Dream of Me/Believe in Me (46 page)

Daria pushed her way between the women to get a better view. She froze, her dour face rigid with shock. A moment later, her shrill scream reverberated off the walls.

“Vikings! Devils of the north! Thousands of them! We are doomed!”

Cymbra gasped but not because of what her half-sister had said. She was gripped by a sudden clawing pain that reached clear around from her back to center in her belly. So intense was it that she doubled over. At the same moment, she was suddenly drenched by a shower of water from between her legs.

Her soft cry of surprise momentarily distracted the women, who stared at her in blank amazement. “What is it?” Daria demanded, resenting the intrusion on her terror.

Miriam stood up slowly. She spared a glance out the windows where the mist was parting to reveal the fierce dragon prows of a dozen or more Viking war ships cutting through the water at high speed, aimed straight for the strand beneath Hawkforte. So close were they that the
men could be seen straining at the oars, their powerful backs flexing rhythmically as if to a single will.

Already the signal horns were sounding from the watchtowers. Men and women were streaming through the gates, dragging their children and animals with them. Hawk was in the bailey, buckling on his sword and conferring with his lieutenants.

With a shrug, the elderly nurse said what she thought ought to be obvious to all. “The Norse Wolf comes.” She turned her attention to Cymbra, who was gasping again and looking very startled. “As does his child.”

Pandemonium erupted. The women were torn, drawn to help Cymbra yet riveted by what was happening just beyond their walls. Most simply fluttered about, trying to do something useful but accomplishing nothing.

Miriam took matters in hand. She shepherded Cymbra out of the solar while giving instructions over her shoulder. “One of you take word to the Lord Hawk. Tell him his niece or nephew will be born this day. Then send to the kitchens for hot water, clean blankets need to be fetched, there is much to be done.”

Reminded that the great doings of men notwithstanding, a child was coming into the world, the ladies calmed and hurried to their tasks. All save Daria, who continued to stare out the windows with satisfaction so great she was hard-pressed to conceal it behind the mask of false fear.

Now the wrath the fools so richly deserved would surely strike them. Now there would be retribution for their failure to exalt and honor her, she who was superior to them all. She should have had
everything
—marriage to a man wise enough to do as she directed, courageous enough to seize the power that had gone to Alfred instead, grateful enough to set her above all women, to make her the
queen
she was born to be.

Instead, she was supposed to think herself fortunate
for the charity of her brother's sufferance, for she knew well what Hawk thought of her, knew and hated him to the very marrow of her being. Now, at last, blood would run and the undeserving would die. But she would survive, her plans for escape being long laid. And she would reap the rewards promised to her in return for preventing the alliance of Norse and Saxon. Happy day when she had thought to intercept the letter sent from the Wolf to her brother! And even happier that in her skill and cunning she had managed to steal Hawk's seal long enough to forge the reply intended to provoke not peace but war.

So did she proclaim, but no one was left there to hear, neither her words nor the mad laughter that accompanied them. They had all gone elsewhere, ignoring her—yet one more crime for which she swore they would pay.

W
HAT CAN YOU SEE? CYMBRA ASKED. CLAD IN
A fresh night robe, she had agreed reluctantly to get into bed but was determined to know what was happening. A steady stream of women came and went. They were pale and tense but so eager to help that she could not send them away.

Miriam set aside the swaddling clothes she was folding and went to the window. She glanced out with little interest. “Your husband is here.”

Cymbra felt a surge of joy so intense as to rob her of breath. She had to clutch the covers to keep from leaping out of the bed and running straight to him. Although, to be truthful, probably the best she could have done was to waddle.

“What is he doing?”

Miriam's frown silenced the woman who had been about to answer. “He's talking with the Lord Hawk. They're having a nice conversation. Now you forget about them and tend to your own task.”

The fierce pain that suddenly took Cymbra made the good sense of that advice all the more apparent. Miriam hurried to her side and clasped her hand. “There, there, sweetheart, it will be all right. Just breathe when they come and try to relax in between.”

“Sweetheart,” Cymbra murmured as the pain receded. She blinked back tears that had nothing whatsoever to do with her labor. “He called me that.”

