Loveweaver (17 page)

“Then I have seen the last of him.” Llyrica sighed with relief, but recalled the rancor on Xanthus’ face when handed the purse. He fairly exploded when given the report of her coupling with StoneHeart. The haste of the transaction, which ensued, did not afford opportunity for her to reclaim her parent’s rings, and she had stood by mutely and watched them go with the money purse. She could not ask for them. Her tie to Haesten must yet remain unknown, even to Slayde, lest word leak to the warlord of her identity before she saw her deathbed promise fulfilled.

I have come, father. See how Mother has won, has kept your son and daughter from you. She died by your cruel hand. Now my husband, your adversary, StoneHeart, has come to throw you out. There is your justice.

“I know it brings you ease to know Xanthus is gone.” The priest led Llyrica onto the wooden walkway of the harbor, steered her around a pile of rotting fish guts. “Ahead is Athelswith’s house. She knows we come today and will be astonished with what you have done.”

“I give you my thanks again, for selling my wovengoods to her, ere I would not have bought the yarns from which I wove these braids. The coin of my first sale will go to you for alms, father.”

He patted her hand with a laugh.

Standing straight and built of golden oak, Athelswith’s half-timbered house sat separated from the filth and confusion of the harbor by a clean stretch of beach and green slope. Its location would have provided a tranquil view of the Thames, save the tall fence that surrounded the house and the armed men standing guard at the gate. Once opened, Byrnstan led Llyrica up a stone path, which curved around sunny gardens tended by thralls. Byrnstan called out a hail to the hall door, and was answered by Athelswith herself in scarlet brocade, come to welcome them in.

The interior was light, free of smoke and filled with samples of her profession as draper, and textiles from the far reaches of the trade routes. Llyrica’s eyes feasted on the abundance of gilded tapestries, folds of plaids and stripes, embroidered silks and damasks, thick wools and rarely seen velvet. Athelswith also dealt in pelts, evidenced by the rolls of fur in an open chest. The Crone’s Cave had been a similar, but lesser storehouse of fabrics.

Urbane, aloof, Athelswith offered them seats on a cushion-covered bench at a marble-topped table. “You have brought the braids?” Her brittle tone proved her not unaffected by the presence of her former intended’s new wife. 

Llyrica unwrapped the goods in her bundle, displayed the scores of delicate braids across the table. Intriguing patterns danced to life in subtle, enchanting color combinations.  White, peach, yellow. Robin’s egg, lavender, new green. Violet, ruby, indigo. Athelswith and Byrnstan stood in unison, stared in awe.

“They are meant for toddlers’ and babies’ clothing,” Llyrica said. “Each length sufficient for the hem and sleeves of a tunica. As you sell them, represent them for what they are, Athelswith. They are endowed with the songs and prayers of a mother’s heart, will bless the wearer with health and God’s safety. But they come with no guarantee other than workmanship and beauty.”

Athelswith chose a diamond-patterned braid of ivory, pink and gold, studied it. “I have never seen a tighter, finer weave. Not a warp or weft thread is out of place. I have a market for these and can sell as many as you can weave. We will settle on a fair price.” She met Llyrica’s eyes, a first time acknowledgement.

Llyrica reciprocated with a smile. “Let us be as partners, then. I will create these as I am wont to do, as I have done since I was four years old. You will pay me well and spread the name of the Songweaver.”

A raised eyebrow broke Athelswith’s placid composure. “Why that name? Because you heard me make mention of it at StoneHeart’s lodge?”

“In part, aye. Because you know of the woman’s legend and can judge for yourself if what I will tell you is true. Because fate has brought you and me together, which will increase your trade and will help fulfill a promise I made to my mother.” Llyrica thought of her years behind the loom, a deprivation unrealized. She took a deep breath, embarked on a new course. “My grandmother was the woman who wove the Raven banner and was known as the Songweaver. My mother claimed this name, too. But she hid from the world, taking the name with her. But, now it is the name I claim for my own. The time is nigh for
me
to come out of hiding.

Chapter X

Two colors lace and intertwine; The pattern forms unbroken.

Two colors dance, a scrolling vine; This is my vow unspoken.

            “By the bloody entrails of Thor, they were mine and I was meant to have them!”

Haesten galloped his horse across the yards and through the door of his hall, bellowing obscenities. His troops did not follow, wisely dismounted and watched from outside so as not to be trodden under their warlord’s tirade. From his short distance, Broder saw glimpses of tables and benches being overturned, casks of ale spilled, goods on shelves clattering down from the walls. The horse heaved and grunted, kicking up clods of packed earth floor and garbage strewn rushes as its master raced the beast around the hall.

Beneath the noontide sun, Broder listened to Haesten’s rampage, scanned the faces of the fifty minus six, who had also participated in the failed raid. This was the third in a sennight, fruitless efforts all. Hundreds of other warriors in the stronghold now left their naps, games and chores to find out the cause of the commotion. A great crowd gathered around the warlord’s hall and reports traveled from man to man about the day’s event.

