Dream of Me/Believe in Me (29 page)

Wolf had not moved. He appeared utterly unaffected. “This one merely seeks to hasten his own death,” he told the crowd. “Do not oblige him.”

Murmurs of understanding replaced shouts for blood. The jarl was wise, he saw what they had not. He was right, of course. Why should the scum die quickly? Let him suffer as was fitting.

Cymbra held herself very still. She heard what was being said, she could hardly fail to do so. Yet her mind reeled from the implications. Not only death, then, but slow death. And she had insisted on being present.

Instinctively, she sought the walls that had sheltered her for so many years, those she had built in her mind to protect herself from the too-violent world. But the walls were gone, vanished as though they had never been. There was nowhere to run, to hide, nowhere safe.

Her heart beat frantically. For a sickening, dizzying moment, she felt herself utterly open and exposed to every pain, every cruelty, every sorrow. It would destroy her. Yet scarcely had she thought that than another sensation seized her. She felt strong arms close around her, drawing her near, cradling her. Arms she knew very, very well.

Yet did Wolf remain unmoving in his seat, not touching her at all. Only looking at her. She met his gaze, saw the understanding there, and felt the terror ease from her like water flowing unhindered over smooth ground.

He was her wall now, her shelter, her protection. His arms were strong and they would never let her go.

She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation of being safer than she had ever been in her life. When she opened them again, she was calm, resolved, as ready as she could be for what was to come.

And Wolf was still staring at her.

He looked away, looked at the killers, looked at her again. Abruptly, he stood.

“Olaf!”

The old, one-eyed man Cymbra had become fond of on the voyage to Sciringesheal strode forward. He nodded to her and stood before his lord.

“Fetch the ax.”

The crowd shouted its approval. Eager hands fell upon the killers, dragging them out of the hall, into the open area beyond. Ulfrich was there, looking grim and somber. Brother Joseph stood beside him, his head bowed. Between them was Brita, her face very pale, her eyes dark smudges, yet clearly determined not to desert her mistress at such a time.

Cymbra wanted to order her away, but her throat was too tight to emit any sound. She could only gather herself inward, praying she would not break, would not disgrace Wolf. She stared at the punishment post, remembering the thief who had been lashed and the horrible tortures Brother Chilton had told her about, those that would make a mere lashing seem as nothing. She braced herself for the wave of pain and terror that she knew would overwhelm her.

Yet still did strong arms hold her and did she know herself to be safe.

“These are not men,” Wolf said suddenly. He made a sweeping gesture of contempt in the direction of the killers. “They are but carrion feeders, no better than offal themselves.”

He looked around at the crowd, which hung on his every word. “A man does not soil his hands with offal.”

The crowd murmured agreement.

Wolf glanced at Dragon and Olaf. Without warning, they dragged forward one of the men, thrust him down onto his knees, and yanked him across a wooden block that had suddenly appeared. In the space of a breath, Dragon took the ax Olaf proferred, swung it once, very
high, and brought it down. A head rolled across the hard-packed earth.

The crowd gasped. Dragon didn't wait. He seized the second man and dispatched him just as quickly. Olaf finished the next two just as efficiently. That left the last, the one who had dared to insult Cymbra.

Wolf took the bloody ax from Olaf. With it dangling from his hand, he walked over to the man and gestured at the block. “Kneel, and when you do, know that only the value I place on my Saxon wife sends you from this life speedily.”

The man stumbled to obey. The ax cleaved the air once more, singing its blood song as it went. The earth drank of the red river thirstily.

No one moved, no one spoke. There was only the wind from the sea and, borne on it, the distant cry of the hawk.

O
H, LOOK! HE'S YAWNING AGAIN. NADIA
gazed at her son in delight surpassed only by his doting father's fascination. Oblivious to them both, and to the gently amused Cymbra, the baby produced a prodigious yawn, smacked his lips together, squeezed his eyes shut, and drifted off to sleep.

“He's such a good baby,” his adoring mother said as she settled him into his cradle. “He knows just what to do and how to do it.”

“He's nursing well then?” Cymbra asked. There seemed little doubt as to the answer, for the baby was already putting on weight, but she wanted to be sure Nadia wasn't having any problems.

“Extremely well,” the proud mother assured her. “Why, you would think he was born knowing how to do it.”

Cymbra decided against pointing out that he had been born knowing exactly that. The new parents' happiness was contagious. She lingered awhile longer, enjoying it, before taking her leave.

Back out on the street, she found Olaf leaning against a wall, surveying the passing scene. He straightened, nodding
to her cordially. Several days before—shortly after the executions—he had appointed himself her escort. At least, she thought he had.

Given her husband's inclination to
arrange
things for her, she couldn't rule out Wolf's having had a hand in it. But Olaf really was the perfect choice for such duty, vastly superior to the armed cordon of warriors Wolf had previously insisted accompany her. The older man had confided to her that he liked feeling useful, something that didn't come easily for those past their prime.

“Surely Lord Wolf values your wisdom and experience,” she had said when they spoke of the matter.

“Aye, he does but he's rare in that. Generally, the old are only a burden to themselves and to everyone else as well.”

“But that should not be so! The old should be treasured for what they can teach us about life. Without their knowledge, passed on to us, we would always be starting over.”

“That's a way to think of it,” Olaf agreed. “But think of this, too. The northlands are harsh, unforgiving. Food and shelter can be hard to come by. For many, there is little enough without stretching it to provide for those who can no longer contribute.”

She remembered that now as she glanced around the busy street and beyond it to the even busier port. Everywhere was the evidence of the wealth of Sciringesheal, wealth made possible by the power of its jarl. The houses were sturdy and well appointed, the shops well stocked. The people themselves were well dressed and amply fed. They carried themselves with confidence and pride.

