Loveweaver (22 page)

Mother, help me. I am so near to ending it.

Wind enough to fill wet sails accompanied the heavy summer rain, aided StoneHeart’s fleet in its swift movement up river. Helmeted troops rowed in determined rhythm. Slayde himself manned an oar on the starboard side of the OnyxFox, glad of the exertion. He welcomed the sweat beneath his tunica and chain mail of his byrnie, invited the strain on arms, abdomen and lungs. It was a salve against the weeks of planning, his fear of blood, and now the rising tension of seeing Haesten’s fortress come into view. His labor at the oar though, could not dim his thoughts of a Viking loomstress dressed in silk.

As the sleepwalker, he had ached to go to her the previous night to right the wrongs done her at Athelswith’s. His fingertips tingled for the touch of her skin, his mouth parched for a drink of her. Only Llyrica’s caress would ease his raw nerves and twitching eyelid. But duty occupied those last hours and his men prevented an unobserved visit to his round house, valid excuses both. A saving grace, she was left leagues behind where her soft closeness would not hinder his strength and stamina.

Ailwin stood at the bow in his old tunica, served as the eyes of the lead ship. He turned from his view ahead, rain pinging on his helmet. “The reports were true! The earthworks are as high as two men, crowned with stout posts!” he called above the downpour.

“Take caution!” StoneHeart commanded this reminder. “They will know we come so prepare to raise your shields!”

“God save us!” Byrnstan, armored as a warrior, prayed at Ailwin’s side.

Rain drummed on oak decks as men rowed on, ready to trade oars for bows and arrows or spears and shields. Many had swords. Slayde eyed Haesten’s ships anchored farther up. He surveyed the fortress and its large wooden gate, which hid from view the dwellings and enemy within. The circular wall of grass-covered earth rose as an unnatural part of the landscape, set back a quarter mile from the wide river. Along the eastern bank, StoneHeart’s troops would moor and make camp. Beyond, the terrain consisted of gentle hills and fields of corn, oats and barley, crisscrossed with hedgerows and strips of copses. Occasional villagers had appeared along the shore, come from nearby hamlets to cheer the passing fleet.

Intuition plucked at Slayde’s nerves. His knowledge of Viking warfare kept him on vigilant alert. “We will take up arms immediately upon landing!” StoneHeart pulled at the oar with renewed intensity. Ailwin fired a signal arrow as Slayde’s co-captains passed the message from ship to ship. Thegn Eadwulf answered with a hail from his command, thirty vessels down river.

The fleet kept formation behind the OnyxFox as the heaving sounds of men rowing changed to nervous rumblings, then gained in volume to riotous threats against the Vikings. Male instinct, StoneHeart’s blood heated for battle at the roar of twelve hundred men. It was a detested sensation, but one that surged involuntarily through his veins into his mind and limbs. He put down the oar, rose to take his place at the prow of his ship, his thumb stroking the pommel of his notched sword. His other hand gripped his shield, painted red with a black foxhead. Over the side, he spat out a mint leaf, since his mouth had gone too dry to chew it.

Slayde rallied control over his pounding pulse, drew a deep breath to calm his outward demeanor. “Put to shore!” He nodded to Ailwin to shoot the conveyance arrow shrieking high, then squinted into the rain toward Fortress Lea. “It begins! Look there, as predicted.”  A nudge to Byrnstan, and as the ships reached land’s edge, all eyes turned.

To attack the Saxon’s as they landed, Vikings burst though the gate, pouring out into the muddy field. Charging with colored shields, spears raised high, their voices called out jeers, daring StoneHeart to counter.  Kentish men and Londoners returned the taunts in a fevered pitch.

  Slayde’s heart tried to break loose from his chest. “Take heed and prepare!”

StoneHeart’s orders echoed from captain to captain as Ailwin yelled a battle cry, his signal arrow sliced the sky. The sounds of blade to flesh would soon erupt and any thought of negotiations was a laughable notion.

Spurred to action, as in the practiced drill, Slayde and Eadwulf’s warriors swiftly beached the longships, clamored ashore in the driving rain and formed a wall of shields. Archers nocked their arrows, keeping a steady line a step behind the protective barrier.

