Dream of Me/Believe in Me

for the fields where the harvest had begun. Others were off the vessels come to trade before the first blast of winter closed the northlands for another season.
    Some of the crew from the Byzantine ship were clustered near the doors of the timbered hall, talking with several of Wolf's men in the polyglot tongue common to traders everywhere. The strangers broke off abruptly as Cymbra neared, and stared at her in the usual slack-jawed way she barely noticed anymore. A couple of those with quicker reflexes than the others began to move toward her.
    Olaf growled deep in his throat and put a hand to the hilt of his sword but neither gesture was necessary. Scarcely had the newcomers taken a step than they were stopped by the local men. Cymbra heard the murmured words, warning and explanation together, as she hurried by.
    “The Wolf's woman.”
    The newcomers froze in place like men who had just noticed they were about to walk off the edge of a precipice. They stepped back hastily, averting their gaze from the vision of their own deaths.
    Cymbra entered the hall to be struck at once by a swirl of exotic colors, tantalizing aromas, and rich, malelaughter. As always, her gaze sought Wolf. She found him standing at the far end of the hall near the high table. Dragon was with him and another man she couldn't identify but guessed to be the Moor.
    He was a few inches shorter than either of the Hakonson brothers but very fit and richly garbed in a vermilion tunic that complemented his dark complexion and neatly trimmed black beard. He happened just then to glance toward her and his jaw dropped, but he closed it again with a snap, as though he might already suspect who she was.
    “Ah, Cymbra, there you are.” Wolf held out a hand, drawing her to his side. “Come and greet an old friend, Kareem ben Abdul. Kareem, this is my wife, the Lady Cymbra.”
    Their guest bowed courteously but without taking his liquid eyes from her. His smile was broad and appreciative. “The
legendary
Lady Cymbra, I would say, my friend, for surely her fame precedes her.”
    “You exaggerate, sir,” she said softly, not in reprimand but in simple truth.
    His eyes widened at the sound of her voice, leaving her to wonder what surprised him—that she could talk or that she would. Her thoughts were refocused abruptly when Wolf hauled her against him, an iron-hard arm wrapped around her narrow waist. She glanced up to see him, too, showing his teeth, with the suggestion that he was ever ready to take a chunk out of the other man.
    Kareem held up his hands in the universal gesture of peace. “Be at ease, my friend. I honor your lady and you.”
    “But you understand I'm a bit sensitive on this score?”
    “Oh, absolutely, what man wouldn't be? With your permission, perhaps the Lady Cymbra would care to examine the fabrics I've brought with me?”
    While Wolf graciously allowed as to how he thoughtthat was a fine idea, Cymbra prayed for patience. She had just gotten her Viking husband to the point where she didn't actually have to ask for permission to go into the town—provided Olaf went with her—but now she needed his permission to look at fabrics?
    “Perhaps later,” she told both men briskly. “I'm going to see to supper.”
    Without waiting for a response from either, she nodded to the Moor, leveled a look at her husband, and took her leave. But not so quickly that she didn't hear a startled Kareem ask, “She
cooks
, too?”
    Wolf laughed. “Like a dream.”
    “I'm happy for you, of course, but there's no fairness in this world.”
    Since they seemed determined to speak of her as though she were not there, Cymbra was glad enough to absent herself. She spent the remainder of the afternoon in the kitchens, showing the women how to make several dishes she had yet to serve in her husband's hall.
    She had been planning to do that anyway. It had nothing to do with wanting to justify his obvious pride in her culinary skills, nothing at all.
    By evening, almost the entire crew of the Byzantine vessel had arrived. As regular visitors, they were well known and heartily welcomed. Instruments were brought out and soon the rafters rang to song and story. In the midst of all that, news and rumors were exchanged, old acquaintances renewed, and plans made for the coming year.
    Cymbra left the kitchens for a short time to bathe and change. She chose a gown of spring-green linen so finely woven as to seem almost weightless. It was embroidered with flowers