Dream of Me/Believe in Me

shuddered at the thought. Her stomach was uncertain these days. She ascribed it to the stressful circumstances. “I'm really not hungry. How goes the feast?”
    “They are bottomless pits, these jarls. It is fortunate you planned so generously for they consume everything in sight. Their hunger is exceeded only by their thirst.”
    “They rode out again today. I heard them go.” The pounding of their horses' hooves had sounded like thunder shaking the walls of the lodge.
    Brita nodded. “Drunk or sober, they love to hunt. Fortunately, only a few have fallen off their horses and those have hard enough heads to bear it.”
    “What about the man who was knived last night?” Brita had told her about that when she brought breakfast. It was the only kniving so far, something everyone considered a sign of how well things were going.
    “Ulfrich says he will be fine but thanks you for the salve all the same.”
    Cymbra set her sewing aside and stood up. Her neck and shoulders felt stiff from lack of movement. Despite having done almost nothing for three days, she felt oddly tired. But then perhaps it was not so odd after all, for she had slept poorly when she slept at all.
    “And the rest of it?” she asked, looking at Brita.
    The Irish girl shrugged. “I think it safe to say there will be no such thing as a poor whore left in these parts, only rich ones.”
    That was no surprise. The noise coming from the feasting halls late into the nights included the bold laughter of women floating above the beat of drums and the lilt of pipes. Nor was it confined to the halls. Those seeking a bit of privacy had often stumbled past her lodge. One pair had fallen to coupling right up against the wall, only to be shooed away by whoever happened to be on sentry duty at the time.
    No man stood post outside her lodge for more than a few hours. She wondered if that was Wolf's way of making sure the guard was always alert and fresh, or if he thoughtlonger contact might cause a hapless male to fall victim to her wiles. Did he imagine she would try to escape, and if so, where did he think she would go?
    She might have asked him had she been given the opportunity, but since their angry confrontation in the great hall her husband had absented himself. He had not returned to their lodge that night or the next. Lying awake, listening to the ribald sounds of merriment, she tormented herself with thoughts of how he was amusing himself.
    “I heard some of the whores complaining,” Brita said, eyeing her mistress. “The most beautiful of them vie for the attention of the Norse Wolf but he ignores them all.”
    Cymbra wished heartily to believe her. The pain of imagining Wolf with some other woman—or women— was so great that she could scarcely bear it.
    When Brita left, still urging her to eat, Cymbra glanced at the food on the tray but could not bring herself to taste a morsel. It was growing too dark to sew, she did not wish to play her lute for herself alone, there were no medicines that needed making. She had read her precious scrolls over and over until every word was imprinted on her memory. There was nothing left for her to do.
    Night came and with it the steady increase of sounds from the feasting halls. The warm, still air of the lodge seemed to press in, smothering her. She jumped up suddenly and paced back and forth across the room but the activity gave her no ease. Too soon, she slumped again in the chair beside the table. A flicker of movement barely visible through the slats of the shutters drew her eye. She leaned closer, peering out, even as she prayed that no one would notice her. To be caught in such a humiliating pastime would shame her even further.
    By the light of torches set up at intervals around the hill top, she saw Brita walking toward the women's hall. Itlooked as though she was retiring for the night, which Cymbra was glad to see for surely Brita needed her rest.
    But wait … there came three stumbling louts, so drunk they could scarcely walk upright. They saw Brita, stopped for a moment, then continued toward her eagerly.
    “Jus' wha' we need, a whore ready to hand,” the largest of the three said. He was tall, with the lanky strength of youth, dark haired, and well dressed for all that his clothes were in disarray.
    Another—shorter by a few inches and stockier— agreed. “Sthupid to leave the hall without one.”
    “No mind, she'll do.” The third was between the two others in height and perhaps a