Dream of Me/Believe in Me

a position of power and respect among the women. She wore the keys to the keep's storage rooms as the visible symbol of her authority. As yet, Cymbra had not asked her for them. She had thought to ease her way in, win the trust and if possible even the affection of the people before asserting her rights. Truth be told, she had also hoped that Wolf might notice the problem and simply order Marta to turn the keys over to her.
    She should have known better. Let a chunk of dirt fallfrom the protective berm around the fortress, let a fragment of rust appear on a weapon, let a man take an instant longer to react on the training field, and Wolf would know. But anything that smacked of the purely domestic he ignored completely
    She had noticed that he appeared oblivious to what he wore, what he ate, what the temperature was, and all manner of other concerns related to simple comfort. In that, he was very much like her brother, Hawk, who had precisely the same tendencies. She was far too wise to think her husband would ever change. To go to him with a problem he would think of no consequence would mean belittling herself. So, too, it would mean failing at her self-appointed task to be a good wife, a task she was desperate to accomplish. If Wolf and his people could truly accept her, if she could truly make a place of honor for herself among them, Hawk would be far more likely to accept both her marriage and the alliance that must of necessity go with it. That she might also wish to please the husband who had unleashed such unexpected feelings within her was a possibility Cymbra did not wish to contemplate. Confused, bewildered, and still deeply worried about her brother, she shied from her emotions as she had always shied from those of others.
    Before such thoughts could run away with her, she walked swiftly out of the lodge, across the field, and into the great hall. As expected, Marta was there, directing the servants in preparation for the evening meal. Trestle tables were being set up and wiped down, benches put in place, and large platters of fresh-baked bread distributed.
    Cymbra walked directly up to Marta and held out her hand. “Give me the keys.”
    Around the hall, all activity stopped. The women stared at Cymbra.
    Marta looked her up and down very deliberately and sneered. How bold she was when there was no one shefeared about, Cymbra thought. That would change, and soon.
    “You think because you satisfy the jarl's lust you should have the running of this place?” Marta asked. She raised her voice enough to be heard by everyone in the hall. “Any whore can spread her legs for a man. It means nothing.” Around her, the women tittered.
    “The keys,” Cymbra said again. She refused to give Marta the satisfaction of seeing her angered. “Then you will remove yourself from here and not return until I have given you permission to do so.” Lest there be any misunderstanding, she concluded, “You are a vindictive and destructive person. Until you change, you are not worthy of trust.”
    Marta's face darkened. “How dare you! You are nothing and less than nothing! Kiirla should have been wife to the jarl and would have been had he not been forced to wed you. If you think for one moment that gives you any rights—”
    “Forced?” Cymbra raised her brows. “Are you saying that Lord Wolf was
forced
to do something not of his own choosing?”
    The women glanced at one another nervously. One or two even smiled slightly, suggesting that Marta was not without critics herself.
    Reckless as she was in her prideful folly, even Marta knew when she had gone too far. Quickly, she tried to recover. “You twist my words! The Lord Wolf is a great leader who does not hesitate to sacrifice himself for the well-being of his people. However, that changes nothing where you are concerned.”
    “The keys. This is the last time I ask. Hand them over now or I go to the Lord Wolf.” Cymbra spoke with deceptive softness. “We both know there is much for me to tell him.”
    Marta paled slightly, perhaps remembering her intemperate remarks to Cymbra on her wedding night, but she did not give way. “My husband was foster father to the Wolf, the man who first placed a sword in his hand and taught him how to use it. You are nothing but a Saxon captive wed for political gains. Which of us do you think he will believe?”
    Cymbra wondered that herself but she did not show it by so much as a flicker. “I have no doubt that my husband