Dream of Me/Believe in Me

stared back at him as she was doing now.
    He looked at his hand reaching out as though to touch her cheek and had no idea how that had come to be.
    She swallowed hard and stepped back. “Lord …”
    “Caauuuaaawwww …”
Black wings flashed overhead. Hawk looked up as the raven swept past, little higher than his head, circling. He heard fluttering, turned, saw other ravens perched in the trees just beyond the beach, black shadows amid the branches.
    “Caauuuaaawww.”
Had there always been so many at Hawkforte? He didn't remember that but thought little of it. Birds came and went.
    The green-eyed girl's reaction was different. She looked surprised, then annoyed. Mayhap she did not like birds.
    “I must go, lord.” This was said on the wing, as it were, for she was already halfway up the beach. He almost moved to stop her but caught himself. His betrothed wife's servant. Folly unimaginable.
    He lingered awhile yet on the beach before impatient duty sent him back whence he had come. The gates of Hawkforte stood open, carts and wagons streaming through. Beyond those gates lay the town and beyond it more walls and more gates, all well guarded by the Hawk's own men, trained to his exacting standard of vigilance and deadly skill. It was a fat, prosperous town, straining at the walls that contained it. Soon, mayhap as soon as the coming year, he must needs begin to build a new ring of wall to let the town expand. There were so many merchants coming in search of his protection, growing wealthy beneath the shelter of his sword, and drawing many more to do the same. So, too, were there scholars, for Alfred had begun that fashion and Hawk had followed it gladly. Men came who were at home in books, marvels that they were, who could speak of events long distant as though they hadhappened but yesterday. Others came with talents of their own. Hawkforte boasted some of the finest smiths in all of Essex, if not beyond. The same for tanners, carpenters, and the like. There were monks to illuminate the manuscripts that poured from the abbey Hawk had founded, apothecaries to tend to his people's ills, men who built marvels never seen before in these lands, who had conceived the idea for the channels that kept the crops green in a year of scant rain.
    It all made for a loud, messy concoction, this burgh of his, but he was proud of it in a way he had never expected to be in a life that seemed destined for little more than blood and sweat. Thanks to Alfred's vision, something better had proved possible and Hawk was determined to protect it at all costs. Yet, too, did he wish to enjoy it. He went among his people now without display or hindrance, on foot and dressed simply in a well-worn tunic of unor-namented brown wool. Only the sword belted to his side gave hint of his rank, that and the deference of his people. Hats were doffed in his direction, he received shy smiles, and an old woman pressed a warm raisin bun into his hand. Hawk was glad of it, having come out without first breaking his night's fast. He bit into it as he walked.
    He moved slowly along the rows of shops and stalls, pausing to speak to a merchant here, a peasant there. There was a time when he had known virtually everyone at Hawkforte by name. The place had grown too much for that still to be the case, yet he tried. A man, Toby as he was known, put an arm around the shoulders of his sturdy young son and announced that the lad was beginning his apprenticeship as a wheelwright that very day. Hawk riffled the boy's hair and offered his congratulations as family and onlookers alike beamed their pleasure.
    He moved on past a tavern popular with ship captains and their crews. Trestle tables were just being set up outside, yet a few stalwarts were already enjoying amorning tongue-tickler. Hawk received invitations to join them but declined cordially. He was climbing the mount toward the fortress itself when a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye stopped him. Instinctively, his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
    Thorgold snorted. He unfolded himself from his perch beneath a stone arch that held up part of the road and grinned at Hawk. “Easy there, lord, 'tis only old Thorgold. Good morrow to ye.”
    “And to you,” Hawk responded automatically. He felt foolish reaching for his sword, although not as foolish as he had felt reaching for the green-eyed girl. That sensation prompted him to speak more sternly than he would have otherwise. “What do you