Come Back to Me (17 page)

THE GOWN WAS BEYOND BEAUTIFUL. THE FABRIC seemed crafted of moss-draped glens, shards of sunlight dappling through trees, and, here and there, embroidered into the sleeves and hem, shy wood violets and twining vines. Never had Rycca seen anything like it. "I cannot," was her first reaction. Krysta dismissed that. "Of course you can. It suits your coloring perfectly, indeed far better than it would have mine."

"It was made for you."

"Yes," Krysta acknowledged, "but not yet worn and now yours, my gift to you. Come, we must see if it needs any alteration, although I think perhaps it will not for we are of the same height and it may be…"

She dropped the gown over Rycca's head, helped her slip her arms into the sleeves, quickly laced up the back, then took a long look.

"Ah, yes, just as I thought. It is perfect." Behind her, the servants beamed their agreement. They stepped aside to reveal an object Rycca had never seen before. It was almost as tall as herself, half an arm's span wide, and glowing within it…

A soft gasp escaped her. She stepped closer, reaching out a hand and watching as the ethereal woman caught within the gleaming metal did the same.

"It's a mirror," Krysta said. "Brought all the way from Byzantium."

"Incredible," Rycca breathed. "I have never seen one that was bigger than a few inches—" She was caught by the image of her other self speaking just as she did. Yet that could not possibly be herself.
She
looked like something out of a dream, fire-lit hair framing a face of unnatural calm above a willowy body that the gown managed to both conceal and reveal. The mirror did much the same, displaying her appearance yet muting any imperfection. Rycca stepped a little closer, touching fingers lightly to her bruised cheek. It still hurt but not as much as the day before and she could see no trace of the injury. Even the bruise on her forehead was almost gone.

"You look lovely," Krysta said with a reassuring smile.

Rycca took scant comfort from that. Dragon might be moved by beauty under ordinary circumstances but she doubted he would be in her case. It was the nature of her character, not her face and form, that would concern him.

She took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror.

"Can you drink a little?" Krysta asked.

Rycca honestly tried, if only to please the woman who was being so kind to her, but a few mouthfuls of water were all that she could manage. For once, she was glad of the fast imposed before mass.

Too soon, Krysta was ushering her out of the room and down the stairs, where they were met by a wave of noise rising from the great hall. Rycca stopped, her hand pressed hard against the wall, and stared. So many people! Prosperous merchants and their wives mingled with stern men-at-arms and their own ladies. She caught a quick glimpse of her father and his retinue standing off to one side, scowling but impotent under the watchful eye of the Hawk's men. And there was the Hawk himself, towering over almost all the men in the room save for just one, who was beside him, the two deep in conversation.

Her throat so tight that she could scarcely breathe, Rycca stared at the man to whom she was shortly to be given. Aside from the rugged symmetry of his perfectly formed features, and the graceful power of his body, he looked very different from the man she had so briefly known. To begin with, he was far more richly dressed, garbed in a tunic of somber black that gleamed with threads of gold, gold visible again in the thick bands around his neck and in the torque that encircled his throat, symbol of his rank and power. Perhaps in deference to his host he wore only a short dagger at his waist but he looked nonetheless dangerous for that. His somber expression made it clear he did not come as a lighthearted bridegroom to his nuptials.

Nor did the men clustered near him appear any more pleased. Almost of a size with the Dragon, his Viking attendants were without exception fierce men, keen-eyed and vigilant. If they were uncomfortable in this crowd of
Saxons they did not show it, but neither did they appear inclined to relax their guard for even a moment.

No wonder her father and the others from Wolscroft were huddled off to the side. For just a moment, she entertained the mad wish that she might join them. Better she leap from the cliff again.

Just then, Dragon saw her. He stiffened slightly but otherwise gave no sign. He made no effort to greet her, nor did he so much as smile. Rycca had expected nothing else, yet her spirits dipped still further. Averting her gaze, she continued on to the bottom of the stairs, where she abruptly became aware that all conversation in the great hall had ceased.