“Called you what?” Miriam asked.

“Wolf, he called me
elskling
, ‘sweetheart.’ ”

“What a dear man,” the elderly nurse said, forgetting that she had rained down a thousand curses on his head when she learned he was responsible for taking Cymbra.

“He is dear,” she gasped as another pain seized her. “Dear and kind and gentle … and always so reasonable, so understanding.”

Miriam murmured consolingly, gently wiping the sweat from Cymbra's brow as the contractions continued to come hard and fast.

Meanwhile, down below on the open ground in front of Hawkforte, the dear man had a few things of his own to say.

Armored and helmeted, his sword gleaming as it slashed the air, the Scourge of the Saxons roared, “Stone by stone! Plank by plank! I will leave nothing standing. Send her out
now
!”

From his position on the parapet, Hawk looked at the enraged warrior who had just threatened to demolish his keep and could not repress a surge of admiration. Behind Wolf, drawn up in ranks ten deep, was a veritable Viking army. He estimated at least a thousand men, and there might be more. His own garrison matched them in strength and he had the additional advantage of high walls. But not for a moment did he doubt that the Wolf stood a damn good chance of doing exactly as he threatened.

Nor could he blame him for seriously considering it.

Fortunately, they were closer to accord than Wolf had any way of knowing. It was now up to Hawk to convince him of that. Leaning over the wall, he gave his answer. “Cymbra is busy right now. Come in and we'll talk.”

Hearing this, the Viking array shouted in derision and drummed their sword hilts against their shields. But Wolf did not answer immediately. Instead, he spoke quietly with his brother, who stood at his side.

“Strange answer; what the hell does he mean she's busy?”

Dragon shrugged and didn't meet Wolf's eyes. “It's not as if he said no.”

Wolf glanced back up at the parapet, noting that Hawk was watching him with interest but no apparent concern. He didn't look like a man who wanted to fight, but then it wasn't always possible to tell.

“Hell of a risk,” Dragon said cheerfully. “Just you and a thousand Saxons. You're good, all right, but maybe not
that
good.”

“What choice do I have?” Wolf muttered. “If I try to take the damned keep, Cymbra could be hurt in the process. Odds are Hawk's already figured that out.”

Dragon nodded. “Sounds like he's got you.” He patted his brother on the back encouragingly. “Don't worry. I'll handle things out here.”

Sparing a moment's thought for Dragon's odd willingness to see him walk into the jaws of death, Wolf nodded. When all was said and done, there was little else he could do.

Hawk shouted down an order and the gates were opened just enough to admit one lone Viking. Wolf strode into the bailey yard to find himself the target of all eyes. The Saxon warriors glared at him but kept their distance, well aware that they were in the presence of a legend.

Hawk was more forthcoming. He jumped down from
the wall and walked over to Wolf. Both men were armed but Hawk had not drawn his sword. He stood before his “guest,” took a deep breath, and said what he knew both honor and reason demanded. It wasn't easy but he managed it with more grace than he had thought possible.

“I made a mistake when I took Cymbra from Sciringesheal. I was wrong to do it and I ask your pardon.”

Wolf stared at him, dumbfounded. Never had he expected that the proud Saxon warrior would admit guilt and apologize. A great knot of tension began to ease in him, just a little. Still cautious, he said, “Then she will come to me now and we will leave.”

Hawk hesitated. “First there are other matters we should discuss, bearing on the alliance. That's what you wanted in the beginning, isn't it? Have you changed your mind?”

Scant moments before, Wolf would have sworn that he had. The very notion of an alliance with the Saxons seemed an evil joke. But now he wasn't so sure. Hawk had apologized and invited him into his home. Honor demanded that he put aside old enmity and at least try for a new beginning.

“I am willing to consider it,” he said grudgingly.

Hawk smiled broadly. “Excellent!” He began walking toward the hall, Wolf beside him. As though they were engaged in no more than the most ordinary conversation, Hawk asked, “Did you have difficulty getting here?”

Silvery eyes blinked. “What?”

“You're a little earlier than I expected. There must still be ice in the sea lanes.”