Cut loose without the need of further command, the Saxons stormed to meet Haesten’s army in mid-field. The first volley of arrows arced and felled Danes at the rear. Shields collided with sickening thuds. Guttural grunts met heaving weapons. Spear tips and sword blades pierced wool, leather, mail and skin. The screams of wounds, both temporal and mortal, rose above the drone of the relentless rain.

Leaving Byrnstan on the bank in fervent prayer, StoneHeart rushed into the core of hell, mindless of little but rage, the necessity of his hated task and a rise of nausea. His years of training under Ceolmund’s hand came to bear - this legacy of fighting Vikings.

As he swung his sword against the enemy, Slayde could see at once that his troops matched his foes in number, but the skills of his archers drove a fast offensive. They switched from mass volleys to individual careful aim, picking off one enemy at a time. The Saxon army looked to quickly take the upper hand with a Viking force that might have hoped for victory with such a precipitous and full out attack, but found itself slipping into retreat. Wondering if Haesten was present, Slayde sensed a lack of leadership at this poor showing and dared hope the ordeal would be short-lived. StoneHeart’s army was prepared for siege, while Vikings were unwont to do war from enclosed places, preferring pitched battles in open fields. Negotiation seemed possible again.

StoneHeart shouted encouragements above the fray, heard his orders to press harder repeated by Ailwin, Eadwulf and the co-captains. Chased to the entrance of their fortress, the Vikings escaped to the protection within, and closed the gate. The Saxons would not follow. Winded warriors fell back to a safer distance, awaiting command on a field littered with the wounded and the dead of both sides. Slayde’s body betrayed his loathing of combat ...his blood pumped with the exhilaration of battle.

Fortuitous event, this first victory came surprisingly swift. Slayde’s thoughts tarried a moment on his good luck, another notch for his sword. He wondered at Llyrica’s enchanted braids and scanned the field to see all of his captains standing unharmed. They had sung songs during the send off celebration telling of the Songweaver’s magic protection in countless battles. Coincidence or a genuine spell, the braids proved themselves again.

Sheathing his sword, Slayde summoned Ailwin, Eadwulf and Byrnstan where he stood at the head of his men, in shouting distance of the warlord’s fortress.

“Show yourself, Haesten! Come out and meet the terms of your surrender! I have not Danegeld for negotiations, but instead a barter of a different kind!” Slayde met the confused expressions of Ailwin and Eadwulf, and Byrnstan’s disbelief. He disregarded them, raised his voice again to the fortress. “I have in my possession something for which you have searched for sixteen years! Agree to the terms of Guthrum’s Treaty and I will hand it over!”

The sound of driving rain and the smell of fresh blood filled the moments before the wooden gate opened. Three large men emerged, sheathed in byrnie tunicas, helmets obscuring their faces. It was puzzling to find that none were Haesten. His position would be foremost, but this man at the center showed youthful brawn, towering over the other formidable two. He held up a crudely made wooden cross, a sign for truce. A blasphemy, Danes were wont to use the Christian symbol to feign appeasement. Curiosity heightened Slayde’s battle fever.

“I have not asked for you, boy. Send out your lord! He will see to reason lest we starve you out behind those walls!”

“Deal with me, StoneHeart. Know we will take what we want!” The center man’s voice confirmed his young age. “Think not you have easily won!”

A strange rumbling of men’s voices gathered around Slayde, perhaps in reaction to the exchange. But it grew louder and seemed to ripple closer, an annoying interruption.

“Broder!” A woman’s voice rang out behind him. “I am here!”

Holy Jesus!
Llyrica!
Slayde spun around and saw her in his old tattered cape running from the river through the parting of his warriors. Her hood fell back, revealing wet hair and a face stricken with astonishment and confusion. She called out her brother’s name again as she neared.

This incomprehensible scene of Llyrica rushing across a bloody battleground immobilized StoneHeart’s army, no less the man himself. But a realization dawned an instant later, prompting Slayde to jerk his attention back to the three Viking’s in the gateway. The strapping youth, his helmet now flung aside, stood as shocked as anyone.

“Llyrica!” the young Viking called out. He might have blindly thrust himself into the Saxon army had his comrades not taken a firm hold on him.