Beyond the streets, along the stone wharves, several ships rode at anchor. They had arrived so recently that cargo was still being unloaded. One in particular drew Cymbra's notice.

It was different from the vessels of the northlands,
being broader in the hull and double-masted. The sides were painted in alternating bands of vermilion and gold. Brightly colored flags trailed from the rigging. She craned her neck a little to get a better view and noticed the dark-skinned men moving between the deck and the wharf.

“They've come a long way” she observed.

Olaf followed her gaze and nodded. “That would be the Moor … Kareem ben something-or-other. Hails from Constantinople. He's an old friend of Wolf and Dragon's.”

Excited by the prospect of meeting someone from so far away Cymbra did not tarry in the town but returned promptly to the stronghold. The gates were open and a steady stream of people hurried in and out. Some were bound for the fields where the harvest had begun. Others were off the vessels come to trade before the first blast of winter closed the northlands for another season.

Some of the crew from the Byzantine ship were clustered near the doors of the timbered hall, talking with several of Wolf's men in the polyglot tongue common to traders everywhere. The strangers broke off abruptly as Cymbra neared, and stared at her in the usual slack-jawed way she barely noticed anymore. A couple of those with quicker reflexes than the others began to move toward her.

Olaf growled deep in his throat and put a hand to the hilt of his sword but neither gesture was necessary. Scarcely had the newcomers taken a step than they were stopped by the local men. Cymbra heard the murmured words, warning and explanation together, as she hurried by.

“The Wolf's woman.”

The newcomers froze in place like men who had just noticed they were about to walk off the edge of a precipice. They stepped back hastily, averting their gaze from the vision of their own deaths.

Cymbra entered the hall to be struck at once by a swirl of exotic colors, tantalizing aromas, and rich, male
laughter. As always, her gaze sought Wolf. She found him standing at the far end of the hall near the high table. Dragon was with him and another man she couldn't identify but guessed to be the Moor.

He was a few inches shorter than either of the Hakonson brothers but very fit and richly garbed in a vermilion tunic that complemented his dark complexion and neatly trimmed black beard. He happened just then to glance toward her and his jaw dropped, but he closed it again with a snap, as though he might already suspect who she was.

“Ah, Cymbra, there you are.” Wolf held out a hand, drawing her to his side. “Come and greet an old friend, Kareem ben Abdul. Kareem, this is my wife, the Lady Cymbra.”

Their guest bowed courteously but without taking his liquid eyes from her. His smile was broad and appreciative. “The
legendary
Lady Cymbra, I would say, my friend, for surely her fame precedes her.”

“You exaggerate, sir,” she said softly, not in reprimand but in simple truth.

His eyes widened at the sound of her voice, leaving her to wonder what surprised him—that she could talk or that she would. Her thoughts were refocused abruptly when Wolf hauled her against him, an iron-hard arm wrapped around her narrow waist. She glanced up to see him, too, showing his teeth, with the suggestion that he was ever ready to take a chunk out of the other man.

Kareem held up his hands in the universal gesture of peace. “Be at ease, my friend. I honor your lady and you.”

“But you understand I'm a bit sensitive on this score?”

“Oh, absolutely, what man wouldn't be? With your permission, perhaps the Lady Cymbra would care to examine the fabrics I've brought with me?”

While Wolf graciously allowed as to how he thought
that was a fine idea, Cymbra prayed for patience. She had just gotten her Viking husband to the point where she didn't actually have to ask for permission to go into the town—provided Olaf went with her—but now she needed his permission to look at fabrics?

“Perhaps later,” she told both men briskly. “I'm going to see to supper.”

Without waiting for a response from either, she nodded to the Moor, leveled a look at her husband, and took her leave. But not so quickly that she didn't hear a startled Kareem ask, “She
cooks
, too?”

Wolf laughed. “Like a dream.”

“I'm happy for you, of course, but there's no fairness in this world.”

Since they seemed determined to speak of her as though she were not there, Cymbra was glad enough to absent herself. She spent the remainder of the afternoon in the kitchens, showing the women how to make several dishes she had yet to serve in her husband's hall.

She had been planning to do that anyway. It had nothing to do with wanting to justify his obvious pride in her culinary skills, nothing at all.

By evening, almost the entire crew of the Byzantine vessel had arrived. As regular visitors, they were well known and heartily welcomed. Instruments were brought out and soon the rafters rang to song and story. In the midst of all that, news and rumors were exchanged, old acquaintances renewed, and plans made for the coming year.

Cymbra left the kitchens for a short time to bathe and change. She chose a gown of spring-green linen so finely woven as to seem almost weightless. It was embroidered with flowers at the hem and bodice and along the flowing sleeves. Because the evening was warm, she chose to do without an over tunic. Leaving her hair to tumble in waves to her knees, she secured it with jeweled combs at her brows, then hesitated for just a moment.

The gold wolf's-head torque her husband had given to her on their wedding day had remained in her jewel box since that single wearing. Now she took it out, feeling the weight of it in her hands. Before she could reconsider, she secured it around her slender throat.

Thus armored, she left the lodge and returned to the timbered hall.

S
UPERB, KAREEM SAID. HE BIT THE LAST SUCCULENT
meat off a plump chicken leg, tossed the bone on his trencher, and sighed. “I've never had a more splendid meal.”

Devouring a slice of pork seasoned with peppercorns and saffron, Dragon paused just long enough to agree. “I used to think the best table I'd ever dined at was old Hakim Bey's in Alexandria. Remember him?”