Dream of Me/Believe in Me (54 page)

His glance drifted past Daria, swiftly as always for he disliked being reminded of her. So, too, did he spare scarcely a moment's thought for his house priest, the dour Father Elbert. Hawk was of a mind to replace the fellow, he just hadn't gotten around to it yet. That left visitors to his hall, merchants passing through, some he recognized, others he did not. And, of course, the servants of his absent bride, the trio seated together at the farthest table. He had made a point of not looking at the girl but now he did so, finding the sight of her oddly refreshing, as though he had wandered into a cool, sylvan glen. He could almost hear the droplets of water falling through moss-laden rocks. So clear was the sensation that Hawk had to shake himself out of it.

He frowned, struck yet again by his unwonted susceptibility to the girl, and turned his attention to her companions. The black-garbed woman was busy cleaning the meat from a small pile of bones on her trencher. Pigeons had been served and he supposed that was one of them. Beside her, Thorgold was quaffing ale. He saw Hawk looking at him and raised his cup in salute. The girl
noticed and looked in the same direction. Her gaze met Hawk's and he saw, actually saw across the length of the hall, her cheeks redden. She looked away hastily but not before he was struck by a bolt of lust so intense as to rob him of breath. The sensation stunned him. He was no randy youth to be overtaken by winsome eyes and a fair form. Far from it, he was a man of power and discipline. Yet just then he felt as though the years had fallen away and he was no more than a callow boy confronted by the first mysterious stirrings of his body.

Absurd. Absolutely, utterly absurd. Also mad, for she was, he reminded himself for perhaps the hundredth time, his betrothed's
servant.
Even if his soon-to-be wife was the finest woman to walk the Earth, such lunatic behavior could turn her into another Daria. The thought of being shackled to a shrill, harping woman who would actually have some claim on his time and attention filled him with sensible dread. Something would have to be done. Perhaps he could persuade the Lady Krysta to send her servants home. He could provide her with all the servants she could possibly need but she might resist all the same, preferring the company of those familiar to her. So he would begin his marriage by making his wife sad and lonely, all in order to avoid making her jealous and enraged. He sighed, wondering how large a supply of hair ribbons he should set about acquiring.

He seemed vexed, Krysta thought, and wondered at the cause. Wondered, too, about the odd look he had given her just before ignoring her completely. That look had made her feel warmed clear through and oddly tremulous. How extraordinary that someone could make her feel that way merely by looking at her. How exhilarating that the person doing it was to be her husband. She felt buoyed, as though she floated on a cushion of water, elated yet calm all at the same time. That made no sense, she was contradicting herself.
He
was contradicting herself,
making her feel all sorts of at-odds emotions that jumbled together inside her. He kept looking at her, on the beach, in the hall, in her dreams. She had thought to stay beyond his sight so that later he would not recognize the girl who came to him as his wife. Now she had to wonder if there was still a chance that would work, and if it did not, how would she explain? Laugh it all off as a joke? Admit her fears, cajole him to excuse them? Neither appealed to her but she might have no other choices. Not that it mattered in the end, not so long as he loved her.

He desired her, she knew that in some essential way of knowing she had never known before. But desire was not love. So, too, did she know that. How to bridge the gulf? Krysta toyed with the food before her, finding she had no appetite. Raven was too busy with another pigeon to notice, but Thorgold did. He shot her a sympathetic look before returning to his ale.

For all that, Krysta slept surprisingly well and longer than she was accustomed to. She woke to squeals of delight coming from just beyond the women's hall. Finding it empty save for herself, she dressed hurriedly and went out into a warm, bright day. Almost at once she spied the girl child Edythe, leader of the motley crew that tumbled at her heels. So, too, did Edythe see her and grin broadly. “Daria has gone to market again. One of the kitchen boys heard her say she wouldn't be back until supper.”

Before Krysta could think, she returned Edythe's grin and asked eagerly, “What shall we do first?”

The flicker of surprise in Edythe's gray eyes alerted Krysta to her misstep. How foolish of her; adults would not normally join in the antics of children. But her own childhood had been barren of such companionship and she had missed it truly. Not that she wasn't grateful for all she had known, only that she wished to know just a little of what it meant to be an ordinary child in an ordinary world.

