Dream of Me/Believe in Me (43 page)

Yet the world waited for no man. Dragon's silent reminder awakened him to the realization that time was passing. Further delay would change nothing. Indeed, it was cruelty of another kind.

He had a sudden, overwhelming need to be done with this. But how? Knowing what must be, he had not thought of the actual doing of it. The possibility of taking the whip himself filled him with such crawling horror that he discarded it immediately. Nor could he bear to put such a burden on his brother.

He was caught, unable to find his way out of a trap at least partially of his own making, when Olaf suddenly stepped forward. Quietly, the older man said, “You charged me to protect her, lord.” He held out his hand. “Let me do so now.”

Wolf took a long breath, heedless of the pain that stabbed through him. He looked into the grizzled face of the man he was about to trust as he had never trusted anyone. Olaf's eyes were filled with understanding and compassion.

Slowly, not taking his gaze from him, Wolf gestured for the whip.

S
WEAT TRICKLED DOWN OLAF S BROW, OVER HIS WEATH
-ered cheeks, and into his thick gray beard. He stood some twenty paces from the post, the long black snake of the whip uncoiled in his hand. The crowd was silent. No one moved or made so much as a murmur.

Cymbra braced herself as best she could. Above all, she did not want to appear a coward, no matter how terrified she felt. Pride was involved but so too was the need to spare Wolf as much as she possibly could.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. She said a final prayer that it would be over soon and squeezed her eyes shut.

Olaf raised his arm. Still-powerful muscles flexed. Face taut with concentration, he flicked the whip through the air. It fell inches short of Cymbra's back. A ripple ran through the crowd, not of disappointment or anger but rather of sympathy, as though man and woman alike understood his difficulty.

He wiped his brow, inhaled deeply, and took a measured step forward. Again the whip darted. This time the very tip of it touched Cymbra's back. She jerked more in surprise than pain. Indeed, she was startled by how very little she felt. Again, Olaf raised his arm. Again the whip touched her but only barely.

Incredibly, insanely, the thought occurred to her that at this rate her punishment would take all night.

“Enough,” Wolf said, his voice low and guttural, wrenched from the very depths of his being.

Olaf gave a shuddering sigh of relief that was picked up by the crowd and let his arm fall.

Wolf stepped forward. Cymbra's breath caught as he carefully drew the fabric of her gown over her back. As he did so, he very lightly traced the two thin red marks that were the only evidence of the whip's passing.

“As the law requires,” he said hoarsely, “punishment will end at dawn.”

So she was to remain at the post through the night. It was warm, the sky clear. While hardly the most comfortable way to spend several hours, neither was it anywhere near as terrible as it would have been had she truly been whipped.

As she realized that the whipping was over almost before it began, gratitude flowed through her, not merely for having been spared pain but for the trust in her husband that had not been misplaced. He had set aside his own pain and anger to administer justice tempered by mercy. Had there ever been a nobler, more honorable man? No wonder she loved him so completely and no wonder she would do anything she had to for his sake.

The crowd dispersed quietly. Wolf said a few words to Olaf but too softly for Cymbra to hear. Then they left, along with Dragon. Only Brother Joseph remained, having secured permission from Wolf to stay with her.

He did not attempt to speak with her, for which she was grateful, but took a seat on a rock some little distance away. His silent presence faded quickly from her awareness. Cymbra was left alone.

Tentatively, she tested her bonds in the hope that they might have loosened enough for her to wiggle out of them. That was not to be, nor had she really expected it. She glanced over her shoulder at Brother Joseph, who sat with his head bent and his hands folded.

With a pang of guilt for disturbing him at his prayers, Cymbra moaned. She closed her eyes when she did so and didn't see his reaction but an instant later she heard a footfall just beside her.

“My lady … ?”

Again she moaned, and let her weight sag onto her arms as though she could no longer stand upright. That was all Brother Joseph needed. He picked up the hem of his robe and ran for help.

Scant moments passed before he was back and not alone.

“I'm afraid she may be ill, my lord. She moaned, and then when I tried to speak with her, she didn't respond.” With a sigh, the good monk added, “Women are very delicate after all.”

Obviously the dear man had never witnessed childbirth, Cymbra thought. She only just managed to hold very still as Wolf touched the side of her face gently.

“Cymbra … ?”

The deep worry and regret in his voice brought tears to her eyes. Only with the greatest difficulty did she restrain them. In less than a heartbeat, he cut through her bonds and lifted her into his arms. Her pretense almost did shatter then, for she was struck with fear that he would reopen his wound. His swift, powerful stride to their lodge reassured her just enough to remain silent.

With great care, Wolf laid her on her stomach on the bed. He spoke her name again softly. When she didn't respond, he drew her gown from her back. She felt his gaze on her. He moved away from the bed but returned almost at once. With gentle strokes, he applied a soothing ointment to the two thin red marks.

His touch almost undid her. She yearned to turn over, hold out her arms to him, and reassure him that she was fine. Only the image of Hawk in the cell, still facing an unknown fate, stopped her.

Though she loathed the need for it, Cymbra moaned again.

Wolf sighed raggedly. He straightened away from the bed and gently pulled a cover up over her. A moment longer, he stood looking down at her. His hand lightly touched her hair. Then he was gone.

Alone, she was free to cry out the turmoil of emotions plaguing her these many hours and did so, her tears soaking the pillow. At length, she quieted and raised her head. There was no sound from outside the lodge, no indication of a guard or anyone else nearby.

Quickly, before her resolve weakened, she rose, threw on a cloak, and opened her medical box. It was the work of moments to find what she needed.

