Dream of Me/Believe in Me

lie near the southern shore of the Mediterranean, and much more. Trade brought with it sophistication, which meant it would be a grave mistake to underestimate these Saxons, however jovial their manner.
    Especially jovial when they were eating as they all were save herself. Realizing that would seem very odd, Krysta looked around hastily for something from which to make her supper. She smiled with relief to see the bowls piled with fresh summer greens and, nearby, rounds of cheese. With that, a bit of bread, and one of the tasty herring she was well content. At the high table, they were supping on roasted haunch of venison. A stew of the same meat was ladled out for all to share. Krysta made herselfbusy with the cheese, and after a moment the bowl of stock, herbs, and floating chunks of flesh passed by her.
    She didn't eat much, Hawk noticed. Mayhap that accounted for her slenderness rather than did the usual hard work of a servant. Mayhap his wife-to-be was an indulgent mistress. Mayhap the unknown Krysta of Vestfold was a kind, gentle woman who would prove a balm to his life. Particularly if he stopped staring at her servant. God's blood, what was wrong with him?
    The thud of his cup as he put it down hard on the table was lost in the general talk and laughter. For that, Hawk was glad. He wanted none of his people to notice his preoccupation—or his susceptibility. Both were weaknesses, therefore to be denied. He was relieved when the scop came forth, taking up his position near the central fire, and flung his arms wide, his deep voice calling out over the assembly, his words punctuated by the soft thrumming of the tabor held by the scop's young apprentice.
    “Hearken!
    I sing of great lords and noble deeds
    Deeds of valor and daring to smite our enemies
    Enemies who flee before us
    We who triumph by the mercy of God
    God-giving great leaders
    King-over-all, Alfred
    His strong right hand, the great Hawk
    Swift of wing, deadly of talon
    Holding us safe within his grasp
    Great lords and noble deeds
    Enemies fleeing
    Our lands our own
    Evermore!”
    Cheers greeted this evocation but a quick hush followed as the tale resumed. Krysta settled in to listen, knowing howmuch there was to glean from the songs of the skalds and judging this teller-of-tales was of the same brotherhood.
    He did not disappoint but went on to recite with eloquence and fervor the events of the age. He sang of Alfred's flight into the Athelney marshes to escape the invading Danes, his return to Somerset to rally his men and bring the armies of the fyrd to great victory over the Danes at Edington. Scarcely a soul in the hall breathed or moved. Though already well known, the story was told with such power as to seem to be unfolding at that very moment. When the scop sang of Alfred's skill as both maker and keeper of peace, the people smiled among themselves. And when his song turned to Hawkforte's master, they grinned and reached again for their drinking cups, casting amused looks at the lord, who appeared resigned to sitting through the recitation of his deeds yet again.
    The scop intoned:
    “Then did the people weep
,
    Weep for the loss of Lady Cymbra
    Taken by stealth in the night
    Night of the Wolf
    Come out of the north
    North did he take her to his great stronghold
    Sciringesheal by the sea
    There did the Hawk fly, straight and true
    True to honor and courage
    Bold to free fair Cymbra
    Returned to us safe.
    Yet safe through the ice lanes comes the Wolf
    Comes to reclaim his bride
    Wife and sister, healer of grace
    Grace to soothe the warriors' rage.
    Then did these two lords make peace
    Peace of Hawkforte, struck here in this place

    Peace of families bound
    Peace of children born and to-be-born
    Peace of our peoples united
    Evermore!”
    Before the last word of the song began to fade, tumultuous cheers broke out. The people slammed their horn cups against the table, calling out their approval. Such exuberance made Raven skittish and Thorgold grumbly, but Krysta was enthralled. She had heard snatches of the tale that unfolded the year before in the rich port of Sciringesheal, lair of the mighty Norse Wolf, of a woman of great beauty taken by cunning, of a marriage forged from vengeance that became the seed of true love, of the Viking army that set sail to reclaim the stolen bride stolen in turn by her brother, the mighty Hawk, and of the war averted by wisdom and grace. Indeed, she had a particular interest in all that for it was the