“I meant what will you do first?”

Edythe continued looking at her. “I don't know.” She hesitated a moment, weighing the novel situation. Kindness, or perhaps curiosity, won out. “But you can come with us if you want.”

“I would be in the way,” Krysta said softly.

Edythe shrugged. “You weren't yesterday.” She turned to go, looked back over her shoulder. “C'mon then.”

Krysta went, trailing after the little girl until they linked up with her friends, who, after their initial surprise, accepted her reappearance among them with the ease of open-hearted children. They went first to the river for an extended bout of frog hunting, which gave way to a frog-jumping competition won by a shy little sprite of a boy who glowed with pleasure when Edythe declared his frog the victor. From there, they gathered berries and wild greens, lolling in the grass to eat them. The day warmed and they paddled in the river, venturing along it all the way to the beach, where they rooted about for clams and mussels, finding a bounty of both. Thus laden, they returned home to deliver their treasures to their mothers, who received them gladly. The women spared a few curious glances for Krysta but did not question her. Indeed, no one had questioned her since her arrival at Hawkforte save for its master. She wondered if being a servant, and a foreign one at that, rendered her in some way invisible or if this was only an expression of courtesy on the part of people naturally inclined to respect the privacy of others. Whatever the answer, she observed that the parents were indulgent, kind to their children and glad to see them have a day of leisure. Nor did it end then, for Edythe led them back out to a circle beyond the fortress walls where, so she informed Krysta, the older boys bound for knighthood trained. They were done for the day, gone off to polish
their weapons and talk of manly things, thus leaving the circle available for gentler pursuits.

The children danced. They whirled around in circles, sometimes alone, sometimes holding hands. They sang, nonsense songs mostly that they made up as they went along. They whistled, clapped, stamped their feet, flung their arms to the sky, and laughed. Krysta watched, entranced. She had never seen so much lovely, glowing energy blossoming in one spot. Instinctively, she was drawn into it. Edythe took her hand, grinning up at her, and suddenly Kysta, too, was dancing, around and around, the steps becoming more intricate, the tune playing in her mind, the song forming on her lips. The children became a line behind and around her, following where she led, their darting bodies creating ancient patterns that coiled back upon themselves before bursting out again in new shapes, new forms, new energy. It was a dance for starlight and hidden places, for strands washed by moon-bright foam, for children of another ken. Yet here it was in the bright sun of a Hawkforte afternoon, among children who held within them, all unsuspected, marvels beyond reckoning. Those might be hidden but their exuberance was plain for all to see. Certainly it did not escape the Hawk, who, coming off the training field thinking of nothing more than a good steam and a mug of cold cider, stopped suddenly at the sight of them.

Children dancing? Had he ever seen that before? Of course, he must have for children were ever-energetic, yet did memory elude him and without it came the stirring unease that perhaps such merriment should be more in evidence in his domain. Since it was not, he sought some explanation for its sudden appearance and found it quickly enough. The green-eyed girl was right there in among them, noticeable only because she was taller but otherwise gamboling along with the rest. The air seemed
to shimmer around her. The glow must be dust raised by their feet, glimmering in the sun. Yet it had rained in the night, softly like a benediction, and there was no dust. Only that glimmering, shimmering ripple of the air right to the edge of the circle.

He blinked, looked again, saw the children and the green-eyed girl bathed in radiance. He was no dancer but he knew the morris dances and the other revels, still indulged in on the holy days or, more often, the night before them. This dance he did not recognize. The steps were more complex. Yet did it seem he had seen it somewhere … sometime … as though in a dream. A tune rippled on the air, very faint, taking him by surprise for he saw no players to make such music. He heard a reed, high and fluting, and beneath it the throb of a drum beaten lightly. Then it was gone and the children had stopped, suddenly, as though frozen in place. They were staring at him.

Only then did he realize he had come almost into the circle, so absorbed was he in watching the dance that he might have joined it.

“My lord …” the green-eyed girl began. He sensed an explanation forming, perhaps a request for pardon. He felt the tension of the children, looked around at their faces set in expectation of reprimand or worse. Thought of the child he had lost unborn when his feckless wife went to her death, felt the old pain of that for the first time in more years than he could count.