His resemblance to his sister confirmed his identity just as Llyrica looked to mindlessly dash past Slayde toward the Viking fortress. StoneHeart quickly moved to cut her off and swung her up into his arms. This soft female and the scent of ginger were in sharp contrast to bloodied wool, mud and sweat, a painful reminder of places Slayde would rather be. He avoided her eyes, did not want to see his betrayal reflected there. She struggled for a moment, then went still as if brought back to the surroundings that prevented a joyful reunion with her brother.

“Let her go, StoneHeart!” Broder’s face was ruddy with anger. “I will see you dead for defiling her!”

Slayde put Llyrica into Byrnstan’s embrace, bade him keep her safe. StoneHeart needed time and conversation with her to clear the muddled implications of her untimely presence. What did this mean to find her brother as the old warlord’s spokesman? It boded grim, to consider Haesten’s son, a fresh generation, would take up the reins as the old faded. Where Slayde had seen the end of fighting Vikings, he now saw the road stretch to the unseen beyond. Fatigue sucked reason from him, and he began to think only with his sword.

“I have told you go fetch Haesten!” StoneHeart shouted to Broder. “I will only deal with him!”

The two men fought to contain Broder, fairly dragging him into the fortress. “You will deal with death, StoneHeart!” he called over his shoulder. “We are all armed and our blades are aimed at you!” The gate closed behind him. 

StoneHeart shifted his ire to the field of warriors. He caught the attention of his captains, who already knew their orders, but needed the word to commence. “Patrols put to watch! See to the wounded and dead! The rest retreat and make camp! Keep your weapons ready and one eye on Haesten’s fortress! They will not catch us unaware!”

Goddamn it, though, if the Viking in silk, with the wide eyes now locked on him, had not just taken him by complete surprise.

Chapter XIII

Passion grows with every day; you feel it burning bright.

You are powerless to stop it, even if you thought you might.

Its hold on you is relentless, but the urgings feel so sweet.

It drugs you to all knowing except the next time we shall meet.

            The rain eased, clouds began to break up. The sun might even deem to shine. Through eyes that scarcely focused, Llyrica surveyed the aftermath of combat, her hand over her mouth in dismay.
Ignorant fool, I had not imagined seeing dead men crumpled in a field, their spears and shields strewn about. Praise God my Broder is not among them.

Her eyes were drawn to StoneHeart, and she watched him remove his helmet and tilt his head back. Flushed from battle, he let the drizzle wash the heat from his face, the blood from his sword. Dropping his chin, he turned to Llyrica where she stood with Byrnstan. She pulled the hood over her head, wishing she could hide in the safety behind a loom like she had as a child. An age ago, Broder had found innocent mischief with the ruffians in Hedeby, now he seemed to hold rank with StoneHeart’s foe. 

“I will deal with you later, vixen. Priest, get her to the OnyxFox.”

Llyrica received Slayde’s remark with his glance of anger, but also perceived a myriad of unnamed troubles. He looked so worn. Her own conflicts abounded: her need to comfort the part of the man who hated war while condemning the other for his heartless plan to put her in the center of it. She had heard him shout to the gate with the offer to hand over the object of Haesten’s sixteen-year search. StoneHeart must have discovered the truth. The night of the ladder became a debauched memory ... the sleepwalker was in league with StoneHeart. She had said too much and he must have surely seen the tattoo on her heel, made the connection with the rings.

She watched Slayde stalk off and listened to his orders to begin unloading lumber from the supply ships. From what she heard, it seemed the Saxon army would soon undertake the building of two garrisons, one on each side of the Lea. They might not immediately dislodge Haesten from his fortress, but they would keep his marauders from pillaging the summer harvest. There was also talk of painting Haesten’s fleet, incorporating it into StoneHeart’s. Warriors, bent to their labors, stole brief looks at Llyrica as Byrnstan led her to the shore. Lightheadedness stole upon her and she leaned heavily onto the priest.

“Did you see what has happened? That was my brother in Haesten’s stronghold!” She remembered immerging from her hiding place unheeded, thought to calling out to her father. Instead she had been paralyzed at the violent scene that unfolded, followed by the shock of discovering Broder.
By some odd fate he has found father before I have! Is Haesten yet within?

