure of anything than she had ever been in her life, Cymbra nodded.

T
HERE WERE PROPRIETIES TO BE OBSERVED. PEOPLE
expected certain things. Rituals were important, serving as they did to strengthen a community. Wolf reminded himself of that yet again. It didn't help. He was rock hard, his blood throbbed more fiercely than the music, and he burned with a fire that threatened to consume him.

Cymbra, by contrast, seemed to be enjoying herself. Dragon was being charming, curse him to an eternity of icebound hell. His brother had started in on yet another story; he appeared to have an endless supply of them. Had he not been born to a warrior, no doubt he would have been a skald.

Wolf had a sudden, unbidden glimpse of his brother as a storyteller, going from holding to holding, keeping alive the great sagas of their people. He wondered for just a moment if Dragon might really have preferred that life.

As for himself, he had never given any thought but to the life he had. A life of duty and responsibility often harsh, sometimes outright savage. But for all that, a life not without its compensations.

The most obvious of which sat at his right side, attending to Dragon's tale, her lips slightly parted and her eyes rapt with interest. She looked perfectly content to remain there all night. That impression was confirmed a few minutes later when Dragon concluded his story, or tried to. At once, Cymbra asked, “What was the name of the giant who challenged Odin to race?” Truth be told, she had no particular interest in a story that under other circumstances would have genuinely enthralled her. Indeed, she could think of scarcely anything save the terrible danger to her brother and the equally momentous step she had just taken to try to allay it. But Dragon was unexpectedly kind, reminding her yet again of her own brother and the kindess Hawk had so often shown her. Reminding her, too, of how reluctant she was to submit herself to the man so rightly called Wolf, who now possessed absolute authority over her.

Dragon smiled at her gently, as though he sensed the direction of her thoughts and sought to soothe them. “Hrungnir, who was foolish enough to believe his steed faster than Odin's own Sleipnir, the most magnificent of stallions.”

“Surely they must have had many adventures together. Will you tell us of them?”

“Well, there was the time Odin rescued a warrior named Hadding from his enemies. He wrapped Hadding in a cloak and took him up on the saddle in front of him. As they rode, Hadding peered out from between the folds and saw to his astonishment that they were galloping over the open sea, Sleipnir's hooves pounding the waves just as though they were stone.”

“Extraordinary,” Cymbra said. “Does Odin make it a habit to rescue warriors?”

“Those he favors. Those he does not are often favored by Frigg, Odin's wife. These two are generally at odds over something or other.” Dragon cast a quick glance in his brother's direction and grinned broadly. “Of course, that's not unusual in marriages.”

Wolf waved away the slave attempting to refill his drinking horn. He'd drunk little this night and all but ignored the lavish feast. Neither food nor drink would satisfy the appetite raging within him.

“I've always thought,” he said, looking hard at Dragon, “that most of Odin and Frigg's problems come from interfering relatives.”

“And I,” Dragon shot back, “have always thought Odin doesn't appreciate Frigg enough. She is, after all, the most beautiful, most courageous, and most clever of women … of goddesses, that is.” He leaned back in his chair, still smiling, and added, “Maybe she's just too much for him.”

Cymbra frowned, finding all this talk of gods and goddesses difficult to follow. She gathered that Odin was supreme among the Norse deities, and she had been startled by the story of his death and rebirth with its obvious parallels to her own faith. But it seemed very odd for him to have a wife and for the two of them to have all-too human problems.

Then, too, she was struck by the exchange between Wolf and Dragon, redolent as it was of unspoken messages. She glanced from one brother to the other. Dragon appeared in high good humor although she felt beneath it the lingering pain of the wound responsible for his limp. She wondered what care he had received and if he would be willing to talk with her about it. But there was little time to think of that before she was caught by the hard intensity of Wolf's gaze.

A small shock ran through her. Throughout the feast she had deliberately kept her attention from him, focusing on anything and everything else in an effort to remain calm. Now, for the first time, she saw the mysterious hunger in him and the savage battle he was waging to contain it. A battle she also saw, all too clearly, that he was about to lose.

Wolf raised a hand. A servant materialized at his side. He gave instructions, and the man nodded before hurrying off. A moment later, Marta appeared.

“It is time, lady,” she said to Cymbra.

There certainly was no point asking time for what but Cymbra was tempted, just briefly. Pride rescued her. She'd already delayed as long as she possibly could, encouraging Dragon to tell story after story. Not that they weren't fascinating, but all she'd really managed to do was heighten Wolf's impatience. Now, she would have to face that.

Her throat was very dry as she stood. For an awful moment, she feared her legs were too weak to hold her. She took a deep breath, fighting for calm, and moved away from the table. The crowd saw her and raised a lusty cheer, thumping their drinking horns loudly on the tables. Their ribald comments made her cheeks burn.

She stumbled slightly and might have fallen had Wolf not reached out a hand to steady her. Their eyes met. She saw the raw lust still in his but beneath it something else, stronger even, more enduring, something that made her breath come just a little easier.

She moved away and Marta was there with several other women, hurrying her along. Behind her the music soared.

Iron lamps filled with tallow and set on long, pointed tips stuck into the floor cast eerie shadows over the walls of Wolf's lodge. Shapes were distorted and too large.

Cymbra shivered as she finished using the water brought for her to bathe and quickly dried herself

She could still hear the laughter and excitement of the crowd in the distance but inside this chamber of barbaric luxury it was very quiet. The silence of the women, the absence of any gentle banter or reassurance, reminded Cymbra how much she was a stranger among them.

The covers of the vast bed were turned down and sprinkled with the petals of wild roses. Sheaves of freshly cut barley were twined around the roughly hewn posts. Her clothes were taken away and she was left only in a diaphanous gown, not her own, embroidered at the hem and collar with ancient runic symbols.

The other women took their leave, casting hooded looks of speculation at her and at the bed. Marta remained to comb out her hair.

“The gown is a gift, my lady. I intended it for Kiirla but it is too fine now for that.”

“I don't understand. Why too fine?”

“She will not make as good a marriage as I had hoped.”

It took Cymbra a moment to understand what Marta was saying. When she did, she turned in her seat and looked up at the older woman. “You wanted Lord Wolf to marry your daughter.”

Marta shrugged. She continued brushing out Cymbra's hair. The flames of the tallow lamps continued to cast shadows. “I did and I didn't, lady. Certainly the honor would be great, but she is my daughter and I love her.”

When Cymbra said nothing more, waiting her out, Marta added, “You are young and far from home. Were your mother here, she could … warn you. Perhaps prepare you, so far as it is possible to prepare.”

She paused, came around in front of Cymbra, and
leaned down so that their eyes met. Marta's were wide in apparent sincerity yet curiously flat.

“He will hurt you, lady. All the women he lies with say it. He is built more like a stallion than a man and he cares not what pain he inflicts.”

She straightened and resumed her brushing. “Why should he care? He is jarl and his word is law. No one will interfere with anything he does, not even if you scream loudly enough for all to hear.”

“That's enough!” Cymbra jumped up, wrestled the comb from Marta's hand, and tossed it onto the table. “You are done here. Go.”

The older woman's demeanor changed abruptly. She sneered at Cymbra. “Oh, yes, give orders, act the fine lady, but we all know what you are, nothing more than a thrall like Brita. If your brother weren't who he is, you'd have been taken already by every man here. The Lord Wolf has to marry you but he cares nothing for you. Nothing! You are less to him than dirt and that's how he will treat you.”

She flounced out the door and slammed it behind her. Cymbra stood frozen in place, her whole body trembling. Slowly, she sank down, her legs giving way beneath her, until she was sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped around herself and her face buried against her knees.