“You should dance more often,” he said, and smiled.

They stared at him as though he had grown a second head. All but the green-eyed girl, who, after a moment, cast him a smile of gratitude and … vanished. No, she didn't really, but they all moved off suddenly before he might have a chance to reconsider the good humor they apparently did not trust. In an instant, it seemed, she was gone, yet did she linger in his thoughts after his steam and
the mug of cider, after the evening's meal was eaten, the stories sung, the fires banked. Later, even as he slept, she danced through his dreams, laughing. God's blood, he was a fool after all.

T
HE AIR WAS TOO STILL; IT CLUNG TO HER LIKE
A shroud. Krysta turned over restlessly, the ropes of her bed creaking beneath her. Raven fluttered nearby, grumbling. Loath to disturb her, longing to escape the burr of sleeplessness, Krysta rose. She slept nude—who did not?—but donned a shift for modesty's sake before stealing forth from the hall. The night air was warm with an exotic scent of far-off lands carried on the sea breeze. She looked up and saw the sea above, the ribbon of stars stretching from horizon to horizon, not a wisp of cloud to mar them. The moon had long since set, the stars the only light save for the flare of watch fires at intervals along the walls. Coils of dark smoke rose from them, drifting around the silhouettes of men who paused in their patrol to speak a few words and survey the night together.

Hugging the shadows, she drifted toward the inner edge of the walls. There was no clear thought in her mind of where to go or what to do until she saw the embers glowing red in the smithy's forge. All day the ring of hammer on metal sang out from there yet now was it stilled, the only sounds the faint call of an owl and, closer by, a rustling in the straw. That and a soft mewing. She crept closer, scarcely breathing. The tabby raised her head, eyeing Krysta with frank appraisal. After a moment, she blinked and returned her attention to the tiny kittens clustered at her belly. There were six in all, most still suckling but a few, milk-full, asleep. Balanced on her knees, Krysta observed them from a courteous distance. She had seen kittens many times before but never quite this young, pink and blind from the womb. Likely they had been born
this very night. Their mother had picked a goodly spot, warmed by the forge but tucked back in a corner well padded by straw. She appeared to know her business. As Krysta watched, the tabby laved her kits with a rough tongue, making their skin flush red. She broke off once, distracted by the scurry of a bold mouse who, under other circumstances, would have made a fine late-night snack. It escaped unscratched, thanks to her preoccupation.

“I'll bring you herring tomorrow,” Krysta murmured. “You shouldn't have to hunt while your babes are so young.”

The tabby blinked again as if in acknowledgment and returned to her task. Krysta continued to watch her, finding the sight of maternal care oddly soothing. So much so that she woke with a start as her head hit her chest. She had no idea how much time had passed but her legs were cramped. She moved them stiffly, bending to rub the calves as she hobbled from the forge.

He saw her first bent over, indiscernible in the predawn light. To the east, the horizon was rimmed with gray. To the west, stars still shone brilliantly. A freshening breeze blew off the sea, ruffling the tunic Hawk had cast on hurriedly when he woke from the sort of dream he had not had since tender manhood. Either his betrothed arrived promptly—and proved herself a warm and willing woman—or he must needs acquire a mistress. A man of his responsibility and supposed dignity could not afford such preoccupation with the gentler sex as he had known in his youth. For whatever reason, his juices were stirring. Best he heed them.

He was set on that, having decided in his mind, when he spied the girl coming from the forge. What did she want there in that place of fire and steel? What possible purpose could she have? And why, if she was wont to wander about at night, had she not clothed herself more properly? So far as he could see, she wore only a shift that
the night wind shaped to her body. A very nice body, so he thought, slender and lithe. Never mind that, why was she creeping about? Or was she? She seemed in some distress.

For so large a man, he moved with stealthy grace. Between one breath and the next, he seemed to materialize directly in front of Krysta. She gasped, fear washing out the pain in her limbs. For an instant she didn't recognize him, and her fear mounted. What folly to be caught alone, scantily dressed, in the dark by an unknown man who might intend … what? A moment later, he moved and she knew him, not by his features, which she still could scarcely see, but by the essence of him, somehow already familiar to her.