Dream of Me/Believe in Me

Lathering her hands, she began to wash herself.
    Before very long, Wolf was on his feet, showing surprising resiliency for a man who claimed to have had all the strength drained out of him. “You shouldn't have to do that all by yourself.” Ever helpful, he took the soap from her and ran it through his hands.
    Slowly, gently—and very, very thoroughly—he washed her. With equal care and attentiveness, she did the same for him. They rinsed off by throwing ladlefuls of water at each other, laughing, until the laughter fadedsuddenly. Wolf caught her to him, lowered her carefully to the smooth plank floor, and loved her with his hands, his mouth, his body, until nothing remained save rapturous bliss.
    Later still, after the embers in the firebox had burned low and steam had long since ceased to rise from the stones, the Norse Wolf carried his sleeping wife back to their lodge. He nestled her beneath smooth linen and soft fur, gathering her close beside him. In the final moments before sleep took him, he felt an irresistible need to give thanks for this woman who touched his very heart and soul.
    He had little experience with prayer other than before battle when he offered sacrifices to Odin and afterward when he offered up thanks for victory. This was different. It didn't seem to have anything to do with Odin or any of the others, not even Frigg, despite his undeniable affection for her.
    Still, thanks were owed. His eyes were closing when he thought suddenly of the Christian God, the strange one without sword or thunderbolt. With only the cross and the empty tomb. Strange God, dying and undying. God not of endless battles but of one everlasting victory.
    It seemed to fit somehow. He said his thanks and fell asleep, his last thought that somewhere, somehow, someone had heard.
    B RITA FINGERED THE CLOAK, LOOKED AT IT CLOSELY , and glanced at Cymbra. Mildly, the young Irish girl asked, “Would you happen to know what this stain is from, my lady?”
    From her perch in the bed, where she was eating the breakfast Brita had thoughtfully brought—and trying not to gobble it down, for she was
very
hungry—Cymbra didher utmost not to blush. As casually as she could, she said, “Whey, I believe.”
    “Ah, of course, whey. And this would be—?”
    “Milk. That one would be milk.”
    “That's fine then.” Struggling not to smile, and not entirely succeeding, Brita put the garment aside. “We won't have any difficulty getting those out. Now, as for his lordship's tunic—”
    “Honey,” Cymbra blurted. “And cheese, possibly, and eggs. I really am sorry about the mess.” She hoped it was understood she wasn't speaking only of the messy clothes that needed to be washed but of the much larger mess that had been made in the kitchens.
    “Oh, no, my lady! There's no need for you to apologize. We're all just … Well, there's just no need, that's all.”
    Brita bundled the clothes away quickly, mercifully saying nothing about Cymbra's torn gown, and picked up a comb from the table beside the bed.
    “Would you like me to tend to your hair while you breakfast, my lady?”
    Cymbra plucked at a tangled strand ruefully. “The condition it's in, it might take through breakfast, midday meal, and supper. I really shouldn't sleep with it un-braided.”
    “These things happen,” Brita observed, the very soul of tact. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began gently running the comb through Cymbra's knee-length tresses, beginning at the bottom and slowly working her way up. Her touch was so gentle that Cymbra winced only once or twice.
    “Have you heard anything from Mikal and Nadia this morning?” Cymbra asked after she plucked yet another slice of warm, honeyed bread off the platter. She couldn't remember ever being so famished.
    “Oh, yes, my lady. Mother and son are both doing very well and Mikal was especially delighted with the gift Lord Wolf sent. He said he had never seen such a fine drinking cup and would treasure it forever.”
    Cymbra smiled, delighted that her husband had found so swift and thoughtful a way to show that he held the Rus trader and his family blameless.
    “That's good then. And everyone returned safely? There were no injuries?”
    “None, my lady. But—” She broke off, suddenly very preoccupied with Cymbra's hair.
    “But what?” When this was greeted only with silence, Cymbra twisted around so that she could see Brita. “What's wrong? What happened?”
    “Nothing, I shouldn't have