Dream of Me/Believe in Me (39 page)

The dozen or so women gathered in the kitchens hurried to obey. They were as mindful as Cymbra of the urgent need to soothe male tempers and were joined in determination to keep the peace in any way they could. Work-worn hands clasped quickly at amulets that had hung from the sacred tree. These same hands also sketched the sign of the cross, just to be sure. The wise woman knew that when dealing with the uncertain temperament of men, it never hurt to have all the help one could get.

S
O IT PLEASE ALMIGHTY GOD, BROTHER JOSEPH SAID
solemnly, “we give thanks for His bounty and rejoice in the unity of family gathered beneath one roof, at one table, to break bread together.”

With a glance at Cymbra to see if this was what she'd had in mind when she requested a special blessing before the meal, the monk received her nod of thanks. He smiled and sat down.

As only a tense silence greeted what she thought was a very nice prayer, Cymbra said a firm “Amen,” which, perforce, required the Saxons—good Christians all—to do the same.

When Hawk hesitated to join in, she shot him a look and said pointedly, “Did I mention that Wolf was so kind as to have Brother Joseph officiate at our marriage, along with Ulfrich, too, of course?” She nodded at the holy man, to whom Hawk had already been introduced.

“Amen,” her brother intoned with a sardonic glance at the newest addition to his family. He lifted the drinking horn a servant had just filled but refrained from partaking of its contents as his piercing gaze shifted to the monk. With feigned pleasantness, he said, “I presume, Brother Joseph, that you are aware of the Church's prohibition against vows given under duress.”

Having just taken a sip of his own ale, the young cleric looked in danger of choking but he recovered quickly. Despite facing one of the most feared warlords in the known world, he managed to reply with his usual equanimity. “Most certainly I am aware of it, my lord. Be assured, I would never consecrate in marriage anyone who gave indication of being unwilling.”

“I'm very pleased to hear that. Tell me, how exactly do you determine whether a party is unwilling? Did you, for example, take counsel with my sister prior to these
joyful nuptials?”

At the obvious, indeed biting doubt underlying his words, Brother Joseph blanched slightly. But he held firm and said with gentle humility, “I had no opportunity to meet with the Lady Cymbra beforehand, my lord. However, she in no way impressed me as unwilling. Indeed”—he looked at Cymbra kindly—“she impressed me as a woman of rare courage and virtue.”

“How perceptive of you,” Hawk drawled. “Perhaps you aren't aware that such nobility of character may lead
one to put aside personal interest—even personal safety— in pursuit of a higher goal.”

“That is true,” Brother Joseph said quietly. “But then are not we all supposed to be in pursuit of such a goal? I would hardly be much of a monk if I denied someone their chance to attain it.”

“A neat bit of reasoning,” Hawk allowed. “Very convenient to your case. Perhaps too convenient.” Abruptly, he shifted his attention to Cymbra. “Were you willing? Did you go to your marriage without duress?”

She hesitated, turning cold inside at the thought of lying to her beloved brother. Yet how could she tell him of the threat Wolf had made? The moment she even hinted at it, swords would clash.

Choosing her words with care, Cymbra said, “There was not a shadow of doubt in my heart but that I wanted this marriage.”

Hawk stared from her to Wolf and back again. His hand tightened on the drinking horn but still he did not raise it to his lips. “How extraordinary. A man you did not know, who had taken you from your home by force. Yet you suddenly decided that he was the one man you wanted to marry?”

Cymbra bought herself a moment before replying by signaling to the servants to begin bringing in the food. Silently, she regretted not having drugged it. At the rate things were going, there would be full-scale war before they finished the first course.

Under the circumstances, there was really only one thing to do. Lowering her eyes, she said softly, “You embarrass me, Hawk. Surely, you don't insist that I explain why I was so eager to wed?” She cast a warm gaze at Wolf, who was sitting directly beside her and who raised an eyebrow at her strategy. A becoming flush suffused her cheeks, never mind that it came not from womanly modesty but from pure fury at stubborn, provoking males.

That, at least, silenced her brother long enough for the food to be served. But he wasn't done yet, far from it.

Wolf had just speared a succulent piece of goose on his knife and was about to carry it to his mouth when Hawk said, “You know in England we have a quaint custom. When a marriage is first considered, there are discussions between the various parties. Next a contract is drawn up to which everyone agrees. Then—and only then—the marriage is blessed by the Church, in the presence of the bride's family. Funny thing is, I thought you Norse did it pretty much the same way.”

Wolf put down his knife and made a small gesture to his brother, who had half-risen from his seat. Dragon subsided but sullenly. He continued to scowl at Hawk.

“As a matter of fact,” Wolf said pleasantly, “we do have a similar custom here.”

Hawk nodded. His jaw was so tightly set that Cymbra feared it might snap. Abruptly, he plunged his eating knife hard into the table and rose. “Then why, Lord of Sciringesheal, did you see fit to ignore the ways of both our people and take my sister by force?”

“I did
not
ignore them. After you rejected my offer of marriage to your sister to form an alliance between us, I—”

“What? What offer? There was never any—”

“You know damn well what offer. You said she'd never wed a filthy Viking savage. In fact, you made it sound as though she had said it, which is why I went to Holyhood intending to punish her for her arrogance and selfishness, only to find that—”

“Punish her?” Hawk roared the words even as he wrenched his dagger out of the table and grasped it purposefully. “My sister? You insufferable bastard. How dare you—”

Wolf too was standing now, dagger in hand. Nor was he alone. Every man at the table was on his feet and
armed. Cymbra smothered a cry. She jumped up, shoved back her chair, and glared at them all in fury.

“Stop it! Stop right now! Obviously there's been a huge misunderstanding, but you are not—
not
—going to make it any better by killing each other!”