Rycca's hands clenched at her sides. Her stomach roiled and she was deeply grateful for its emptiness. With an effort of will, she kept her head high and her back straight. The temptation to flee into the safety of her mind was almost irresistible but she knew she must not. She must walk through this crowd, to the side of her betrothed, as serene as though she strolled through a pleasant dream. For if she did not, truly she feared she would be ripped apart.

Their eyes were so avid. Men and women alike, they looked like hunters at the moment when the prey is brought to ground and there remains only the blooding. Not of her, though, not this time. Her virgin's blood was gone yet she was to be kept alive, to go through with this mockery of a marriage.

Behind her, Krysta murmured, "It's all right."

Rycca scarcely heard her but the cool clarity of truth sounded deep within her all the same. The Lady of Hawkforte did not merely hope, she believed. Had there been time, Rycca might have puzzled over that but there was none for just then the tall, fair-haired man with the piercing gray eyes stepped forward. He smiled at Krysta, a smile of such all-encompassing gentleness that Rycca was filled with sudden longing for what her better sense told her would never be hers. Then he turned his attention to the errant bride.

"Lady Rycca," he said, not unkindly but in a tone that brooked no resistance, "you are welcome at Hawkforte. Our priest, Father Desmond, is eager to meet you."

As he spoke, he gestured to a young man tonsured and garbed as a cleric. His youth surprised her. To be house priest to a lord so high as the Hawk of Essex at so young an age was unusual indeed. Perhaps the intelligence she saw gleaming in his dark eyes had something to do with his swift promotion.

The priest stepped forward and offered his hand. "If you would, my lady, I ask only a few minutes of your time."

He could have the entire rest of the day and into the next as far as Rycca was concerned. She nodded and went with him, glad to be away from the eyes of the crowd and determined not to think about the fact that Dragon had said nothing at all.

They went to a small, graceful chapel a little distance beyond the great hall. Here the light of day gave way to soft shadows chased by beeswax candles that were already lit. The scent of flowers hung heavily on the air. The center of the chapel was empty, for it was there that the congruents would stand. There was also a beautiful altar draped with an embroidered cloth and set with vessels of silver and gold.

"Decked already for your bridal," Father Desmond said with another smile. Two steps led to the altar. He sat on the upper one and gestured for her to join him. His informality surprised her even as she felt it slipping beneath the edges of her dread.

"You know why I wished to speak with you?"

She nodded, watching her clasped hands twist in her lap. "I must give consent."

"Exactly. Church teaching is quite clear about that."

"Yet I would hardly be the first bride to wed unwillingly."

The young priest stiffened. He looked at her with concern. "Are you unwilling?"

She shrugged. "It does not matter."

"Oh, but it does, on pain of your immortal soul, it most certainly does matter."

When she did not respond, he stood up and began to pace back and forth before her, using his hands for emphasis as he spoke. His fingers were long and slender. Two on the right hand were stained with ink. Knowing she must listen to him, wondering at her waywardness, Rycca found herself staring at those ink-stained fingers.

"You are a scribe?"

He paused suddenly, in the midst of saying something about the marriage at Cana. "I do still make books although my duties take me in other directions as well."

"You are young for such a post. May I ask how it came to be?"

Father Desmond colored slightly. "I was in the scriptorium at Winchester. His lordship engaged me to make a book for the Lady Krysta. When it was done, they were both pleased with the results. As it happened, they were also in need of a new house priest. The invitation was made to me to come here and I happily accepted."

"I was at Winchester once and saw the library there. It is magnificent."

"It is indeed and a great joy. But to return to the matter at hand, I assure you, your consent is essential. Do you mean to withhold it?"

"No," Rycca said and saw his instant relief. Man of God that he was, Father Desmond clearly did not relish the notion of angering both his patron, the Lord Hawk, and the fierce Lord Dragon. Yet Rycca had the impression he would risk exactly that if he believed she did not consent to the marriage.

