Loveweaver (11 page)

He needed no further proof that Llyrica, exhaling little whimpers at his feet, was to blame for each of these calamities. Before long, Slayde’s men
and the world
would no longer see the indomitable StoneHeart, but a man whose heart had been turned to gruel, could not manage a ship or weapon with efficiency nor could not lead troops with any credibility. Worst of all, he had not bedded the curvaceous Viking, so he would look to have failed as a rogue, as well. Ceolmund laughed at Slayde from his cairn.

StoneHeart confirmed that the OnyxFox and his other two ships had slipped out of heavy traffic and neared a suitable landing. At the aft, two men bailed water, and joined the remainder of the crew in casting askance glances at their ealdorman. He nodded approval of their work, then feigned an impassive assessment of Llyrica and her wound as Byrnstan helped her sit up.

“Yon sea chest banged into my ankle,” Llyrica said through ashen lips. “’Tis not so bad.” She wiggled her foot with a slight wince.

“Be still. It turns blue even as we watch,” said Byrnstan. “You will need stay off of it for a day or two. You can recuperate at StoneHeart’s London house.”

Slayde jerked involuntarily. His irritation at the thought of Llyrica spending yet another night under his roof was compounded by the pleasure of relief. Confusion gave him a headache. “Nay, she will not. There is a Danish settlement not far across the border. They will surely take in one of their own.”

“Indeed, they will, son,” said Byrnstan with his usual tone of placation. “But she has been promised a safe delivery and I do not deem it so until she is healed.”

Thinking quickly under the scrutiny of his crew, Slayde heaved a deep breath and raised his voice. He gave him men knowing look. “As you deem appropriate, priest. But I have no loom for her to sleep behind. Therefore, I will share my bed with her and she will forget her sore foot right quick. She needs healing? I will provide a healing that will remedy more than her ankle.”

Ailwin laughed the loudest of StoneHeart’s crew. Llyrica’s lips fell open in dismay, and Byrnstan shook his head with disfavor, while taking the woman’s hand. But none would see Slayde’s inward flinch at the brutish sound of his own words.

Llyrica thrust up her chin. “I would rather lie on a cold stone floor than beside a cold stone man. As for your
healing
, any talents you might have would fall sorely short when compared to a man I have known. A man of the night, who ...”

Byrnstan quickly bade Llyrica hush by squeezing her hand, an odd, but timely move, lest she continue in detail and increase this jealousy now charging through Slayde.  

“Men only come to you of a night, do they?” StoneHeart taunted, in rage against his own weaknesses. “Pray tell what wanton profession you pursue by day. Stealing their money and rings?” His men rewarded him with more snickering.

“She will not answer under my protection, StoneHeart,” Byrnstan said. He then put his arm around Llyrica, an enviable move.

Slayde shrugged, tried to look bored with the subject, and sensing that his male status with his crew was ensured, turned to busy himself with going ashore. “Then keep her there and out of my way.” Damn the sharp pain in his chest.

Shrinking back into hiding, Llyrica covered her head and face with her hood. “I have changed my mind,” Slayde heard her whisper to the priest as though the two shared a secret. “I cannot go through with it.”

“Aye, lass, you can, since fate has again stepped in,” Byrnstan replied. “It is settled and I will take care of everything.” He looked up to Slayde. “She will accept your hospitality for a least one more night. Then you will do with her what you will.”

Chapter VII

The distance closes fast, though mountains intercede.

I hold tight until the last, and follow where you lead.

Late, much after dark, StoneHeart arrived and slammed the door behind him. A current of cool, damp air accompanied him, briefly flattening the low flames in the fire pit.

“Put out the lamps,” he said. Without stopping to further address Llyrica or Byrnstan, he climbed tall, sturdy ladder to the loft. His odd circular house was thrice as high as its diameter of one rod, built of timber, stone and daub. It sat in the northeast corner of London’s garrison wall with a view of two rivers. The round interior boasted no adornments, save sleek gray marble floors, a carved oak table and two benches. The small size of StoneHeart’s house comforted Llyrica, reminded her of the Crone’s Cave.

Smiling reassuringly at her, the priest rose from the table to snuff out the sconces, then stirred the fire in its pit against the curved, stone-faced wall. A small opening to the outside sucked smoke from the room. On one side of the fire, a plain chest nearby served as larder. The shelves above held a minimum of eating and cooking implements. On the other, sat a small wooden tub for washing and large ewer of fresh water. The flickering light sufficed to illuminate their conversation.

“Continue, Father,” Llyrica said, quietly. “Finish your tale.” She would listen and need hear the end, but she raised her eyes to the dark above, still felt the injury of Slayde’s belittling comments. By the magic of her braid or not, another turn of events had prevented her parting from the StoneHeart. His company though, proved caustic.

