Loveweaver (3 page)

“What labors procured you this treasure,” Slayde asked as he returned the rings to the pile, “which is usually reserved for merchants or travelling kings? Until you tell me otherwise, I suspect this is ill-gotten by such services for which certain women are paid well. Or that it is indeed stolen. How else would you come by such?”

“Tell him this coin is an inheritance.” Byrnstan insisted on grasping at straws. “Or that you have some other talent with which you have earned this.”

“And why you then took the money, risked your life in a barrel, at sea, without food and without kin to greet you at the end of a desperate journey,” Slayde added.

Llyrica now addressed the priest, whom she must rightly perceive as an ally. “I agree that the circumstances of my arrival cast me in a guilty light, and fear bids me not admit or deny a crime which brought my brother and me here. But might I be forgiven, after which I will go and sin no more?” She molded the priest like clay. “Our Lord bestows this favor. Will you?”

Byrnstan answered swiftly. “Indeed, child. To forgive is my foremost duty.”

“But you will not go, save by my leave,” Slayde said. He tired of the debate after a long day, and the soft tones of her voice agitated him. “And then it will be on the next ship bound for Denmark. Whether or not you sin again is your affair.”

The time which elapsed during Llyrica’s silence was filled with the heaving sounds of men rowing and the OnyxFox surging through coastal waters. The ship neared the estuary that would take them to Benfleet, the home of StoneHeart’s living quarters and training ground for his troops. The Viking-built fortress, protected by the great earthworks surrounding it and the Saxons now living there, boasted the conquest over its Danish occupants just months before. The Saxon possession of this fortress was tenuous, on the very edge of Danelaw. It was muddy, treeless place, with a vast view of the sea.

Slayde thought that his would be the final words and he nearly arose to occupy himself elsewhere before landing. But Llyrica reached out of her peach shroud and touched Byrnstan’s arm, a gesture that made Slayde’s flesh tingle with damnable envy.

“Might I count on asylum within the Church, Father Byrnstan?” she asked. “Will my Christian faith be rewarded? I only pray for sennight to find my brother, who will be lost without me. Keep these goods and money as collateral and keep me under watch if you must. Allow me to be of service while I wait.” Now she turned to Slayde. “I have seen the faded condition of your men’s tunicas. I can see them put to right with redipping. As for the braid on those of your men who wear it ...” Her brief pause nearly made Slayde look down at his own tunica, battle worn, its braid no longer vibrant. “If I have not found my brother within the allotted time, you may put me on a boat and ship me out.” She took a deep breath. “I am only one woman, surely of no danger to you. In this, and in my efforts to makes amends, I vow reverently.”

“And if you do find your brother?” Slayde asked.

“I hope you will see that he is not much more than a boy, and will let us go to where we can be with our own. In Danelaw we will begin new and better lives.”

Llyrica proposed this arrangement with such reason and sincerity, Slayde wavered in his inclination to oppose it. The light in Byrnstan’s eyes, a twinkle of equal parts mischief and compassion, informed StoneHeart of the priest’s intention to overrule him.

“You are a testament to the redemption of the fallen woman, Llyrica,” said Byrnstan. “For your promise to reform, I give you my vow. Under my protection shall you find sanctuary. You will come and live under our roof.  The roof of StoneHeart.”

Slayde did not jerk his head up in dismay nor burst out an expletive. Nor did he accuse his godfather of softhearted meddling. Nay, he hid his reaction to Byrnstan’s misguided charity behind a facade of indifference, and a silence which stretched the limits of comfort. The muscle above his right eye twitched its provoking tick.

“I bow to your Christian sensibility, Byrnstan,” he finally said. “And I wash my hands of this matter, leaving her to you. But she will not stay under our roof and you know well why.” Slayde unfolded his frame to its formidable height, left the priest and Llyrica crouched on the floor of the deck. “But we will find a dwelling close by, perhaps the thralls’ quarters. I put her in your care and bid you take heed lest we awaken one morning and find she has absconded with our property. Or worse, that what she sought to escape will come to our door.”

