Dream of Me/Believe in Me

shock. Like Krysta, she was sweat-stained, grubby, and exhausted. Her hair hung in tatters, as did Krysta's. Her face was smudged with grime, as was Krysta's. And her hands bled from a hundred tiny pricks of the oat sheaves, as did her mistress's.
    “My lady, you cannot possibly be here!”
    So tired was she, so numbed by the endless hours of exhausting toil, that Krysta could do nothing but laugh. “Then this must be a dream. What a relief! Obviously, I'm asleep in bed.”
    Aelfgyth continued to gape at her, as though she were an apparition previously unimagined. “Surely his lordship did not tell you to remain here?” In the stark white light of the moon, even her pretty face looked wan and weary.
    “Well, no, of course he didn't, but neither did he tell me I had to leave … not precisely.”
    The maid shook her head. “You do not have to be here. Why are you?”
    “Why do I not have to? Will I not eat of this oat just as everyone else does? Through the winter to come, will it not help to sustain me even as it does you?”
    Aelfgyth blinked, so tired she could scarcely follow but trying all the same. “Yes … I suppose … but no one expects you to do this.”
    “I see no harm in doing what is not expected.”
    And so they returned to work, mistress and maid together, as the night aged and with aching slowness, dawn came.
    And still the fields were not yet emptied.
    Sometime in the depths of night when the moon had set and only stars whirled overhead, Krysta fell asleep. Aelfgyth was beside her. So exhausted were they that neither could have stayed on her feet a moment longer. They slumbered only a few hours while all around them weary men and women dropped where they stood and did the same. Before the cock's crow, the laborers stirred and stumbled to their feet, rubbing bleary eyes. It was the wind that woke them for it had increased significantly.
    As Krysta helped Aelfgyth up, both their skirts whipped around their legs. Scattered blankets suddenly freed from the weight of sleepers began to billow across the fields. Children raced after them and after the empty baskets that also went tumbling. Yet still the sky was clear.
    “Perhaps we'll just have a blow and it will be done,” Aelfgyth suggested.
    Krysta nodded but she was unconvinced. There was still that strange, heavy smell, all the more pronounced now.
    Wearily, aching in every bone, they returned to their tasks. Krysta's arms felt so heavy she marveled that she could still lift them. The pain between her shoulder blades had become a burning ache. After a night spent on the ground, her whole body felt bruised. Yet as she gazed out over the fields, she was astonished to see how much hadbeen accomplished. Whole swathes of land she had last seen still covered by uncut stalks were now bare. She blinked, thinking she must be imagining it for surely it had seemed to her that all the workers had gotten at least some sleep.
    All save for the bands of men still moving through the fields, still scything and gathering, still hoisting the bundles into the wagons. Schooled to the stamina of battle, led by the unrelenting Hawk, the garrison had worked through the night without pause. Men who under ordinary circumstances would never have deigned to do such humble labor had put aside class, pride, and every other consideration, at their leader's bidding.
    As a group of them approached down the road, accompanied by half-a-dozen wagons, the peasants Krysta was among stopped. As one, the men pulled off their caps in deference to the weary warriors. In their midst, helping to push one of the wagons over a deep rut, was Hawk himself. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and deep lines etched around his mouth. Yet he flashed a grin as the wagon came free and continued on its way. A moment later, his gaze fell on Krysta.
    He stopped as the others continued on and stared at her. She fought the urge to try to fade back into the little group. Those around her became aware of the focus of their lord's attention and found sudden, pressing matters to see to elsewhere. Aelfgyth lingered, but as the Hawk shook off his stunned stupor and advanced toward them, she shot Krysta a sympathetic look and vanished.
    “It's you,” he said slowly. He lowered the scythe he was carrying to the ground and leaned on it as he studied her. So tired was he that he seemed not quite sure of what he was seeing. “Didn't I tell you to go back to the manor?”
    “You told me I
could
go