Wolf shrugged. “We steered around it.” So did he brush aside a feat of seamanship that would become legend in its own right.

“Very sensible,” Hawk said and led the way into his
hall. He gestured to the servants, who, despite their terror, hastened to bring forth refreshment.

“Let us dine together,” Hawk said, “and talk over our differences.”

“I will see Cymbra first, then we will talk all you like.”

“Alas, I regret she truly isn't available at the moment. Let us talk first.”

Hawk had already taken his seat and was waiting for him to do the same. With a spurt of impatience, Wolf yanked off his helmet, tossed it down on the table, and made himself as comfortable as he could be while fighting the lingering urge to hack his host to bits. As for Cymbra, he could only conclude that she was being recalcitrant about seeing him again. All things considered, he couldn't blame her. With an inner sigh, he contemplated how he might win back his wife's favor. Not killing her brother was probably a good first step.

A pasty-faced servant poured mead. Some of the liquid spilled onto the wide wooden table but neither of the warlords noticed. They drank eyeing each other over the rims of their goblets. Food followed. Wolf ignored it. Abruptly, he demanded, “Why did you take Cymbra from Sciringesheal?”

“Why?” Hawk shot back. “How could I have not done so after you
whipped
her.”

“She wasn't hurt,” Wolf insisted, though he flinched at the memory. “You must know that by now.”

“True,” Hawk admitted, “but I didn't then.”

Slowly, Wolf nodded. The first faint stirrings of hope began in him. Lest they grow foolishly strong, he asked, “What about before then, when you pretended to leave and came back? Did she ask you to do that?”

Hawk looked at him in surprise. “No, of course not. She had no idea I was coming. She only agreed to go down
to the ship because I told her that was the only place I'd believe she was speaking freely.”

Hawk watched with interest as all the color drained from his guest's face. “Something wrong?” he asked pleasantly.

Dazedly Wolf said, “That's what Dragon thought. He's only her brother-in-law and he didn't lose faith in her, whereas I, her husband … I believed …”

“Believed what?” Hawk asked more kindly.

Wolf took a breath, let it out slowly. “I thought she was lost to me.”

With a moment's fervent gratitude for being spared the tortures of true love, Hawk said, “That's for the two of you to settle between yourselves. But first, I am charged by King Alfred to work out the details of the alliance between us.”

Reluctantly, Wolf dragged himself back to the matter of great issues. “He knows of it?”

Hawk nodded. “I told him when I went to court a few months ago. He is strongly in support of this and prepared to do everything possible to make it succeed.” Because he did not want any diversion from the matter at hand, he refrained from adding that he had also told King Alfred of the false message sent in response to Wolf's original proposal of the alliance. Britain's monarch had agreed that the Danes were most likely at fault, although how exactly remained to be discovered.

Thus encouraged, the two men buckled down to work. Parchment and ink were sent for, more food arrived, torches were lit as the sun angled westward. Outside in the bailey yard and beyond the walls, two armies waited to learn if there would be peace or war.

And upstairs, in the high tower, new life struggled to be born.

Cymbra gasped as yet another wave of pain struck her. The contractions were coming so fast now that she
had no chance to recover between them. She was consumed by the fury of birth, striving with all her might, yet desperately afraid that her strength would not prove equal to the task. For all that she had assisted many women in childbed, she had never truly understood the experience. Now she did. Deep within her, she felt the ancient, absolute imperative to bring forth life overriding all else, even the instinct for her own survival. Again, her womb contracted. Again, pain devoured her.

After all the hours of anguish, for the first time, Cymbra screamed.

In the hall, Wolf heard. Shock roared through him. He leaped from the table on which the draft of the Norse-Saxon alliance lay and raced for the stairs. Two men-at-arms foolishly stepped into his path. He tossed them aside like so much chaff before the wind and took the steps two at a time. Behind him, still seated, Hawk reached for his goblet and took a long swallow, trying to ignore the fact that his hand shook.

On the upper level of the keep, Wolf paused for a moment, uncertain which way to turn. Another scream told him. He raced down the corridor and thrust open the door at the far end just in time to see—