“I have only just given her my word, son, that she stay with us. Should I snatch it back only seconds after it was given?” Byrnstan kept a tight hold of the woman’s hand.

Slayde could not dispute Byrnstan’s case, and in full view of his crewmen, he should not look to fear a woman’s presence. Slayde would not win this one. He shrugged and feigned interest at an indeterminate point at the coast.

“‘Tis a large house, and a sennight is not so long,” he said. Byrnstan, Llyrica’s champion, patted the arm of his new charge, winked at her.

But Slayde set his jaw, knowing that now, and the days soon following, was not the time to have a woman ...this woman of intoxicating softness ...disrupting the order of his life and home. He had the state of the shire to attend to. His conflict with the East Anglian Vikings threatened to escalate to war, a probability for which he prepared himself and his men through weaponry and endurance training. King Alfred had also put StoneHeart in charge of the changing of Kent’s fyrd, when half of the Wessex laymen return to their civilian professions, while the other half take their places in the country’s militia. It was StoneHeart’s pursuit of the warlord Haesten though, which took priority over all else.

When I have rid the Kentish citizens of him I will have proved to Ceolmund I am a man. Maybe then I can live another life ...

If any woman could weaken a man and distract him from his duty, Llyrica could. Even now her presence made the crewmen of the OnyxFox slow their rowing to closer observe their ealdorman, judging his dealings with her. They would soon learn of Byrnstan’s arrangement. Perhaps they awaited the supreme male moment when Slayde upheld their ideal of man and coldly bedded the wench, then sent her packing in tears.

Or God forbid, they considered that she, a Danish whore, would be the one at last to soften the stone heart of ealdorman Slayde of Kent, diminishing his prowess. A man to be pitied, he would disappoint them with his fall from virile perfection. 

He must set a precedence, here on his ship, before all, and put the woman in her place. None must doubt that the StoneHeart ruled his own emotions and body. Goading him now, dead Ceolmund’s voice sounded in his head.
Each event in life is test of manhood.

Very well. Let the test commence.

Slayde bent, took Llyrica by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet, leaving her wrapped in linen and taking her in his arms for the second time in an hour. The drape of fabric fell from her head, exposed damp flaxen hair and a lovely upturned face he was not prepared for. She showed not fear or surprise, but wonder, painted in a pale palette of twilight colors - lips and cheeks, a peach horizon. Irises, an aqua sky. Eyelids shaded of dusk violet. And skin, the color of the moon.

He looked upon her dispassionately. “Take care, little vixen. With me, you may find after all that a sennight is too long and my house too small for comfort.”

Her lips trembled slightly. “You will not even know I am there.” 

Aware of the many eyes upon him, Slayde guarded his response to the supple form in his embrace and instead concentrated on the dynamics of the procedure, which was, after all, the purpose of this test.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

Slayde kept his lips slightly parted and pressed firmly as he cradled Llyrica’s head with one hand, pulled her closer with the other. She gave no resistance, nay, quite the opposite, allowed her soft flesh, from breast to thigh, to receive the unyielding contours of his body. No surprise, considering her profession, yet she achieved a convincing innocence, as beneath him, he felt her fall limp. Her lips surrendered sweetly, her small gasp sucking the breath from his lungs. This wrought a stunning effect. Like wax she softened in his arms in startling contrast to the hard ache of his arousal. His awareness of each enflamed place where their bodies touched ... thigh to thigh, breast to chest, lips to lips ... grew his desire to kiss every inch of her. She was made of wet silk, an agonizing allure. It drew from him a longing, deeper than sexual need, more akin to starvation for affection.

He withstood this torment though, and timed the duration of the kiss to further induce submission and to prove who was in control. A sweep of his tongue across her lips concluded the event.