The priest’s arm was stiff around her. “I do not begin to understand why you have stowed away among us. Should I think you knew Broder would be here?”

“Nay, Byrnstan! I could not have expected it less that I did. But as for the reasons I am here, I must first speak to StoneHeart.” They neared the OnyxFox beached on the bank. Llyrica felt close to collapse with much to ponder and an aching heart to tend.

“Verily, I am confused,” Byrnstan said. His one-armed embrace softened with his voice. “StoneHeart offered up to Haesten what amounts to a mystery, then the Songweaver runs out and finds her brother at Fortress Lea.”

“One has to do with the other and I am wont to tell you everything. Soon I will. But for now I give you a bit of knowledge, though you might not find it welcome news. I for one, have been ... been betrayed by love.”

Byrnstan assisted Llyrica over the gunwale of the OnyxFox. “Go on, child. Tell me.”

She pressed her fist to a sharp pain in her chest. “StoneHeart and the sleepwalker are not longer separate. I am grieved to say it, but StoneHeart has prevailed as the victor of the two.”

Broder understood little else but this seething rage at the thought of Llyrica struggling in StoneHeart’s grip. The Saxon demon must always keep her with him as a slave, with no regard her safety and much for his lust. Why else would she be here in the midst of war trying to escape her captor? Fate would deal harshly with the StoneHeart - already had - bringing him face to face with Llyrica’s brother, and hundreds of men to back him. If Kare and Lang had not restrained Broder, he would have planted Ravenwing fast in StoneHeart’s chest.

This crisis and the failed attack on the Saxons arrived on the heels of another affliction: A paralyzing malady had befallen Haesten. The old warlord had lain in his pallet for three days, slipping in and out of wakefulness, unable to move a muscle on the right side of his body. When awake, he looked out of his left eye and could barely speak, spittle dribbling down his chin. Today found him incoherent. Broder had not fought in that first attack to keep vigil while a healer poured foul potions down the warlord’s throat.

With steam rising in close quarters, warriors pressed into the hall grumbling over the short-lived battle. One hundred men were inside, and four hundred out, all licking their wounded flesh and pride. This defeat after weeks of bold talk and hunger stirred the already-boiling cauldron of unrest. Now their leader had fallen and Broder sensed pending chaos. He joined Kare and Lang at Haesten’s bedside in the partitioned corner.

“We did not expect such numbers, lord Haesten, nor the arrows,” Kare said. “They came down upon us as poison rain. StoneHeart’s warriors are well trained and prepared.”

A groove formed between Lang’s bushy eyebrows.  “They look to stay awhile, erecting tents and building huts. We could attack again at sunset, hope to take them by surprise, but they are a formidable army with full stomachs.”

Broder knelt closer as the warlord’s eye rolled toward him. “StoneHeart has brought my sister, lord Haesten. He also says he has something of yours. What is your command?”

“They cannot be found, though I have searched.” Haesten’s speech was garbled. “They could not be bought though I have spent a fortune. She ran from me with a newborn and a sweet lamb of a girl. Hidden from me. Hidden, hidden, hidden. ”

Broder tried to ignore Kare and Lang’s traded glances and Haesten’s nonsense. “Your warriors await word from you,” Broder said. “Tell us to fight StoneHeart and we will go. He is our foe, as was his father.” 

“Did you find them?” Haesten slurred. “Dare not say nay after the time you have been gone and the coin I have paid you! Surely you have found some trace of them!”

“Of what do you speak, lord Haesten? StoneHeart called out that he has it - this thing for which you have searched for sixteen years.”

Haesten no longer focused on Broder or seemed to hear him, but instead turned his watery eye to the rafters. “Go back out and look again. Do not return without them.” A shudder shook Haesten before he drifted unawares.

“What does he seek?” Broder yet knelt, though he knew Kare and Lang had risen.

“His first wife, baby son and young daughter died in a house fire many years ago,” said Kare. “But he did not believe them dead. All know it has been in vain, but he has searched for them for sixteen years and spent a small fortune to do so. It is his rambling, now of old age. StoneHeart has heard the rumor and thinks to incite Haesten with it.”

