Dream of Me/Believe in Me

her mother, some natural fear of marriage in a far land, whatever. He cared not, it made no difference. She would not leave him! But, an inner voice whispered, she could do just that with the support of the king. She could vanish into an abbey, surrounded by her beloved books, no doubt rising one day to a position of authority, and he would be powerless to stop her.
    It was that revelation of his inability to control events that struck him to the core and brought a fresh surge of anger. Not since tenderest childhood in the midst of savage war had he felt so unable to control his destiny. Was it for this that he had fought and striven, sacrificed andendured? To have snatched from him the one thing he had ever wanted purely for himself?
    Damn her!
How much better if she had never come, never tantalized him with a glimpse of a future he should have been too wise to believe could ever be, never stirred his heart to fierce tenderness.
    Fine then, let her go into an abbey. Let her wrap her spinsterhood about herself, wear out her eyes and bow her shoulders, dry up her passion and let her youth become no more than flecks of parchment vanished on the wind.
    He would forget her, take another woman to wife, sire a dozen sons, and never wake of a night yearning for the soft sound of her breathing close beside him. Oh, yes, and as easily would he sprout wings and fly like the ravens who clustered in the nearby trees, cawing their raucous song.
    Damn birds.
    He turned to go with no clear idea of exactly where and almost stumbled over the squat fellow sitting on his haunches near where the river turned. Thorgold looked up, sighed, and shook his head.
    “Yer in a rare state.”
    Of an instant, Hawk reached down, grabbed hold of him, and yanked him off the ground. “Just who I was looking for before I left Hawkforte,” he snarled, “you and your black-garbed friend. Where the hell were you?”
    Thorgold looked in no way disconcerted to be dangling several feet in the air. He picked a stray bit of something or other from between his teeth, and said, “Making ourselves scarce, of course, leastways till your anger cooled.”
    “Then you've picked the wrong moment to reappear because my anger is hotter than ever. God's blood, man, do you have any idea what she's done?”
    “She told ye she couldn't marry ye.”
    “How do you know that? Where were you lurking when I locked her away?”
    “Ye've a very nice bridge 'bout half a mile outside of town but never mind about that. Didn't keep her locked away long, did ye?”
    “I was summoned here. I could hardly leave her where she was.”
    “Aye, ye could have. She wasn't goin' anywhere locked away like that. Ye just didn't want t'be parted from her.”
    Hawk didn't even try to deny that. He set Thorgold down and took a deep breath, seeking to calm himself and finding only regret instead. “More fool me for it.”
    “Love turns any mortal into a fool.”
    “Who said I was in love with her?”
    “I'll warrant ye haven't said it, least not to her, and why not I'd like t'know.”
    “Place a weapon like that in her hands? Are you mad, man? It's bad enough I've got this … temporary disordering of my thoughts. I've no intention of making it worse.”
    Thorgold made no effort to hide his reaction. He hooted with laughter. The ravens cawed right along. Slapping his knees, he grinned broadly. “Now there's a way to describe it, temporary disordering of yer thoughts. I'll have to remember that one.”
    “It's no joke,” Hawk protested. “She went to the queen and enlisted her aid. I could actually lose her.” He heard himself and scowled. “And why not? Good riddance to her. Who needs a wife who causes so much trouble?”
    “You do,” Thorgold said flatly. “But ye'll have to work that out for yerself.” He turned as though to go.
    Hawk caught him by the scruff of his leather vest and noticed absently the odd little bits hanging from it—several brooches, a couple of belt buckles, colored bangles and beads, pins of all sizes, glittering crystals hanging in woven bags, feathers, all swaying right along with their owner.
    “You told Krysta those half-wit stories about her mother, didn't you? You and the old woman. Why did you do it?”
    “Half-wit? Is that what ye think? Well, then what should we have told her?”
    “The truth.”
    Released, Thorgold turned his neck this way and that, making it crack loudly. “Which truth is that?”
    “The
truth. There's only