Dream of Me/Believe in Me

Irish girl looked strong and composed. She stared directly at the would-be rapists, her head high and her gaze unflinching.
    Next, Magnus was carried in on a litter. He was very pale, and the arm laid outside the blanket that covered him was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. Ulfrich walked beside him, scarcely taking his eyes from his patient.
    When they were all assembled, Wolf looked at Brita. Gently he said, “Tell us what happened.”
    She did, succinctly and clearly, describing how she had been on her way to bed when the three attacked. She remembered being dragged behind the women's quarters and into the stable.
    “Then one of them, I don't know which, hit me in the forehead. I lost consciousness and remember nothing further until I came to in the stall when it was all over.”
    Murmurings spread through the crowd but were quickly hushed when Wolf turned his attention to Magnus. The young man struggled to rise from the litter, but Wolf quickly gestured him back into place as Ulfrichknelt with a word of admonishment. His voice weak but his words clear, he told what he, too, had seen and done.
    “Then I explained to the Lady Cymbra that I could not leave my post. She went back inside and for a moment I thought she intended to do nothing further.” His mouth twisted at the memory of his foolishness. Wolf shot him a sympathetic glance that gave him the courage to continue. It was no easy thing to report on the behavior of the jarl's wife to the jarl himself.
    “However, I quickly discovered my error when she climbed out a window and ran past me toward where the girl had been taken.” He looked directly at Wolf, his expression obviously apprehensive yet resolute. “I followed at once but when I entered the stall, they—” he paused, taking a breath that obviously pained him, “they struck the lady, and when I saw that happen I was so shocked for a moment that I hesitated. Thus were they able to gain the advantage and attack before I was properly prepared for them.” He hung his head, shamed by his failure. Softly, he said, “I beg your forgiveness, lord.”
    Cymbra pressed her lips tightly together lest she cry out that the young man deserved no blame. The blame was her own for involving him.
    Before she could declare that, Wolf went down on one knee beside the youth. He touched his brow lightly and said so that all could hear, “You were one against three. There is no need for apology; you fulfilled your duty.”
    The young man's look of profound relief and gratitude brought tears to Cymbra's eyes. She was still blinking them away when she realized that her husband had summoned her to speak next.
    No, not her husband. The hooded-eyed man who gazed at her without expression was not the man in whose arms she had lain, whose body had joined so passionately with hers, whose very heart had beat in unison with herown. She knew with sudden, stark certainty that she stood before the mightiest and most feared warlord ever to come out of the northlands. The man whose plans for accord among the Norse were threatened with ruin because of the choice made by one disobedient Saxon bride. Not for a moment did she doubt that he would judge her without mercy.
    As she stepped forward into the circle, she was aware of the sudden stirring among the crowd, almost all of whom were seeing her for the first time. Men looked and looked again, their eyes widening at what they beheld. Many nodded to themselves, as though in sudden understanding.
    She took a breath, painful against the band of tension constricting her chest, and said simply, “I left the lodge because I knew it was the only way to get help for Brita.” She turned to Magnus. “I am truly sorry for your injuries.”
    At this unexpected apology from the wife of the Norse Wolf, who was observing them both, the young man paled yet further. Careful not to look at Cymbra directly, he mumbled, “There is no need for that, my lady. I wish I could have done more.”
    Silence descended. Slowly, before the avid eyes of all assembled, the jarl of Sciringesheal walked across the space separating him from his errant Saxon wife. Slowly, he raised his hand. Cymbra had to draw on all her courage to stand unmoving. When his fingers closed on her chin, she stiffened but met his gaze without flinching. The silver fire of his eyes stole her breath and set her composure to flickering like the torchlight.
    “You knew you were not supposed to leave the lodge.”
    It wasn't a