Broder denied that Haesten’s health failed.
What will I do and where will I go if you die, my lord?

“I think StoneHeart taunts him with a cruel memory, another sign of evil for which he should pay! Haesten yet desires to crush StoneHeart! He would want me to have my sister returned me!” Broder stood and faced the two advisers. “He made me his second. In his stead, I command we execute another assault. He would be rid of StoneHeart as would I. Tell ...”

“We have humored Haesten in his affection for you,” interrupted Kare. “But since it is plain his mind is finally gone and StoneHeart is no meager force, our future is changed. We will look to you as his second, but listen to us. We will neither ask for death under StoneHeart’s archers, nor starve in here.”

Lang took up his part. “We plan to move out of this place, see what we can obtain from these Londoners and Kentish men in exchange that we leave. There are easier pickings and a compliant population to the north in Mercia.”

Broder was stunned. “’Tis a hundred miles away! What of Haesten’s wishes? You so quickly counter your lord? Would that you ...”

Kare set his jaw, pulled Broder up by the neck of his tunica. “We have stayed with Haesten for seven and ten summers as his loyal men! We have crossed more lands and waters with him than you have lived years. Fortunes have come and gone, conquests made and lost. His mind has slipped, yet we kept close. Think not, then, upstart, that your devotion warrants passing judgement on us!”

Broder jerked himself free, but sought to keep a cool head as Haesten taught him to do. “I bend to your advice as was my word to lord Haesten. But know I will not leave his side and will prove myself a more loyal man than you. Alone, I will destroy StoneHeart and fetch back my sister. He will pay for her grief.”

After a pained look to Haesten, Broder took his leave. As the warlord’s favorite and keeper of the Ravenwing, he owned a certain esteem and dubious power. Bloody warriors parted to let him out of the hall. Broder heard Lang and Kare tell the soldiers in the hall to keep their weapons close, but to prepare to depart upon a word. The news would soon spread throughout the stronghold.

Broder sought Norna in the whore’s hut on the far side of the compound, needed to see to her wellness and share his worry. This man Haesten, as close to a father as he had known, came late in his life. It now looked as though the time spent with him would be too brief.

“Hail, Broder!” He turned to see Egil and Lunt behind him, followed by a dozen youngbloods. Among them were the first he had met, the day he had run from StoneHeart’s patrol.

“We will listen to you,” said Egil as the others fell in around Broder. “Haesten took us into his army, gave us a place in his legend. We do not think he would slink away from StoneHeart with his tail between his legs.”

“He would not, indeed!” said Broder. “He only needs time to gather his strength, surely plots even now how to best StoneHeart. Join me then, in my faith in him. Let Kare and Lang travel north with those who would go, and let us stay here and await Haesten’s command.”

“I am agreed. Shall we put it to a vote?” Egil asked.

Broder drew Ravenwing and pointed it skyward. “All with us, give an ‘aye’!”

A unanimous shout arose.

Ceolmund might have been pleased, might have not chosen this day to call his son a fairygirl. Not when StoneHeart had just led twelve hundred men to a minor victory and felled four Vikings with his own sword. Father celebrated a good kill. But Ceolmund would not have tolerated Slayde’s wife in their midst, a dangerous distraction and weakening influence for a man of war. Unlike Slayde, Ceolmund would have already offered her up to Haesten, produced her in the flesh at the fortress gate.
Surrender or your daughter dies.
Slayde had used nearly those very words to bait the warlord into a trap. But this was when he thought Llyrica safe in London. 

The sun had brightened the landscape to vivid green, a deceivingly cheerful backdrop for the burial of two score Saxons and twice that of Danes. Seventeen wounded Vikings had been herded to the fortress gate and left to be fetched by their own within.

Why is she here?
Slayde stood over Llyrica, watched the shallow breathing of her slumber. His old cloak beneath her, she lay curled in curves of lavender silk. Her soft hair glimmered in a riot of light, gilded by the farewell sun. A mental escape that Slayde envied, she had napped all afternoon on the deck of the OnyxFox, slept as they had moved the ship and the fleet down river, away from the battlefield.