Dream of Me/Believe in Me

faith forbids it. I was a sheltered girl and just presumed that I would have a home, a husband, children. Never would I have believed that instead I would be a slave, a thing of no account, to just be … used without thought or care.” Her lips trembled. She lowered her head quickly. “Forgive me, lady, I did not mean to burden you.”
    Cymbra did not feel burdened. She felt enraged by what had happened to Brita. As well as she knew that the world was filled with suffering, it was impossible for her simply to accept it. Her spirit rebelled. She had no choice but to fight with everything in her.
    “There is nothing for you to be forgiven, Brita. Rather it is for others to ask your forgiveness.” She put an arm around the girl and hugged her gently. But there was no gentleness in Cymbra's silent resolve that the situation would not be allowed to remain as it was.
    She was just considering how she would speak to her husband about it when the sound of hoofbeats interrupted her thoughts. Both women looked up to see a large, black stallion bearing down on them at high speed. Britajumped to her feet and drew Cymbra with her. “Run for the keep, lady! I will try—”
    But her protectiveness was both misplaced and futile, as both women realized a moment later when the rider came into view. “Wolf,” Cymbra said, relieved yet also annoyed that he would frighten them so.
    Really, what was the man thinking? He had barely spoken a word to her in two days, had hardly even acknowledged her existence since their wedding night, despite her valiant efforts to be a good wife. So she had resolved as she said her marriage vows and so she was determined would be the case no matter what difficulties she might have to overcome. Not only was she sworn before God to do so, but on the success of this marriage might well rest the hope of peace between their peoples. She could not possibly fail, yet as she watched the Scourge of the Saxons come riding down on her like a thundercloud, she could not help but wonder if perhaps she had taken on too daunting a task. Normally she was the most even-tempered of women, but something about her Norse husband brought out feelings she had never known and threatened to shatter the serenity she still sought as a familiar shroud.
    Wolf looked from his errant wife to the slave at her side. He pointed at Brita. “Go.”
    The girl paled and her whole body shook but, incredibly, she did not obey instantly. Instead, she looked at Cymbra. “Lady?”
    Without taking her gaze from the infuriated male astride the immense horse, Cymbra said softly, “It's all right. I just want to have a word with my husband. You goon.”
    Brita dared a last, frightened glance at the mighty jarl and hurried off. Wolf glowered at his wife, the slave's disobedience diminishing to nothing as he took in Cymbra'sglowing beauty, the fire in her eyes, and her unmistakable look of annoyance.
    His gaze narrowed. She was annoyed?
She?
Odin's blood, what right did she have to be annoyed about anything? Hadn't he been the soul of gentleness and consideration, denying himself these past two days to avoid hurting her again before she was healed? Hadn't he suffered mightily, lying awake beside her at night as though stretched out on a rack? To the point where he could scarcely concentrate on his duties and was questioning his own sanity because he could think of nothing but her?
    She was annoyed?
    He swung out of the saddle in a single, lithe motion, hooked the reins over a low-hanging branch, and advanced on her. To his satisfaction, she took a quick step back, but only a small one. Hands on her hips, she glared at him.
    “You're trampling the plants I was about to collect.”
    He stared at her dumbfounded. She was talking, and he could hear her plainly, but she made no sense. She should have been doing anything possible to placate him, instead of rattling on about—“Plants?”
    Summoning patience, Cymbra explained. “There is no herb garden. I looked, I really did, and I can't find any sign that there's ever been one. So it has to be started, and these plants”—she gestured to the sack on the ground beside her—“are a beginning.”
    She wanted a garden? She had come out of the fortress unguarded, alone except for a female slave, and without having first secured his permission, because she wanted a
garden.
    He took hold of her shoulders and shook her hard. “This is not Holyhood, wife, and you are not the pampered sister of an