He stepped back to survey the results, and left her swaying, eyelids fluttering, and leaning toward Byrnstan who quickly stood to catch her. A raucous cheer and stamping of feet sounded from his crew in appreciation of their ealdorman’s conquest. 

But the hammering of Slayde’s heart roared in his ears, nearly drowning out the applause.

Chapter III

Blessed babe in health do lie, your life be hale and long.

Let Mother’s kiss console your cry and Father’s make you strong.
 

Their haste allowed Broder only a glance back over his shoulder, though too much distance had been spanned to see any sight of her, or the disaster, even should he take more time. He did catch a last glimpse of the Saxon patrol ships lingering in the bay. They had chased their quarry to the shores of Danelaw, saw the tattered fleet moored, its foolhardy sailors disbursing.

“Keep going lest they decide to pursue us on foot! It is all left to the StoneHeart, now, comrade!” The lanky redheaded youth yelled at him as they ran. “Even the booty taken from the merchant’s knorr!”

Even Broder’s
sister
was left to the StoneHeart. Broder’s conscience pinched at the trouble he had caused her.

He recalled the events of days before, the day Llyrica fell into the hands of a flesh peddler and was hauled in Dyre’s ale lodge. Solvieg had joined Broder that night with plans to help Llyrica escape. They arrived in time to see her crawling out of a hole she had just kicked open in the rotted wall. She had also just crawled out from under an unconscious Xanthus, the money purse again in her possession. After vomiting from her experience with the paunchy slaver, Llyrica said she would commit a few crimes that dark night, though it was not in her nature as it was in her brother’s. Solvieg provided two skins of water and two loaves of bread and showed them on which merchant ship they would find a barrel of their wovengoods. Llyrica bade Broder steal a two-man faering and the barrel, tasks she quipped he would be good at. Also in his list of talents was setting things on fire, which she suggested he put to use on Xanthus’ ship, the BoarsJaw. Broder and Llyrica then rowed along the River Trene to where it emptied into the sea. As she firmly insisted, Broder hid her in the barrel and hailed a ship to take them to the Isle. To Danelaw. She seemed to have a specific goal in mind, but did not share it.

Less than an hour ago, Broder had pushed her barrel from a burning ship, seconds before he jumped in the water. After much chaos, he had found himself saved by unknown hands, sprawled half-drowned on a deck, then came to, joined to the others in a hasty escape. If he could swim, perhaps he would have dived in and returned to Llyrica, stayed with her and shared her fate.

Now he deemed it too late, especially since this band of roughnecks swept him along. Let things settle a bit, then he would figure a way to get to her.

“Where are we bound?” Broder called in return. With any luck it would not be so far that Llyrica would come find
him.

“Those who have homes, have gone on,” the boy answered. “Those of us who have not, return to our king and surrogate father, lord Haesten. His fortress is up the Lea to where we will soon return. Now we are encamped near the village of Olavby.”

The name of the man, whose lore preceded him, caused Broder to break from his trot for a moment, and forget Llyrica entirely. Few young warriors had not heard the legends relating to Haesten’s adventures across the Mediterranean and Francia or his grand feats of warfare. “The same Haesten who killed sixty men in a day? Then escaped capture by leaping from a cliff top onto his horse below? Was it he who sent you out today against the StoneHeart?” Broder looked up the trail through the fen, saw timber dwellings ahead and wondered if he soon would encounter the myth in the flesh.

“Aye the same! But Loki’s Foot! He did not send us to the task today! We thought to prove ourselves worthy of his army
by storming the StoneHeart’s Gate. No doubt he will put us to sharpening spears when he finds out our folly.”

“I would cut rushes for his floor to enlist in his army!” exclaimed Broder. “Will he take me with the lot of you?” This would prove an even better fate than coming upon fellow miscreants and witnessing a sea battle, though it ended badly and in flames. And with the separation from his sister.