Strange, though, that Haesten’s words seemed directed toward a different prize not found.  

In Broder’s one hand, he still held the Ravenwing, in the other, a dead chicken. He suddenly realized that Norna had come to stand beside him, asked him what had happened. In a brief diversion, he thought of her, fate’s unexpected gift. She shunned the pallets of all but his, was a wordless pleasure at night. Lingering quietly by day to watch him in his sword drill in the yard or as he sat at Haesten’s side in the hall, Norna was yet a mystery to Broder. Shy, blue eyed, and slender as a sapling, she rendered him nearly mute.

Broder bade his tongue work. “We crossed the river, Haesten with a score of horsed men, the rest of us on foot, and we moved into the Saxon village. Lord Haesten said we would go take fresh meat and whatever else we could lay our hands on. The villagers again came out in full force, armed with spears, rakes and rocks. We took what we could grab before they beat us back. They killed six of us. We brought back very little.”

Norna looked at him with bashful eyes. “Has it made Haesten go mad?” 

“Indeed not!” Broder’s fervent defense of his champion made Norna jump. He took a breath, slipped the Ravenwing in its sheath at his back and continued more calmly. “He is unaccustomed to defeat, needs to cool. See there, he is dismounted and coming out.”

The semi-circle of onlookers widened as the panicked horse was caught, and led away.  Red faced, wild-eyed, Haesten now ranted, waving his arms at the crowd. “All to arms! The time for idle waiting is past! I have found them and I will go after them! Prepare to move out!”

His two advisors rushed in and tried to reason with Haesten’s violent behavior. “Hlaford, they are ready for us in great number,” said Lang. “We vote to stay within the fortress as was your previous rule!”

“Aye,” said Kare. “Once the Saxons are busy at harvest, then we go in. Run them over, take what we need. Wait another fortnight.”

“Mutinous tongues! Your heads are as empty of brains as your stomachs are of food!”  Haesten screamed, stepping nose to nose with his advisors.

“Norna, wait here.” Broder tossed the chicken - his paltry plundered loot - to the ground. Instinct, unknown to him before this moment, made him tuck Norna behind him protectively. He felt an inkling of what it meant to be a man, and regretted the day at the harbor. Like a coward, he had let Llyrica shield him from Xanthus.

Another newfound tendency came to the fore:  unwavering loyalty to the first man who had ever paid him positive notice. None other had shown him how to swing a sword, told him he had potential, or listened as if he had important thoughts.

Broder entered the huddle of gathered advisors. The warlord loomed large, bristling with scalding, unnatural fury. He turned his unflinching, glazed eyes on Broder.

Broder sucked a breath. “Lord Haesten,
I
will go if you ask me to go. So will we all. Send us, then! But I am thinking of your call for patience, that we might not fall under the mercy of another. Let the Saxons come to us, as you have wisely said. They will be no match for us when we burst upon them in our full number. You have the advantage and StoneHeart will be run over!”

I must have my chance to see what has become of Llyrica. I will destroy StoneHeart if he has laid one finger on her.

Haesten finally blinked, his shoulders and chest deflated subtly. He looked to sober up during the long silence that descended on the crowd. “In your youthful voice, Broder, my words spoken back at me make sense.”

“When StoneHeart falls, we will demand payment in the form of grain and gold,” said Lang, “in exchange that we not raid the countryside. For enough more, we might find it worth while to move on to shires less protected.”

“The men grow tired of the scarcity of provisions,” added Kare.

Broder opened his mouth to counter this talk of retreat, but a wheezing sigh from Haesten drew his attention. The warlord’s body withered, where it had just been formidable, and his face grayed where it had just been crimson. He stared at Broder with a look that betrayed his age. Rubbing his right cheek as if it had gone numb, he seemed to slip into despondency.  “It has been done a thousand times. We will do it again. Come with me into the hall, Broder, where I will announce before all that you are my new second in command. Then get drunk with me.”

A current of murmurs rippled through the gathering of stunned warriors, and Broder saw Kare and Lang exchange the same dubious looks he had often seen. He stepped closer to Haesten to take his side, and with expanded chest and narrowed eyes, dared any man to question the warlord’s wisdom.

“I am at your service, lord Haesten, and those of your advisors and
army. Command me and it will be done.”

Slayde’s head pounded, his eye twitched mercilessly. Praise God this particular duty as king’s ealdorman had come to a close. For a five-day stay in London town, he had presided over the shire-court with thegn Eadwulf and the archbishop Wilfrid. They had heard and judged no less than one and forty cases, most over land ownership and petty squabbles about personal property. Each disputant brought innumerable witnesses to testify to his or her claim, filling the great hall of London to standing capacity.

This last assembly concluded with a clamorous appeal to StoneHeart to crush the Viking threat. From the raised platform he stood over the men and women, readied to address them. Fresh air ruffled his tunica and hair, a lure from the door to quit the crowd, to finally draw a deep breath outside.

