Loveweaver (12 page)

“Sweet heaven, you are soft,” he groaned hotly in her neck. “I must have every bit of you. Say you will give it to me.”

Her first answer was a breathy little noise as he palmed her woman’s mound. “Aye, take it. I want you to have it.”

“And take me. Will you take all of me?” His voice rolled thick and deep as his fingers moved in rhythm between her legs. The fabric under his touch dampened.

She had glimpsed of the silhouetted proportions of his offer, felt its weight on her thigh. “I - I will if I am able.”

“You will. I will see to it. You are already dewy inside.” He stole her next breath with a kiss and a low growl, increasing the swirls on her tender folds. The muscles in his back rippled under her hands as she pulled on him in primal desperation. It was coming again, the pleasure that radiated from her intimate place, that surged stronger with each stroke and filled her with fiery liquid. Shifting his weight, the sleepwalker made known the state of his arousal, his shaft thick and stone hard, pressed near her ardent core. She inhaled sharply, struggling to breathe.

“I will not wait, sweet fox,” the sleepwalker moaned into her ear. With his hand yet working its wonders, he gathered up her gown, and pressed his knee between hers. “Make way for me.” 

With this joining, Llyrica would cross a threshold into a man’s life where she may not be welcomed. But the sleepwalker’s lure into his whorl of desire rendered her as needful as he. Instinct also bade her submit to his requirements, allowing him to part her legs with his thigh and ease his way over her. She felt a blunt, tight pressure at her feminine entry, and sucked a breath of anticipation. 

A sudden, explosive
pop
burst from the fire, jolting the couple from further passion. From the corner of Llyrica’s eye, she saw a spray of sparks, identifying the source of the noise as perhaps an ignited pinecone or knot within a log.

The sleepwalker rolled away abruptly, put his hand to head, his breathing labored. Llyrica felt the chill of his departure and the unassuaged ache tugging at the inner reaches of her body.

“What is happening?” he mumbled. “I do not understand this ... Where ... where am I? My ship, it is damaged ... and my men will think ... Ah, cruel luck. Elfric stay back.”

Moving beside him, Llyrica pulled his hand away, held it in hers. “Shhh. You are safe asleep, dearest. All is well.”

He bolted upright, his hair falling wildly about his brow. “Oh, God, Judith. I have got to drill the troops. Purchase weapons, arrange food supplies, ships. The new fyrd is coming within days. A peasant army must be readied for war. I must prepare to kill.” The muscles of his body flexed hard in the firelight. His eyes were distant and vacant. “Yea, curse you, Ceolmund. I see you watching.”

“Of a day, my heart, you may deal with it. But now, at night, you need rest. Find peace. Lie back.” Llyrica tried again to soothe his agitation, caressed his cheek, but he did not seem to hear or see her. The lid of his right eye fluttered in a pitiable spasm.

Byrnstan arrived quickly and threw a blanket over the sleepwalker’s shoulders. “Help me get him to a stand,” the priest said. “We must put him to bed before he awakens fully.” Llyrica took one hefty arm and the priest took the other. “Come now, StoneHeart. To your feet.”

The sleepwalker complied under the urgings of Llyrica and Byrnstan, shuffling between them as they led him to the ladder. “There is rumor that Haesten has reinforcements marching from northern settlements,” the sleepwalker grumbled, his head bobbing. “He may yet control the Lea, then move into London, spread his horde along the roads into Kent ...”

“One step up, son,” Byrnstan told him, bending to place the sleepwalker’s foot on a rung.

“Father chased him for four years ...dragged me with him.” The sleepwalker climbed the ladder, his speech reduced to muttered phrases. “Eighty ships ... fringe of the Weald ... fortress at Benfleet ... slaughter of hundreds ... blood everywhere ...”

Byrnstan followed him to the loft, was gone several minutes before he descended and bade Llyrica to also return to bed. “He will finish the night on his pallet above.” He covered Llyrica with her blanket. “Glad am I that he did not fully awaken. He was already most distraught.”

