Dream of Me/Believe in Me

very different when they dealt with women, she observed—or perhaps only with women of her own class, she couldn't be sure.
    In either case, among themselves they were taciturn, saying little, but startlingly blunt when they did speak. She tried very hard not to eavesdrop, but in the confines of the ship that was really impossible. After having her ears reddened several times, she was surprised to find herself becoming accustomed to the men's frankness. She also learned when to avert her eyes, for the men were as matter-of-fact about their bodily needs as they were in their speech.
    Wolf was the only one who spoke to her, and he did so rarely, usually only at the midday and evening meals. He did not mention his reasons for taking her again, nor did he give her any indication of what her fate would be. Cymbra considered asking, but her sense of vulnerability remained so great that she preferred not to know his answer. It was enough to dwell with her confusion over his claim that those left at Holyhood were unharmed—please God let that be so!—coupled with her continued dreadabout her brother. Barely would she begin to contemplate Hawk's likely reaction to her abduction than she would shy away from it as though from the fury of a storm. She loved her brother dearly just as she held him in great respect, but she knew him to be a man of implacable strength and a will capable of ruthless violence. Much as she longed for rescue, she did not even let herself pray for it, knowing as she did the bloodbath it would bring.
    Yet for all that she could hardly claim that her confinement was horrible. Another pallet had been added to the first so that she had a comfortable enough place to sleep. Except for the fresh-caught fish cooked over small, contained fires, the food was either dried or salted, but it was so ample she couldn't finish it. Aside from the lack of clothing other than the ermine cloak, she was denied nothing.
    A captive woman amid a Viking war band, her worst problem was boredom. That and worry over what her brother must be thinking—and planning.
    On the seventh day at sea, just when Cymbra thought she might break down and weep if something didn't happen to interrupt the unending sameness of the hours, something did. She was seated as usual in the bow, her face lifted to the sun, her mind drifting, when a gull glided by on the wind. She straightened up, watching as the bird circled the boat.
    One of the men threw a fish head into the water. The gull swooped, caught its bounty, and swallowed it whole. A short time later, a second bird appeared and was duly fed. Not long after that, Cymbra glimpsed the slight rise along the eastern horizon that she had expected since sighting the first bird.
Land.
    At the prospect of their journey's end, her calmness vanished. She cast her mind ahead, trying to imagine what awaited her. The Norse merchants she had met were pleasant enough but merchants naturally made themselvescongenial, the better to attract business. Brother Chilton, who had actually lived among the Norse, had painted a very different picture of them. A picture lit by fire, drenched in blood, imbued with hideous pagan practices too dreadful for him to describe in more than the most general terms.
    Was that why she had been left unharmed this long? Did the Wolf intend some truly terrible fate for her beyond her capacity to imagine? The color fled from her cheeks as she fought the sudden return of all her fears.
    Wolf saw the change in her and was surprised by it. He would have thought her glad to have the voyage over soon. But on reflection, he realized why she might well feel differently. Deliberately, he had given her no indication of his intent, preferring to let her dwell on the possibilities. She was, he had concluded, an intelligent woman, sensible enough when the time came to weigh alternatives and pick the one that was best for all concerned.
    With a start, he realized that he was beginning to trust her, at least in some ways. That wouldn't do. She was a Saxon, a valiant but unpredictable race that had seemed bound for extinction in England until Alfred rose in the west to lead them against the voracious Danes. Well and good, but a people shouldn't be so dependent on a single leader for their survival. Certainly, his were not.
    At the thought of his people, his mood lifted. As always when he had been away for even a short time, he felt a deep, irresistible yearning for the land of his birth. Soon now