"There seemed to be some… irregularity in your coming here," the priest said delicately. Thus did he characterize her arrival, bruised and battered, in the arms of her betrothed rather than under the decorous escort of her family.

"I had some trouble on the road. Lord Dragon was most helpful."

Father Desmond nodded, smiling. "Everyone speaks very well of the jarl. I believe he and Lord Hawk are fast friends."

"Friendship between Norse and Saxon seems much the fashion these days."

The priest looked at her quizzically. "Do you think so? I have little knowledge of fashion, despite being at court. There was never time to notice such things."

"I meant because of the alliance. Everyone seems to have an opinion about it."

"Oh, as to that, I cannot imagine anyone would object. Surely we all want peace."

Rycca's smile was a little wry. "You would be surprised, Father. There are actually some who prefer war. But beyond that, do you take it as given that this alliance is genuine, that the Norse really do mean for there to be peace between us?"

Father Desmond thought about that for a moment. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, so far as it goes. The people of Vestfold, those we call Norse, want peace. Moreover, I think they want the land-hungry Danes to understand that should they cast covetous eyes toward Vestfold, they would be met with all-out resistance not only from the Norse themselves but right here, on the Danes' southern flank, from the Saxons. The Danes would quickly find themselves fighting a war on two sides, something I am quite certain they do not want."

"But what if the Danes and Norse decide instead to act together? After all, they have far more in common than do Norse and Saxon. They speak the same language, worship the same gods, follow the same customs. Surely they are more natural allies?"

"So it might seem," Father Desmond agreed, "yet they are also competitors for land, fishing ranges, trade routes, and the like. Besides, those differences that exist between Norse and Saxon are the reason for the marriages that secure the alliance, of which yours will be the third. The binding together of families offers assurance that the peace will be kept."

"I pray you are right," Rycca said softly.

Father Desmond held out his hand to her. She took it and together they knelt on the steps before the altar. He prayed quietly, his voice leading her into realms of calm she had not thought available to her. For a few moments, she felt at peace.

Then it was over and he led her back to the great hall and the feasting eyes.

DRAGON WATCHED HER COME AS HE HAD watched her from the moment she appeared on the stairs, a vision of feminine grace and beauty that sucked the breath right out of him, damn her. His desire for her was immediate and all but overwhelming. He cursed himself for it as he fought to project some semblance of calm. Incredibly for one so inured to battle, his chest hurt as though constricted by bands of steel. His palms felt very hot, even sweaty.

What had she told the priest?

Hawk had said their holy man could not perform the wedding unless he was sure the bride was willing. Had there ever been one less so?

Her eyes were downcast, she would not meet his gaze no matter how fiercely he willed her to do so. But the priest was smiling. He nodded to Dragon even as he addressed Hawk.

"Ah, well, now that is taken care of. We will proceed as you wish, my lords."

"Immediately then," Hawk said. He did a decent enough job of hiding his relief but Dragon wasn't fooled. Until that moment, not even the Lord of Essex had been sure the marriage would take place.

Krysta appeared at Rycca's side. She spoke to her softly, distracting her as she guided her to a small room off the great hall. There the bride would wait while the guests, her scowling family, and one stern-faced groom assembled in the chapel.

Father Desmond led the way. Dragon followed even as it dawned on him that he was well and truly about to be wed. All through the sleepless night he had thought of it, pondering why he had refused to call off the marriage. She had betrayed him, with himself true enough but it was betrayal all the same, not merely with her body but with the far more important matter of her spirit.

He had thought her courageous and found her cowardly, he who knew the deeply engrained torment of fear but knew also the conquering of it. So, too, had he believed her honorable in her own fashion and discovered she cared for naught save her own well-being.

Why did it matter so much? Why didn't he simply laugh at the absurdity of it all? He had not wanted to marry to begin with and once reconciled to the need, he had allowed himself no expectations. Or so he had thought. Never had it occurred to him that he might not be able to trust his wife or at least respect her. Without so basic a foundation for their life together, he truly wondered how they would manage.