“He will, so join us ... the six of us. I am Egil. Look there to Lunt, Erik, Kalmin, Gunnar, and Ragnar.” Broder glanced at the boys to each side of him. “Tell me how you are called and how you came to be on the merchant’s knorr.”

Broder told of his search for adventure, a partial truth that need not include Llyrica. As the young bloods ran on, he pieced together the events that had separated him from his sister. This band of juvenile marauders had planned the exploit, and after spreading the word around local villages, had obtained ships from various sources. They had hoped to become heroes by charging through the Gate of StoneHeart, and along the way, for added sport, they had pirated the merchant ship, the same on which Broder and Llyrica journeyed. 

But a new venture now presented itself to Broder, one that would fill his insatiable need for excitement. One that would occupy him until Llyrica came ... as she always did.

The sea tried to drown her again, yet did so by pouring hot, savory liquid down her throat. It also told a breeze to rush across her skin in drying warmth. Llyrica opened her eyes and to her left beheld dead animal heads protruding from the wall, floor to tall ceiling. Spears and shields of all lengths, colors and shapes were displayed in rows, and swords of antiquity and of ancient battles were hung beside rusted scramasaxes from centuries ago. Exhibited on pegs along high beams, she saw portions of leather armor stained black with old blood, byrnies whose metal mesh had been torn by blades, helmets bashed by hammers, and strung on strings were claws and teeth of unnamed beasts. And across from her, spanning the lengthwise wall, tapestries illustrated vicious hunting scenes and those of war at sea.

“Holy Lord!”  Llyrica scrambled to her feet. “I have died and gone to Hell!”

“Nay, you are alive, awakened from a faint,” a voice said. “And not in Hell, but in heaven, a man’s heaven. The StoneHeart’s lodge.”

Llyrica found herself standing on a straw pallet, backed against an adjacent wall to the one of horror. Beside her knelt a woman, a thrall, plump and red-cheeked, framed by graying hair, her unadorned cyrtel of brown linen indicating a lowly station. She held a mug of broth.

“ ‘Tis a dreadful sight,” Llyrica said, clutching her hand to her pounding heart.

“Aye, ealdorman Ceolmund collected pieces of war.” The thrall’s eyes traveled the height and lengths of the walls. “But he is dead now, six moons worth of dead. Come sit, Viking lass, before you fall.”

“I am yet light headed.” Llyrica lowered to sit on the pallet. The thrall nudged her with the mug, enticing her to take it.

“You should be. They say the StoneHeart kissed you so hard you collapsed.”

Oddly breathless, Llyrica brought her fingers to her lips at the thought of Slayde’s mouth pressed to hers. “Aye, he did at that, indeed.” 

A kiss. The first of its kind. It made her aware of twenty years deprived of male attentions and the need to make up for lost time. Yet she had felt another need, not hers, but his, as he seemed desperate for something he might find within her. He drank from her lips as a thirsty man draws water from a spring.

Another dizziness descended upon her. “But I have also been without food for two days and had quite lost my strength.”

“Finish the broth then and later I will fetch you some bread.”

Llyrica sipped from the welcome cup. She discovered she was yet dressed in her thin silk cemes, now dry with the rest of her. Small wonder. A warm breeze blew through the hall of this wealthy abode, an indication of a wisely situated dwelling. She sat close by to one of the open doors. 

“Who shall I thank for the broth?”

“I am Eadgyth. Kind Father Brynstan brought you in, bade me fix it, pour it into you and look after you.” She sat back on her heels, studied Llyrica. “I can see how you would d be suited to it, from your pretty looks. Your profession, I mean. Not that I fault you. A woman, especially a Dane, I suppose, needs to make a living when she is in the world alone.”

Llyrica dismissed the thrall’s prejudice. “A woman does indeed, do what must be done.” She had been marked as a whore, but this would help conceal her true identity. “But I do have other talents other than ...”

