Dream of Me/Believe in Me

who had to deal with her were probably startled to discover they hadn't just given their goods away for one of her smiles.
    He couldn't quite remember how but she'd made the idea of new tunics for the servants sound sensible. Something about people taking more pride in their work when they were better garbed, and something else about the reflection on his own consequence. He'd only been half-listening, distracted by the subtle play of light over the damask curve of her cheek.
    “You're working too hard,” he murmured, still holding her close against him.
    She didn't try to pull away but neither did she soften as he would have liked. “There is much to do,” Cymbra said. It was a simple statement yet replete with her deepest concern that she would fail to be a good wife, a bringer of peace to her people and his, and that all of this, all the bustle of ordinary life, would explode suddenly into devastating violence and lives would fall like so much discarded chaff upon the hard-packed floor of the winnowing shed.
    “How many servants are there in this keep, how many slaves?” When she would have answered, he stopped her with the light touch of a finger on lips he would far rather have been kissing. “Never mind, I know you know. My point is that I fail to see why you think you have to do everything.”
    She could have told him—about the flour spoiledwith salt, the watered ale, the pots improperly cleaned, the many and sundry small acts of sloth—or sabotage— that were making her days a constant trial. But pride wouldn't allow her to complain.
    There had been no further confrontations with Marta. The older woman was merely a silent, unsmiling presence hovering over all, a continual reminder that the outcome of this battle was yet to be decided.
    Brita did everything possible to help and had managed to enlist the support of the female slaves. But all the other women did the absolute minimum and did that as poorly as they dared. The food served in the hall was hardly edible by Cymbra's standards.
    She was astonished—but wearily grateful—that Wolf apparently hadn't noticed. Still, she wondered how much longer she would be able to keep beating her head against what increasingly seemed an immovable wall.
    Her decision to outfit the servants in new garb was intended partly to correct the obvious deficiency in their clothing, but she hoped it would win her some small degree of support. Without it, she feared she would flounder.
    Even now she felt compelled to hurry off to the kitchens to make sure there would be something served at supper that wasn't either rotten with maggots or still moving of its own accord. But Wolf's arms close around her kept her from doing so.
    “Enough,” he said, his voice low and rasping against her ear. “There are other duties you have neglected.”
    She opened her mouth to protest the injustice of that, only to stop when his smile stole her breath. Dragon was supposed to be the charming one in the family, but in Cymbra's opinion her husband beat him easily.
    She was just about to relent—and gladly so—when she caught sight of Brother Joseph hurrying toward her across the field. The look on his face made her forget her own inclinations.
    “I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I promised Brother Joseph I would … pray with him.” Before Wolf could react, she ducked under his arm. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “It shouldn't take too long, not more than an hour or so—” The fierce scowl her husband shot her made Cymbra decide she had nothing more to say.
    Wolf watched her go with mingled chagrin and what felt suspiciously like disappointment. He had come to realize in the past week that Cymbra was very devout, for she prayed daily with the monk. Had Brother Joseph not proven himself over the previous three years to be a man of rigorous self-denial, including unwavering celibacy, Wolf would have hesitated to allow him so much in his wife's company.
    As it was, he was trying hard to reconcile himself to this part of her life that apparently meant so much to her. Whether or not he would succeed remained to be seen.
    A FTER HER GLANCE BACK AT HER SCOWLING HUS -band, Cymbra did not dare look at him again. She intercepted Brother Joseph and quickly drew him off to the weaving shed.
    “Dame Mikal's pains are upon her,” he said with great agitation. “She begs you to come quickly.”
    Cymbra nodded. The woman was wife to one of the Rus merchants who traded so often