In desperation, she looked from her brother to her husband. “You both claim to care for me and want to protect me. How will shedding each other's blood do that? For pity's sake, just talk to each other—and listen!”

When still they remained, glaring at each other, she said, “Sit down, both of you! Or I swear, the next meal you eat will be flavored with emetine.”

The two men exchanged baffled looks. Cautiously, Wolf said, “What does that do?”

“Why nothing, dear husband,” Cymbra replied scathingly, “save cause you to vomit up everything your stomach may hold until such time as you pray it will never hold anything again!”

“Sounds delightful,” Wolf muttered. He sat down.

“May have been a mistake educating you,” Hawk grumbled, but he too resumed his seat. The other men swiftly followed suit.

Cymbra caught Brita's eye and motioned for the drinking horns to be filled again. She was more resolved than ever that the sooner they were all insensible, the better.

With forced calm, Hawk said, “You mentioned a marriage offer. I never received any such. Why should I believe it ever existed?”

“Because of this.” From within his tunic Wolf withdrew the scroll he had shown to Cymbra in the hold of his vessel. He passed it to Hawk, saying, “Your sister tells me you can read and she's already identified this as your seal. What explanation do you have for it?”

Hawk took it slowly, studied it carefully. His dark,
slanted brows drew together. “This is not my hand, nor did I authorize this.”

“Yet it is your seal?”

He looked more closely holding the parchment up to the light to study the wax imprint. With great reluctance, he nodded. “It appears to be.”

Returning the scroll to Wolf, Hawk looked at him thoughtfully. “You really did propose an alliance between us?”

“I did. The man who carried that message to you has never returned. His fate is unknown to me. I presumed him dead at your hand. This reply—” he gestured at the scroll, “was brought by a Cornish trader who frequents these waters and who claimed to have been paid to bring it.”

“Paid by whom?”

“A man in your service, wearing your colors.”

“I sent no such man, nor do I know anything of your messenger.” Hawk's frown deepened. “Something is very wrong here. Someone has deliberately intervened to prevent an alliance between us.”

Wolf nodded. “Any idea who?”

“Our mutual enemy, the Danes? But I don't see how they would have had the opportunity.” Silently, he resolved to discover precisely what had occurred as quickly as possible. “An alliance between us has much to recommend it,” he admitted. “Yet, too, I must be certain this is best for my sister.”

“It is,” Cymbra said quickly. With husky urgency, she added, “Surely you can't believe there is any reason for me to mislead you about that?”

Her brother smiled gently but his eyes remained dark with concern. “I can think of an excellent reason. You have always sought to heal even at great cost to yourself. Mayhap you are doing that right now.”

“No! You must put such thought from your mind. Wolf and I are very happy together.”

Hawk did not reply to that although he did look from one to the other of them thoughtfully. He turned his attention to the superb food. Shortly the conversation moved off in other, safer directions.

T
ELL ME ONE GOOD REASON, CYMBRA SAID
, “just
one
why men are n ecessary.” She slammed the dough she was kneading so hard that the worktable shook. Around her, the women didn't even pretend to be concentrating on their own tasks. They exchanged tolerant glances and waited to hear what the jarl's bride would say next.

Brita stifled a giggle. “Well, I can think of
one
use they have but I'm quite sure you're already aware of it.”

Cymbra waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, certainly, and with that they think to so dazzle and confuse us that anything else they do will pass our notice. I think not!”
Slam.
“I think they have not the sense of women.”
Thud.
“I think they are stubborn, infuriating, mule-headed, and—”
Smash.

“My lady—” Brita yanked the dough to safety. “Perhaps you'd like to gut the fish instead?”

The idea had appeal, if only because it would put a sharp knife in her hand, but Cymbra declined. With a sigh, she left off abusing the dough and went over to the window. In her mind's eye she saw not the children
scampering across the hill top but the scene she had witnessed shortly after dawn as the men rode out. “They're hunting again.”

Brita and all the other women already knew this, yet did they cluck their tongues sympathetically. “Only boar, my lady,” Brita reminded her. “I heard the lord Dragon say the jarl was in no mood for anything else. Boar we can always salt. It will not go to waste.”

There was already such quantities of food stored for the winter, even after all the feasting, that real thought had to be given to decide what to do with more. A week now had Saxon and Norse hunted together, vying for the fiercest kills. Daily they pounded back into the hill fort, dripping blood and heaven knew what else, leaving to the women the task of coping with the carcasses while they went off to the sauna to see who could endure the most heat, tell the most outrageous stories, and drink the most ale.

That was when they weren't wrestling, throwing javelins, or testing their skills in every conceivable manner. Just that morning, a fight had almost broken out when one of Wolf's men claimed he could
piss
farther than any Saxon.

It had to end soon, Cymbra thought wearily. Some of the older, more experienced women had said this was just how men got to know each other and it had to be tolerated because it was their way. But she was worn out with waiting to discover whether they would decide they were good friends or deadly enemies.

Moreover, there were ripples, undercurrents she sensed but could not seize. Some of the Saxons—her brother's lieutenants in particular—seemed to be exerting themselves to be friendly. They were down in the town frequently, spreading their coin about, talking to people.

“Very nice men,” Nadia had pronounced them when
Cymbra came to visit her and the baby. “Mikal says everything will be all right. He says not to worry.”

Cymbra wished she could feel the same way but she knew Hawk too well. He had not risen to be one of the mightiest lords in England, sworn directly to the great King Alfred himself, by leaving anything to chance.

Several times now he had tried to get her alone but always Wolf or Dragon intervened. When her brother was about, she was watched constantly. Even when she asked Hawk simple, innocent questions about people at Holyhood—Miriam, for instance, who thankfully was well—she could feel her husband listening to every word they exchanged.