“Indeed.” Byrnstan reseated and leaned across the table. He put a finger to his lips, indicating their need for low voices. “Since I knew Ceolmund was gone for the day, I bade Judith meet me in my chapel garden. There I brought four-year-old Slayde and a basket of food. Mother and son met, much to my tears of gladness, and they picnicked among foxgloves, mint and asters. Composed poems together.” He paused for a quick glance upward. “The meeting did not end well as Ceolmund discovered yet another of my interferences, raged in and yanked up the boy. ‘A fairygirl are you now?’ he asked, as his son had a blossom tucked behind his ear, put there by Judith. ‘And you, the mother of a fairygirl,’ he said to his wife. And then he hauled Slayde back to the garrison at Canterbury, where they lived at the time, and made him stand before his little comrades and tell them all he was a fairygirl. The little lad suffered many bloodied noses until he learned to bloody his comrades’ first. Ailwin was there.”

Llyrica swallowed to ease her constricted throat. Her thoughts turned to Broder, grown without a father, and then she considered Slayde, grown with too much father.  A pitiable thing, StoneHeart did not have the protection and comfort of a mother. “You think to undo what Ceolmund did to StoneHeart, but I think your efforts are in vain. I have witnessed his cruel streak more than once.”

“I have already undone much of what Ceolmund has done, though it is not outwardly evident. But you, more than I, have witnessed the portion of his heart that his father could not harden.”

“It is a small portion, Byrnstan ...”

“Aye, but growing. And you will be his salvation. I saw it in you when he pulled you from the water. I ask not why
you
consent to this, though I pray it be for love, but my reason is plain: you will bind the two halves of the man.”

Llyrica studied the fire’s gleam in the priest’s gaze and nearly confessed the strange story of her life. “If you, as a priest and Slayde’s godfather, have no qualms with this, then I also turn a deaf ear and a blind eye.” Yet her heart pounded in wild anticipation.

A noise sounded above. "You have put the lamps out,” Slayde’s voice descended. “My intention was to also cease your talking that I may sleep. Within hours, I have a marriage to attend.”

“Indeed, son,” Byrnstan answered to the man above. “A God’s good night to you.” He waited for a reply, received none, then leaned closer still to Llyrica. “We need tell Slayde at first light all that transpires. I shall keep one eye open the entire night, that not one-quarter hour shall pass after his awakening before he knows the truth. I am certain he will reconcile the StoneHeart and the sleepwalker.”

“You are confident and so shall I be.”

Rising from his bench, the priest motioned Llyrica to her fur-covered straw pallet beside the fire pit. Her money purse and bundles of wovengoods lay close by, against the wall. After bidding Llyrica good night, Byrnstan crossed the round room to his own bed and was heard rustling about as he settled in.

Llyrica prayed for Soso and Broder, shed her clothes and donned the long, sheer white gown with gold braid, sleeveless, sideless, tied at the waist. As she pulled a thin wool blanket up to her neck, her promise to Mother came foremost in her mind ... a promise she would fulfill with the sleepwalker’s help.
 

Warm fingers slipped under Llyrica’s sore foot. Lips brushed gently across her ankle. The sleepwalker found her, must still consider her the softest place in his house, though she did not sleep this night on a bed of carded wool. Sweet blessing, he had come, his arrival lit by the low flames in the firepit.

“Say your foot does not hurt too ill,” he said. “I have thought of nothing else but your welfare.”

“A twinge, is all.” A shiver racked her body. “The wound in your - your thigh. Is it ...”

“There is no pain when I am with you.”

He planted another kiss, flung aside her blanket, then advanced up her body, his naked heat skimming the surface of her skin. Employing movements too swift and adept for her to counter, the sleepwalker drew her near, pulled her atop him, with her cheek resting in the hollow of his shoulder. He was a hard bed, attested to by her breasts pressed to an unyielding chest, her arm draped over a ribbed expanse and her hand lying along side his tautly muscled hip. Indeed, the body of StoneHeart. But the male warmth beneath her, the arms that locked her to him and his heartbeat in her ear belonged to the sleepwalker. So too, the lips. But she could not choose who owned the mind or the iron manpart trapped between them.

“I have just lied,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I said I thought of nothing else but your welfare, but I have ... and it is just this ... your sweet softness safe here within my embrace. Hmm ... and attired thus, in transparent cloth. Would that it were wet, clinging to you as a second skin.”

She could not easily dismiss her vexation for StoneHeart. “You indicated no such concern on your ship today. So cold was your regard and expression toward me, ‘twas as if you blamed me for the accident.”

“Were it your fault, I should thank you a thousand times, for it kept you with me. Though I would not for the world see you injured, forgive me for blessing your bruised ankle.” Taking a firm grip around her waist, the heat of his hands searing through her filmy gown, the sleepwalker rolled her over. His weight pressed heavily upon her in a breath-stealing alignment of bodies. A slight adjustment, and his manpart, pulsing most noticeably, lay in the groove formed by her closed legs.

In the part of her mind still forming coherent thought, she deemed this third encounter with the sleepwalker no less astonishing than the first two. Captivated, she owned no desire other than to submit to his masterful moves.