The guards in front of the cells received a ration of cider and food several hours before dawn. Slipping from the lodge, a gray shadow concealed within the deeper shadows of the night, she made her way cautiously to the kitchens. The barrel of cider was just within, near the door. Carefully easing out the plug, she shook in a finely ground powder. It was the same drug she had given to Dragon to make him sleep.

With the plug back in place, she shook the barrel lightly, then quickly concealed herself behind the door to the root cellar. A short time later, the senior guard came to fetch the food and drink. Cymbra held her breath until he was gone, then moved to the window looking out toward the cells. From there, she had a clear view of the men as they ate and drank, talking quietly among themselves. Quickly enough, their conversation gave way first to silence, then to snores.

With a final, careful look in all directions, Cymbra left the kitchens and ran across the field to the cells. Her heart pounded wildly and her hands shook so badly she feared she would not be able to hold the key even when she found it. But the moment her fingers touched the cool metal, she calmed.

The heavy lock made a faint screeching sound as it gave way, causing her to flinch. A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her that the guards in the watchtowers had not heard.

When she turned back to the door, Hawk was at the grille, his hands closed so tightly on the bars that his knuckles were white. He stared at her in mingled hope and disbelief. “Cymbra, thank God! Are you all right?”

She nodded quickly. “You must promise me something.”

“What?”

“You won't kill the guards. Wolf didn't at Holyhood and you mustn't either. Can you promise that?”

He looked down and saw that she was about to release the lock. Saw, too, the men slumped unconscious outside the door. Understanding came swiftly and with it admiration.

“You are a brave woman, my sister.”

Although his praise warmed her, she shook her head. “Only a desperate one. Promise?”

“Promise,” he agreed even as he motioned to his men.

Cymbra opened the door to be caught in her brother's arms. He held her with great care but she felt his fierce joy all the same. Still holding her, he gave a few murmured orders. Barely were they spoken than the men were in motion, flowing out of the cell, hugging the darkness as they headed for the towers.

The guards, taken by surprise, fell soundlessly. The gates to the stronghold were eased open.

Cymbra hugged her brother close. She had no idea when, if ever, she would see him again and the thought tore at her. But she managed a weak smile. “I love you. With all my heart, I thank you for everything you did for me.” Her voice caught. She gathered herself and rushed on. “Now go quickly and in safety.”

Hawk gazed down at her. His eyes were unusually gentle. He touched her cheek lightly. “So brave, Cymbra. Always the healer, always willing to sacrifice yourself for others.”

She started to say again that she was not and again that he must go, but she had no chance. His arm slipped around her even as his hand closed on her mouth. As shock roared through her, he said, “But never would I leave you here after this.”

Too late, she realized his intent and her own terrible mistake. She tried frantically to struggle but her brother's
strength was as great as her husband's. He lifted her effortlessly, muffling any sound she made against his chest. Swift as the wind that murmured around them, he carried her from the stronghold of the Norse Wolf.

In the shadows beyond the great hall, a lone man watched them go. He stood with his fists clenched at his side, fighting his own fierce urge to keep what was his. But she wasn't really, was she? She had been taken by force and compelled to marry by threat of death. In his arrogance, he had presumed he could keep her safe, but the memory of her tied to the punishment post would haunt him all his days.

He loved her as he had never dreamed it was possible to love. So much so that he could do nothing less than set her free.

Wolf watched the shadowy figures vanish through the gates. For a long time after that, he did not move. Starlight shone on the tears in his silvery eyes.

D
RAGON SHOOK THE SNOW OFF HIS CLOAK
as he came into the hall. He handed the garment to a servant, then nodded to Ulfrich, who was himself just entering. “How is he?” Dragon asked as they walked to the hearth together to warm their hands. Winter had struck weeks earlier than expected, interrupting an autumn that seemed to have come and gone in a night. Already, snow covered the ground and more was falling steadily. The last vessels that weren't wintering in Sciringesheal had left a fortnight before.

“Better,” Ulfrich replied. “There is no sign of the fever returning.”

They exchanged a look of relief. The fever that had struck Wolf in the aftermath of his wounding by Cymbra was not entirely unexpected. But it had raged so fiercely and lingered so long that the seriousness of his condition had been concealed from all but his closest followers. So far as everyone else was concerned, the Norse Wolf was content in his ice-bound lair, all the more so for being rid of his troublesome Saxon wife.

Privately, Dragon had come to the conclusion that the fever's grip on his brother was at least in part because Wolf had no will to fight it. Fear of what that would mean had prompted Dragon to linger in Sciringesheal when he would otherwise have returned to his own holdings farther to the west or perhaps ventured south again to pass the winter in gentler climes.

Instead, he had stayed, determined to fight whatever demons raged within the Wolf. Yet in the end he had to credit his brother's own vast strength for bringing him through the crisis whether he had truly wanted to survive it or not.

That was a grim thought and Dragon was still frowning over it after Ulfrich had taken his leave. Servants moved about the hall preparing for the evening meal but none disturbed the man brooding by the fire. None, that is, until a slight movement beside him alerted him to the presence of another.

He looked up, surprised to see the Irish girl—what was her name? The one who had served Cymbra and who helped Ulfrich now.

“What do you want?” Dragon asked.

He saw her take a breath and sensed she was nervous. Her face, framed by brown hair, was very pale. More kindly, he added, “Sit down.”

She hesitated only briefly before doing so. As she settled herself on the bench across from him, he said, “You're Brita, aren't you? The healer?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Hardly a healer, lord, though I have some small skill.” She paused, then said in a rush, “Thanks to the Lady Cymbra, who taught me and who was always so kind to me.”