Dream of Me/Believe in Me

great deal. There were hundreds of sweet pasties to be made, stuffed with raisins and honey, and as many loaves of fine bread from the first-ground grain. Fruits had to be stewed, cider pressed, milk churned for butter and curds, and wood gathered for the outdoor fires that would roast entire sides of beef. All the servants helped but so did the townsfolkand the peasants from the surrounding farms. Hawk and his men hunted each day while the fishermen plied their curraghs along the coast, bringing in nets bursting with eel, mackerel, and herring. Young men were preparing themselves for the ritual dances beneath the encouraging eyes of young women. Everyone was happily busy save for Daria and Father Elbert, who went about scowling, muttering of damnation, and praying ostentatiously for the souls of those they called blasphemers.
    Krysta noted they were careful never to do so when Hawk was about, waiting instead until he rode out each day and ceasing their efforts when he returned. As he remained ignorant of their doings, so did others simply ignore them.
    “Since you are here, my lady,” Aelfgyth said, “folk are happy to harken to what you say and heed not the shrill harpings of one who has never meant us any good.”
    Pleased though she was by such acceptance, Krysta felt driven to caution against disregarding Daria too much. “It would be as well to remember that I am not yet Lord Hawk's wife.”
    Aelfgyth laughed as though this was a source of much amusement, but Krysta did not share in the joke. She still stung from the night of the storm and was well aware that her betrothed seemed disinclined to seek out her company. In the three days since she had awakened to find her bed empty, they had said scarcely a word to each other and those no more than courtesy required.
    To be fair, everyone was well occupied from earliest morn to after dusk. That he was too busy to seek her out was no consolation for Krysta. She caught herself looking for him at odd moments of the day, listening for the sound of his voice, and trying in vain to think of some way to seize his attention as they sat side by side each evening in the great hall. But her tongue felt tied in knots and her mind seemed a hopeless blank.
    Raven suspected as much and scoffed but could not hide her worry. Thorgold muttered into his ale and frowned at Hawk each time their paths crossed. The day of the feast, Hawk caught him at it and paused on his way to the stable to rub down his stallion. He handed the horse's reins to a groom instead and gestured to Thorgold.
    “What ails you?” Hawk asked when the troll-like man shuffled over.
    Thorgold peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “Me? Nothing ails me. It's not me ye need to be worrying about.”
    Hawk glanced around, saw that they were alone, and nodded. “All right then. What ails her?” He could not hide a certain plaintive note that surprised Thorgold and wrung a reluctant grin from him.
    “Got ye flummoxed, has she?”
    “Say so if it pleases you, but answer my question: Is she ill?”
    “Of course not! Girl's healthy as a grass-fed colt. What makes ye think she's ailing?”
    “She scarcely speaks to me, for one, nor will she meet my eye. I haven't seen her smile since I can't remember when, before the storm for certain. Is she angry about all the work she did? Is that the problem? Or is it all the work she has been doing to prepare for the harvest festival? That hasn't escaped my notice, old man, in case you think it has. But I didn't ask her to take on either task and she needn't think her life here will require such work.”
    Thorgold was silent for a moment, twirling the ends of his great black beard. When he looked at Hawk again, his eyes were sparkling. “Tell me, lord, are ye prone to misdirection? When yer off sailing that fine boat of yers do ye have a tendency to lose track of where ye are? Or when yer riding, is it up to that great beast of a horse to find the way home for ye?”
    “Of course not. What puts that in your mind?”
    “Think about it, lord. If there's one thing the Lady Krysta has never shirked, it's hard work. Why, when she was just a little slip of a girl, she'd be out in the fields with the rest of us doing anything and everything she could to help. Her father was still alive then and he wouldn't have wanted her wearying herself, but she thrived on it and hated to be idle.”
    “Then it's me. I've done something to upset her.” Hawk looked at the old man