“My ship’s repairs are well underway and my crew is encamped in the barracks across the yard. The concerns of the day are well met.” He took her hands, pinned them beside her head, and whispered against her lips. “Therefore, my sweet fox, let this night be ours only.”

Llyrica stared into his dark eyes over which fell wild locks of hair, and let his words seduce her, banish the importance of promises and motivations. Her body, still learning the wonder of flesh pressed together in this way, sought further adventure. “I - I wish it, too. Though how - how shall we spend it?”

He lowered for a quick kiss. “Since we are to be married, let us discuss the house I shall build you. Tell me what you require, though I know indeed your need for a loom at one end.”

Until his domestic offer, she had not considered married life with the StoneHeart. She had not yet looked beyond the ecstasy of unclothed nights with the sleepwalker or her half-boiled plan to avenge Mother’s suffering. “I have seen evidence of your cunning abilities as a house builder. I should leave such plans to your greater knowledge. Though I am intrigued by your lofts.” She loosed one of her hands to tuck his hair behind his ear, to stroke his shadowed jaw. His eyes partially closed with her small intimacy, expressed his need for affection.  She wished for opportunity to give it liberally and generously, comfort him in all the ways he had not been comforted as a child. 

“Then you shall have a house of great height, and a room with a view. From there you can weave your braids and look for me to come home at eventide. That is, if I ever venture out of your sight.” He dipped in for a nibble of her ear. “When will it be done, this wedding of ours? Say it will be soon. I have brought the ring.”

“This night it will be done.” Byrnstan’s voice, cautiously low, came before Llyrica could reply. Though expecting him and this event, the image of the white-haired priest sitting cross-legged beside the outstretched couple made her question sanity. Her acquaintance with worldly matters was limited, but she was well aware that this wedding would prove most unorthodox.

A Saxon ealdorman, nude and asleep, would marry a Viking loomstress, newly emerged from twenty years of anonymity.

The sleepwalker lifted his head and smiled at Byrnstan. “Fine timing, good priest. Llyrica has consented to be my bride. Through the powers vested in you, I pray you to proceed.”

Byrnstan looked to keep a straight face, which nearly brought rise to a nervous giggle from Llyrica. Aye, this was serious business, but she imagined the comical picture they presented, and the priest might also feel embarrassment at her state of near-undress.

“Hold hands,” Byrnstan directed, holding a roll of parchment in his lap.

The sleepwalker assisted Llyrica to sit up, and they faced each other, knees to knees, their hands clasped.

  “Under the eyes of God, I do so bind thee as man and wife,” the priest began. “Slayde, place the ring in succession on the three fingers of Llyrica’s right hand. The Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Slip it on her left hand’s finger. I now charge you both to make vows unto each other. Slayde, take this woman for your own until death parts you. Say you will.”

“I will until death, Sweet Softness.” The sleepwalker’s scent, which she now knew as
mint
, punctuated his gentle words. His dark eyes fixed warmly on Llyrica, his mouth softened into a smile. 

“And you, Llyrica take this man for your own until death parts you. Say you will.”

She drew a breath of apprehension. “Until death parts us, I will.”

“The wedding document.” On the floor, Byrnstan unrolled the crisp parchment, produced a quill and small pot of ink. “Each of you will put your mark here, which will record your marriage in the church ledger.”

The sleepwalker reached for the offered quill, dipped it in the inkpot and signed his name beside Byrnstan’s pointing finger.

“I cannot scribe, Byrnstan,” Llyrica admitted, taking the quill from the sleepwalker. “Though I can draw the pattern of a braid. Will it do?” She had made a similar mark before. The priest nodded his consent. Choosing a design she seldom wove, since it took eighty tablets, two days to thread and a complex system of turnings, Llyrica drew a motif of interconnected diagonals. “My mark is put down.”  She returned the quill to Byrnstan. “Are we now wed?” Silent, Byrnstan also scribed on the curling sheet.

“In all ways, save one,” he answered, rerolling the parchment. With an old man’s grimace, he arose. “I will leave you to it.” He gave Llyrica a wink, her cue that he would return before dawn, then padded around them to stir the fire. Once done, a new set of flames leaping to life, the priest took off for bed.

“In all ways, my silken bride,” the sleepwalker said. “Save one. So we will begin with a kiss.” 

Turning in his arms, she fell with him to the pallet. His lips, so hard by day and warm by night, plied hers with enthralling insistence. She succumbed to the sweet offer, parted for him, was rewarded by his low chuckle of appreciation. His large hands roved to explore the body beneath his new bride’s filmy gown. There he found her silk-covered breasts, tingling in anticipation of his touch, and nipples tightening under the slow circles of his thumbs. Her body arched against her husband as one hand hastened along a silken path to her belly, kneading soft flesh. The other cradled her head. A quiet moan sang from her throat when he descended lower, his caress made more tantalizing by the sheer fabric whispering over her skin.