Dream of Me/Believe in Me

a chapel. Two men, two faiths, working for a common end. She had to believe they would succeed.
    The monk was already in the hall, seated by the fire. He jumped up when he saw them and quickly offered a stool to Ulfrich. Helping the older man off with his sodden cloak, he said, “Here, put this blanket around yourself. I've warmed it.”
    Ulfrich nodded gratefully and did as he was bid.
    Steam and the scent of wet wool rose from Cymbra's cloak. She discarded it and kindly refused the blanket Brother Joseph offered her. “I was only out for a few minutes. You look as though you could use it yourself.”
    Belatedly, she noticed that he, too, was soaked through. His smile was a little abashed as he said, “I went out to the fields.” At her surprised look, he added, “I am truly grateful to Lord Wolf for permission to have a chapel, but all of God's creation is his sanctuary. It seems fitting to walk among it.”
    Ulfrich inclined his head at this wisdom. He accepted a mug Brita offered to him and nodded at the Irish girl gratefully. She offered mugs to Cymbra and Brother Joseph as well, then hesitated before shyly taking the seat Cymbra offered.
    “Brita has learned to make the infusion you are using,” Cymbra told Ulfrich. She smiled at the girl. “She learns very quickly.”
    The Irish lass blushed at this praise and Cymbrasmiled again. But her smile faltered at the prickling sensation that stirred deep within her. For just an instant she was engulfed by the memory of Brita's pain and despair, then it melted away into relief and a feeling of safety. It was gone faster than a star streaking across a midnight sky but it served only to increase Cymbra's sense of unease. In the past, she would have been able to shield herself from such sensation. Now it came without warning, not even giving her time to try to distance herself.
    Despite this, it pleased her greatly to see how much Brita had changed in so short a time. Garbed now in clothing Cymbra had given her, already showing the effects of better food and rest, she looked almost like a different person.
    All the servants—and the slaves, for Cymbra refused to make any distinction—were newly garbed and were well pleased by it. They also seemed less aware or at least less concerned with who was slave and who was free.
    As she glanced around the great hall, she saw others who had come in out of the rain, finding a corner, a bench, some convenient place to work and chat. There was an air of busy purpose and contentment. She was glad of it but not misled, knowing herself to be only one among many counting the days until the return of the jarl of Sciringesheal.
    A shiver passed along her spine and she leaned closer to the fire, staring into the darting flames. Too well she remembered being awakened from the deep sleep of sensual exhaustion to see a huge, dark figure of menace, armored and helmeted, standing beside the bed.
    Barely had she time to gasp than her husband lifted her to him. For just a moment she felt crushed by leather, steel, and the unyielding power of the warrior himself. Yet his kiss when it came was achingly gentle.
    Against her mouth, he murmured, “I'll be back soon.
    Take care of things here.” Dropping her lightly back onto the pillows, he pulled the covers up and lingered just a moment longer to look at her.
    Then he was gone, striding out into the too-bright light of what turned out to be the last fair day they were to have between then and now.
    It was only later, after she had rushed to dress and hurried after him to find he was already gone, taking Dragon and two dozen men with him, that she learned what had happened. Ulfrich told her, as gently and kindly as he could: a settlement near the coast raided. The Danes suspected. The attackers to be hunted down, the deaths avenged. All in a day's work for the Norse Wolf.
    Except a day had passed and another and another until now a full week had passed. Cymbra had begun to look toward the gates every few minutes, hoping against hope that she would see her husband and the others riding through them. At night she lay awake, tormented by memory and desire, aching for him. And fearing.
    She told herself not to be absurd. He was a mighty warrior, proven in battle time and time again. He was to be feared, not feared for. Yet any man could make a mistake, a small misjudgment. Any man could die.
    “My lady … ?”
    Startled, Cymbra lifted her gaze from the fire to find Brita looking at her with