“I am sure you do, but who will know or care when you have got those for the world to see?” With jut of her chin, Eadgyth pointed to Llyrica’s thinly covered breasts. “They all got an eyeful when they pulled you from the water.”

Silent, Llyrica puzzled the meaning of the thrall’s words. She had never needed to consider other’s reactions to her unclothed body. “My state of undress disconcerted them, then. But I have promised Father Byrnstan my reform in exchange for his protection, so will cover myself accordingly.” The peach linen lay crumpled beneath her and she readied to wrap herself in it.

“A good start.” Eadgyth winked, then indicated two garments folded beside the pallet ...a linen cemes and Llyrica’s own lavender cyrtel and accessories. “Put these on, ‘twil help. I will wash the silk you have got on and have it to you by morning.”

Though in need of a proper bath, the rinse in the sea would do for now, and Llyrica quickly exchanged her gown for the replacement. She found comfort cloaking herself with the linen. Her bone weaver’s tablets and shuttle clacked with familiarity from her shoulder brooch as she massaged into her hands a few drops of almond oil from the vial.

“Suppertime approaches.” Eadgyth took Llyrica’s silk as she groaned to a stand. “The bread is done. The master will be in soon and all the women need to clear out before he and his captains come. If you are to stay in this house tonight, you will be the first woman to do so. Much less a Viking dame! Even when his father, Ceolmund, lived in the house it was the rule, a rule which has never been broken. Women weaken a man
and
his house, he said. And his son, Slayde of Kent thinks the same.”

“It is a singular theory I have never before imagined. And I cannot fathom that this large house is home to only he and Byrnstan.”

“Aye, but sometimes also StoneHeart’s half brother, little Elfric. Rest now while I help the others prepare. The night after a victory against the Danes always fills the house with hungry men.”

Eadgyth trotted off. Whispering, thralls flicked glances at the curiosity in peach linen, giggled as they prepared for the diners’ arrival. Llyrica hid herself under the fabric, pulled it over her head to watch as they tended the great central fire, stirred caldrons, roasted meat and turned the bread baking on hot stones. Some swept rubbish from the oak-planked floor, replaced the old rushes with new. Wall sconces were lit to accommodate the onset of eventide as one group rounded up benches from the perimeter of the hall. The thralls placed them around the table already laden with platters of food and pitchers of ale, and which stood in view of the walls of horror.

The far end of the hall held the loom and its accompaniments. Wool in various stages lay about, raw fleeces in large soft piles ready for carding and spinning, and dyed yarn wrapped on arm-long shuttles. Odd and ends of yarns and fibers colored the floor, and so too were stacked piece goods ready for sewing. She also spied her own bundles of wovengoods in the corner, beside two large storage chests.

The loom itself was an immense, vertical device leaning against the wall, warp-weighted with large stones, and wide enough to weave a banner, as her grandmother had done as the legendary Songweaver. Women passed the shuttle from one side to the other, weaving sailcloth for the StoneHeart’s fleet, known to Llyrica by the black foxhead on a red background.

She now recalled the braid on Slayde’s and his captains’ tunicas. Astonishing to find it was braid woven by
her own hand
! Indeed she knew it well, had sung the song of victory into the design. Her braids were sold in every corner of the world, but she had not considered finding them on the Isle. The fact that StoneHeart wore them carried implications she would need to ponder. For now though, the familiar presence of a loom and the sight of wool saddened her, reminding her of Mother and Solvieg. She was far from home in this foreign land, on her way to fulfilling a deathbed promise. Her aunt’s farewell and last words at the dark harbor of Hedeby returned to her:
 

“You must away, Llyrica, since you have escaped Xanthus. Hiding in our cave is no remedy for your turn of fate. How suddenly it is upon you.”

“Aye, Solvieg, though I long to crawl behind the loom to hide as I have done for years. Now I am forced to go when before I might have been content to stay forever. A path is presented before me and I will now honor my promise to Mother. Would that I were powerful, famous and rich as I told her I would be.”