“Put your fears to rest.” StoneHeart sent his words to the far corners of the hall. “You can see at the garrison how well your Viking tax is spent. Each one of you knows a brother, father, uncle or cousin training there now under my command. By the change of seasons, Haesten will be removed. In this, thegn Eadwulf and I give you my word. I follow the warlord’s trail where Ceolmund left off.”

Applause rewarded his announcement and the mention of his father’s name.

“My men at Benfleet continue to patrol the coast. They are ever wary of intruders, vigilant in their pursuit. On land, the King Alfred’s fyrds protect the harvests.”

“StoneHeart!” shouted a man in the back row. “What have you to say about the business between your former betrothed and your Dane wife?”

It was a startling change of subject. Momentarily dumbfounded, Slayde managed to keep his mask of impassivity in place. A smattering of laughter rippled around the hall and up his spine. He cleared his throat and raised his voice.

“If I have sufficiently quieted your worries about the Vikings ...”  

“
Your wife
is a Viking,” the man persisted. “Tell us about her.”

The crowd leaned in, pressed Slayde to a test. “She and Athelswith have professions which suit each other. One is the artisan, the other, her agent.”

A woman pushed to the front. “Is she the Songweaver of old Viking legend? Is it true her braids are woven spells? Where might I buy them?”

The woman beside her joined in. “Is the red, white, violet and black braid of your tunica the source of your strength and protection?”

Slayde looked over the woman’s head to the escape at the door. “When I purchased the original of it two years ago ...”

Another shout from the left: “What of love spells, StoneHeart? Some say she can weave two souls together.”

From the right: “She sings love songs into the designs which can melt the most hardened heart!”

My God, they have guessed the truth, that I was won with a lovespell.
Slayde lifted his hand to slow the rising excitement of the crowd. “Take heed. This is how myths begin, one tale told atop another until truth fades. I would not put all of my hopes in a woven trim, if I were you. I look to God for strength, and yea, to this braid for a measure of luck. But it is a level head and the sword that win the fight.”

The crowd quieted somewhat at this, but grumbled as if dissatisfied. Slayde took the interlude to give Eadwulf a nod, descended the platform, and then the two pushed their way out onto the steamy streets of London. Half-heard, whispered comments about love and StoneHeart followed him, irked him, left him feeling exposed. He tightened up the reins on his outward appearance, that none would see the muddle within.

He and Eadwulf arrived at the garrison after a swift trek through town. The guards at the gate were the first to welcome them, and would swiftly spread the word of their return. StoneHeart and the thegn made straight for the hall for a stout quaff of ale. Too warm a day for inside, they ordered thralls to serve them where they sat on benches, leaned back against the outer wall.

Eadwulf emptied a cup forthwith, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are as silent as a stone, StoneHeart. Pray the ale will loosen your tongue. What have you to say about the braids that are the rage in London?  Sales looked brisk at more than one vendor’s stall. Braids woven by your wife, the
Songweaver
is it? They say she and Athelswith have made a sizeable bit of coin in just a short time.”

Slayde lifted one shoulder in a pretence of disinterest. “Not you, too, comrade, with talk of braids. Llyrica is free to pursue her female occupations. As for Athelswith, she has always had a talent for making fortunes.”

“Indeed.” Eadwulf laughed, but wisely did not remind Slayde that Athelswith received a handsome settlement from her broken engagement. “And how will you squash these rumors of love spells bandied about in the hall and on the streets?”

Slayde wet his dry palate with a gulp of ale, then formed a casual response. “Gossip is and will continue to be a favorite pastime. To comment on this would only encourage such news to spread.”

“It may in any case. I heard a man on Market Street tell another that StoneHeart has finally met his match, a woman to soften his heart.” Eadwulf elbowed Slayde in jest, must not know the fear he had invoked, memories of Ceolmund’s relentless goading.

Slayde hid behind a steady voice. “What care I for idle talk? Let my actions speak for themselves.”

Yea, so long as he could control his reactions to thoughts of Llyrica. In his mind, soft fingertips strummed the warp of her tablet loom, songs echoed, and the scent of ginger floated along her supple skin. Nay, he must bludgeon his need for her into a trifling notion. Midday was no time for mental battles. He saved that for sleepless nights.

Praise Ailwin for his approach across the yard to make his account, a blessed diversion from the subject of love spells. Slayde turned his attention to his second. “What news?”

Blond, no nonsense, Ailwin looked fit, his lean arms a defined proof that he used his longbow often and well. He embraced this life of fighting Vikings. “King Alfred and his army are said to patrol the Pilgrim’s Way near Amesbury. All is quiet in Wessex to the west. Ealdorman Oswald of Mercia has thwarted several outbreaks along the River Severn, chased errant Viking bands back to Bridgnorth. As for here, StoneHeart, we are twelve hundred men strong. Men double up on pallets in the barracks, some sleep in tents. The training goes well. Morale is high.”

Slayde touched a finger to his eyelid, hoped the ale that burned his stomach would ease the tick - and sweet Jesus, another thought of
her
. He did not look up to the window of his house. “I left the garrison in good hands, Ailwin.” Another long draught of ale drained his cup. “You have given me the good news first.  Now the ill.”