She had seen yet a third side of Slayde, neither the StoneHeart nor the tender sleepwalker, but the tortured man betwixt. “I am heart sore to seem his thus! His concerns weigh heavily, it seems, and I was wont to lighten his burden. But he forgot me very quickly.”

“Only for the moment, lass. You will be good for him, wait and see. He will come to you again.” Byrnstan patted her head. “He must. You are now his wife.”

Llyrica thought of the passion that was not fulfilled, that yet lingered close at hand. Every pore quivered from unquenched desire and she wished to start again from beginning to end. But more so, Llyrica wished she could climb the ladder to the loft, and lie beside the sleepwalker, comfort him, lay a warm cloth on his convulsing eyelid.

Another thought intruded. “According to your signed document, we are wed. But we are not bound together by ... we did not ... could not ...”

“It is more than a formality, it is true. Your consummation is required indeed to make your marriage legal.” He looked worried for the first time. “Do not fret. It will be done.”

Aye, she wished it and needed it, but wondered how, when ... and with whom.

Slayde, ealdorman of Kent, comprised, after all, more than one man.

Nights plagued with fitful sleep were more the rule than not, but this latest of three saw Slayde awake before dawn with remnants of a strange dream. A cold sweat and painful erection remained. Small wonder. Llyrica had played the leading role in his dream, writhing and gasping beneath him in the same gown she sewed for his bride, the same he had imagined her in. The vision was vividly rendered down to each nuance of the vixen’s ginger scent, the taste of her mouth, the lushness of her breast ... her hidden wet heat into which his shaft had been denied entry. These erotic pleasures of the dream twisted disturbingly with obligations of war and with maintaining this hard life laid out for him. 

He arose from the hard pallet and rough wool in his ascetic chamber, low ceiling and stonewalls encasing the StoneHeart. After dousing his body with a cloth and bowl of cold water, a cure for arousal, he tied on the under garb of his brecs, then dressed in his new tunica and his red braccas, wrapped to the knee. Baldric, belt and sword followed, his longbow and quiver yet propped against the wall. A glance out the window across the garrison yards showed a fog billowing over the turf, clinging to warrior’s huts, and rolling over the green ploughland that lay beyond London. The chill bade him don a black cloak and pin it to his right shoulder with a silver brooch.  He finger-combed his disheveled hair, pinched a leaf of mint from his fresh stash, and climbed down the ladder.

In new dawn light, the priest yet snored against the wall and Llyrica lay curled asleep beside the cold fire, her hands tucked under her cheek. The seamless curves of her body left no doubt that she was unclothed beneath her thin blanket, confirmed by Slayde’s inventory of her pile of clothes ... silk ivory cemes, lavender cyrtel and the peach linen which served as her cloak. Two scohs, perfect leather molds of her feet, sat near the neat stack. Ah, Christ. Were she not the bane his father warned him of - that Slayde had already seen sufficient evidence of - he would roll her over, sup upon her sweet ripe lips then bury himself in that lush softness. Surrender to weakness.
In a different life ...

The day’s work awaited, as did his troops, the citizens of Kent and London and his agenda against Haesten. Resolutely, he made for the door, first stopping at the table. The gown Llyrica made for Athelswith lay draped over a bench, ready, he assumed, for him to take. In light of the dream, he declined. On the table he placed a note for Byrnstan:

Swollen ankle or no, take the woman across the border this morning. She may not be here when I bring Athelswith to wife this evening. See to her care however, as is your Christian duty.

He picked it up and put it down innumerable times. Images flickered briefly ... Elfric in Llyrica’s soft lap, slim hands swiftly forming artful patterns in yarn, the lilt of a melody. Aqua eyes peering out from under a hood ... hiding. But from what, he would never know. God Almighty. He left the note, his house, and the woman behind.

