Dream of Me/Believe in Me

tore at the soft, warm, fragrant bread. A wolf's smile flashed in the dim light of the cell.

Chapter TWO

    C YMBRA LEANED BACK, RESTING HER HEAD against the rim of the leather tub, and sighed deeply. Warm water lapped at her limbs. The scent of herbs sprinkled in the bath teased gently at her nostrils. The soft crackle of the fire and Miriam's quiet movements were the only sounds in the chamber. For the first time in far too many hours she could relax and, just perhaps, gather her thoughts.
    What thoughts they were! She knew very little of Vikings except that they seemed to be of two types—merchants and raiders. Despite her claim to Sir Derward, she didn't really suppose that the difference was questionable. The prisoners didn't look like the sort who would want to sell her a few lengths of cloth. Yet neither had they behaved as the brutal killers and despoilers that Derward had branded them.
    Authority was very weak in parts of England, with the result that the Danes had seized control over broad swaths of land. They were poised to seize even more, and might if men like her brother didn't succeed in stopping them.
    Which made these Vikings … what? Even as she told herself it wasn't her problem to solve, her mind could not resist turning over the puzzle. Nor could it keep from drifting irresistibly to the leader, the tall, heavily muscled man with the midnight-black hair and the icy gray eyes.
    No, that wasn't quite true. His eyes weren't always icy. There had been times when they brushed her like white-hot fire.
    She didn't want to think about that, mustn't think of it. Her body felt oddly heavy, especially between her legs, where a hot, moist sensation was building. She glanced down, surprised to see that her nipples were peaked, and flushed. Quickly she rose from the bath and seized the drying cloth Miriam had thoughtfully laid nearby. With that wrapped around her, she felt a little calmer.
    Seated by the fire, she murmured her thanks as Miriam began to brush out her hair. As always, the motion soothed her but she stopped it before very long. Miriam's hands were sore now more often than not, and the unguents Cymbra made for her didn't always take the pain away completely. Gently, she laid her hand over the old nurse's.
    “I'm sorry I worried you today.”
    Miriam sighed. She sat down beside the young woman who had been her charge since the tender age of three days, when Cymbra's own lady mother had passed beyond the veil of this world. She loved Cymbra dearly but she didn't pretend to understand her in the slightest.
    “You terrified me.” She shook her head in bewilderment, sparse strands of gray hair escaping from beneath her wimple. “How could you do such a thing? Much as I hate to say it, Sir Derward is right; Vikings are animals. They could have killed you without a second thought.”
    “What should we do then?” Cymbra asked softly. “Kill everything we fear? If we do that, others will fear usand seek to kill us in turn. It will never end. One cruelty begets the next endlessly.”
    The old nurse shrugged. “ 'Tis the way of this world. No man can change that, and certainly no woman can.”
    Cymbra sighed and rose, standing before the copper brazier that dispelled the evening's chill. Her shoulders and arms were bare, the cloth barely covering the swell of her breasts. She shivered slightly. “Perhaps not, but still I must try. There is too much pain.”
    Miriam cast her a quick look. “You never speak of that anymore.”
    Both women shared a memory of the very young Cymbra, screaming and screaming, unable to explain what was wrong. It happened many times … when a stable boy cut his foot on a scythe, when a kitchen maid was scalded with water, when a warrior died of a wound that would not heal.
    That had been the worst, going on for days until finally Hawk had drugged her with the juice of poppy brought from far lands and sat, holding her in his arms, through an endless day and night, his face grim as he decided what had to be done.
    Holyhood became her sanctuary. Safe within it, she learned how to control what was at once gift and curse. Miriam didn't know how, could only dimly imagine the struggle Cymbra had waged. She'd won in the end, though at great cost. Now she could care for the injured and ill, even for the dying, without making their pain her own. She felt it still, Miriam was sure of that, but she managed to keep it apart from herself. Usually.
    “There is nothing to speak of,”