Dream of Me/Believe in Me

kept his numbers into his tunic, he took his own seat. A pretty serving girl, the same one who of late always seemed to be close by, seeing to his needs, gave him a mug of ale and what even the preoccupied Edvard knew to be an encouraging smile. That prompted a fresh round of chuckles from the other men, including Hawk, who was glad to shuck off gloomy thoughts of his impending marriage, if only briefly.
    They were certainly in a good mood at the high table, Krysta thought. As the deep, male laughter mounted, she tried very hard not to stare but caught herself doing it anyway. Laughter made her husband-to-be look younger and more approachable. For just an instant, she considered doing as Thorgold and Raven had advised, going to him and revealing her true identity. The idea was tempting, all the more so for the stirrings of desire awakening within her. She had a brief, flashing glimpse of herself in his arms but turned from it firmly. For all its enticement, the idea was also fraught. Even if the Hawk forgave her deception, perhaps even laughed over it as he was doing now at some sally from one of his men, she would be no closer to her goal of eluding the fate that had overtaken her mother. She must—
must
—be loved by her proud Saxon lord. Nothing, not even her own yearnings, could be allowed to draw her from that course.
    Seeking distraction, Krysta glanced around the hall. It was a large timber structure, similar to the hall where the women servants slept, but much more spacious and of an indisputably male nature. The walls were hung with banners, shields, and weapons, all glinting in the light of the center fire and the torches set on tall iron spikes. The lord's table was massive, made of polished oak and set with platters of beaten bronze. For Hawk, there was a high-backed chair of equally imposing design. His lieutenants, the steward, and the others privileged to be seated there were accommodated on stools of finely tanned leather. All in all, it was a display of wealth and power that left no doubt the master of Hawkforte was a man to be reckoned with.
    Nor were the humbler folk forgotten. For them, there were large trestle tables and benches, platters of tin and pottery, and even cups of carved horn. For all, there was an array of foods carried out by servants under the watchful eye of the Lady Daria, who, from her own seat at the high table, glared over them. Alone among those closest to the Hawk, she and one other, a priest who sat next to her, did not share in the general merriment.
    Raven's sharp elbow in her side drew Krysta from her thoughts. She jumped a little in surprise. “He's staring at you again,” her servant informed her. Raven scowled down her long nose and sent a sidelong glance toward the high table. “Seems puzzled, he does, and who can blame him? What were you thinking of, gawking like that?”
    Krysta darted a quick look at Hawk, saw that he was indeed staring at her, and ducked her head. Briefly, she wished a hole would open and consume her. A little sigh of relief escaped her as the man beside Hawk said something, diverting his attention.
    Thorgold seized a platter of herring and began helping himself. He was as quick with a basket of bread, ignoring the chiding glances from those around them.
    Raven took a few of the small fish, popped them into her mouth whole, and swallowed with a grimace. She looked with scorn at the partridges being carried to the high table. “Those would have tasted so much the better on the wing.”
    “Best hope the cook isn't too inventive,” Thorgold chuckled, “elsewise, you could be seeing one of your cousins in the same condition.”
    Raven's small eyes flashed. “Not even these savage Saxons are that foolish.”
    “Hush,” Krysta murmured. They spoke in Norse but there was no telling who might understand them. She had needed scarcely a glance around the great hall to tell her that much of Hawkforte's prosperity came from trade. Trade made possible by the might of its lord, who protected the fine harbor adjacent to the fortress and the ships coming and going from it. The Norse, too, were great traders and Thorgold had his own ways of acquiring little luxuries from far lands. If that involved lurking beneath bridges to exact a toll from unwary travelers, Krysta did not care to inquire too closely. She recognized fine velvets from Byzantium, the scent of spices from the legendary lands of the rising sun, jewels from beyond the great desert said to