Colorless, impotent, the sun rose behind the morning haze as the populace within the stonewalled garrison stirred. Thralls crossed the yards hauling water and wood, horses were tended, and soldiers emerged from their barracks scratching and stretching. Liquid sounds from the two rivers upon which this fortress sat, the Thames and the Lea, blended with the lowing of cattle, the meadowlark’s call and St. John’s church bell beyond the gates. The air smelled damp, pungently earthy, of ripening grains and corn.

Mud gave way beneath his scohs as Slayde approached the great hall, one of King Alfred’s east Wessex manors, timber framed, massive, home to the king’s thegn, Eadwulf. His Londoners would join the Kentish men in the campaign up the Lea.

Two spear-wielding guards at the double-doored entrance stepped aside for the StoneHeart to enter. Ailwin came trotting from behind to accompany him. Smoky light slanted across the rush-covered floors of the London palace, dimmed the gold threaded tapestries and trophies of Saxon victories over the Vikings. Round, painted in bright colors, some studded with silver, wooden shields were displayed across an upper beam. Thralls put night bedding away, unstacked benches to accompany weighty tables, stirred cauldrons of porridge at the central fire. 

Slayde had oft been here, and could make his residence in one of the private chambers, a partitioned bay in a corner of the manor. He preferred though, his unique tower-shaped house overlooking the Thames and the yards. It was his, a creation of his own mind and hand.

A huddle of thralls, finished with receiving morning instructions, dispersed to reveal thegn Eadwulf. He was dressed in a blue tunica and cross-gartered braccas. Balding, portly, alike in age to Slayde’s father, Ceolmund’s old comrade raised a hand and hailed.

“Come to show us all how to nock an arrow, eh, StoneHeart? Or how to kiss a Viking siren plucked from the sea?” Eadwulf laughed, motioned them to sit, be served a morning meal. Slayde’s crew and thegns of Surry filed in through the double door, would amount to seventy in number when they had all arrived.

Slayde opted for levity in the face of rumor. Base, male humor, of course. “If any are interested in the preludes to the impaling of flesh, aye, that is why I am here.”

Ailwin appreciated the joke, banged the table with his fist. But Slayde wearied of verbal crudeness, immediately regretted the disrespectful words against Llyrica. With a vow to never again defame a woman, he straightened, hardened his face.

“We need discuss the timetable for our actions against Haesten,” he said, “since the fyrd will begin trickling in.”

“After we have filled our stomachs, StoneHeart,” said Eadwulf. Thralls ladled oatmeal and milk curds into bowls, poured cups of ale. Trenchers of coddled eggs were passed around, and platters of berries and grapes. Men got to the business of eating, while keeping an ear to the StoneHeart.

“I prefer a brief meeting as we break our fast, Eadwulf. I have an appointment in SouthWark and need leave within the hour.” A low voice, meant for only two men, though news of his wedding had spread.

“Indeed, your marriage to Athelswith. Good match.” The thegn shoveled eggs and oats into his mouth. “Like your father, down to business. Very well. The harvest begins in a week and a moon. Now you are come, we will call in the reserves from London and see which of them will make warriors.”

“Any who will hold a spear, sword or bow, take a command and will not turn until the fight is over. There will be no repeat of the Thorney debacle. Prince Edmund had Haesten’s division on the run, then under siege, but our Saxon fyrd abandoned its position since its allotted term had expired! They deemed not wait for their replacements and the Vikings fled when the threat was removed.”

“And the supplies had run out,” reminded Ailwin.

Slayde downed a draught of ale and nodded. “An occurrence which will not happen under my command, thegn Eadwulf. Our warriors will be well paid and fed, paid for by the geld within the chests delivered yesterday. So call in your willing burgware of London and we will get them readied along with the men in this garrison. What Kentish men my shire can spare will join the ranks. Between yours and mine, I count on twelve hundred men all told.”