Loveweaver (26 page)

Slayde met Llyrica’s glance, need not explain or excuse that he would captain this dealing with Haesten. The understanding between them did not override the ambition that now beset him. He had told her as much last night.

He left her in the priest’s care, turned toward the sites of his forts. This undertaking would act as a balm on his stretched nerves, help him summon patience. StoneHeart must plot each moment with cold intent and without error.

Soon, Llyrica would be granted one moment with her father, one opportunity to say her peace to him, one more plea to her brother. StoneHeart’s chance arrived next, one careful aim, one resolute lunge of a sword blade. One last tribute to Ceolmund, and Haesten would be dead.

Chapter XV
 

God grant tomorrow’s gifts be given, with sorrows far and few.

Prevail ye first over trial and travail to clear love’s path for two.
 

Late afternoon closed in, stifling the last of the fresh air from Haesten’s hall. Wealth hung heavily on the walls and overflowed from chests. Yet it was worthless to the hungry Vikings in this weary place. All awaited an end to the standoff.

Broder leaned over Haesten where the warlord lay on his pallet. A flicker of lucidity finally showed on the old face as Broder repeated Llyrica’s message.

“Songweaver.” Haesten’s mouth formed around the word, roused him for the first time since his illness struck. His eyes darted in his head, a manic contrast to the sluggishness of his speech and the weakness of his body. “Bring her to me.”

Broder helped him sit up on his pallet in the corner, handed him a mug of ale. Lang and Kare hung back while others crowded around.

“I have told you this name. Do you know her?” asked Broder. “Who is she?”  He ignored the unrest in the hall, the complaints passed from warrior to warrior. They needed word from Haesten or his advisors,
someone
, to either lead them to battle or to a settlement of Danegeld. StoneHeart’s army, entrenched outside, had turned Haesten’s fortress from stronghold to prison. The Saxon threat squelched former visions of conquest to a lowly aspiration of slipping up country with their lives and a little food.

Haesten dribbled ale, gripped the neck of Broder’s tunica with a gnarled fist. “She comes from the flame. Bring her to me.”

Why would the name Songweaver so move Haesten, awaken him from his stupor? “It is StoneHeart’s trick, lord Haesten, to put you at his mercy.”

“They are found at last,” Haesten said and let go of Broder. The warlord lay back, his breathing easier.

“’Tis good to see you regain your health.” Lang knelt beside the pallet.  “Rest and grow stronger. But the time for negotiation is nigh and you must meet with StoneHeart. Tell him the price we demand in exchange for our departure. We will go, but not empty handed.”

“StoneHeart will be convinced to pay great sums of geld,” said Kare, standing over the warlord. “Every one of our warriors will be armed to show we are yet a threat to be dealt with.”

Broder shot to his feet. “Meet with StoneHeart and make a show for him? Nay! Meet with him, I say, and make him pay in blood!”

“There are times to fight and times to collect gold.” Lang stood to face Broder. “Know the difference between them. Haesten always judged when to bloody his sword and when to stay, else he would not be the rich man he is, or yet living. A fortune he has made, collecting payments from men like StoneHeart.”

“Not all of this was hard won.” Kare gestured to indicate the riches in the hall. “Nor that which he has hidden safely away. Much of what he owns was handed to him by kings. Learn this from Haesten since you want to serve him.”

Broder knew a little of this business of Danegeld paid to Vikings, considered it less appealing than fighting. He had only just begun to know the thrill of wielding a sword. But Haesten embraced this method of conquest and he would also. “The blade holds more promise for a warrior, but if dealing with these Saxons is your wish, Lord Haesten, then so be it. I await a word from you.”

The warlord’s reply came as a moan, spoken from one side of his mouth. “My search is through. If StoneHeart has them, then bring them to me.”

It was a request that Broder would feign to honor, though he knew StoneHeart held nothing but treachery. “I bow to your command.” Haesten closed his eyes, appeared to drift into sleep. Broder turned to Lang and Kare. “If StoneHeart is to come, let him wait on us for two days, lest he think we are too eager. Haesten will also be more fit.”

Kare and Lang took a moment, then nodded in agreement. “This is wise,” said Kare. “In two days then we will meet with StoneHeart and name our price.”

Broder need be satisfied with this and let his discontent simmer. Intolerable, that StoneHeart had won entry into negotiations with a ploy, an empty offer to torment an old warrior’s memories.
Doubtless, the Saxon demon will also use my sister against me. Oh, Llyrica, that we would be parted in this way is grievous, indeed. 

Though it would take me a lifetime, I will wrest you from StoneHeart’s grip.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The moonless night was cool, a reminder that summer waned, that circles around a campfire, such as this, bound men together. Flame light moved shadows on masculine faces, which were ruddy with drinking and the day’s labors. Deep voices took turns, talk of a good hunt, a good lay and a good game of morels. A man cloaked in the guise of mighty warrior, Slayde sat among them as he had since he was a toddler. He kept his mask in place as he sat on the ground, his forearm resting on one raised knee. A pretense of enjoyment, he nodded to bawdy jokes and gory tales with passive amusement, and tried to ignore that both Ailwin and Byrnstan seemed intent on observing his every move.

He drank long and deep of a cup of bitter ale, his method of forgetfulness come eventide. By day, for these past two, Slayde had immersed himself in fort building. He instructed his warriors-turned-carpenters as to the depth of the ditches, the height of the towers, and the breadth of the gates. He took up the hammer himself, an implement more suited to his hand than sword, more welcome. This labor accomplished more than constructing a viable deterrent to Vikings. It quelled, in his wakeful hours, his gnawing anxiety and detested waiting. His goal, long pursued, had become an obsession. Once reached, Llyrica was his prize.

Though his mind was dulled, a sound snared his attention from the fireside conversation. Slayde turned his head, cocked it to listen. He heard a clear, soft voice carried on a breeze from the river. Sweet notes rose and fell, distant, yet near as Slayde’s heart, the lyrics faint, yet woven in the braid of his tunica. Llyrica was singing.

Spellbound, his vow to keep himself from her evaporated. He took to his feet, staggered a step, her haunting melody leading him in her direction. Away from the light of the fire, a torch on the OnyxFox beckoned him through the dark to Llyrica’s silken refuge. He neared, readied to dismiss the guards posted at the ship.

“StoneHeart, you make a mistake if you go to her.” Ailwin’s sobering remark came from behind, stopped Slayde in mid stride. “Your men will know you are a lovesick fool.”

What had given him away? These words could have been Ceolmund’s, contained the same ridicule, evoked the same immobilizing fear Slayde had known as a child. “I go to see to her safety, Ailwin,” Slayde said, without turning. “I remind you, she is the key to ending this standoff.”

“And yet two days have passed, with no word from Haesten. Consider she is in league with her brother. Perhaps she has stalled us here while Danes amass from the north to join their warlord here.”

Slayde now faced Ailwin, hated the doubt his second could so easily incite. “There are no such reports. And I remind you, we came here prepared to play a waiting game. Do you tire so soon?”

“I tire of watching your eyes cloud over when you see the Viking woman. She will be your downfall. We all see it, where you do not.”

“Who is
we
? I have not noted dissention that Llyrica is among us. Nay, the opposite. By all I hear, my men judge her presence good luck”

“It may well be. But that does not stop the other comments uttered behind your back. They think what Ceolmund said is true. You let a woman into your house and your life and now they watch for any change in you. And I know you are aware of what is said about her love spells. Men make bets that you will buckle in dealing with these Vikings because your wife is one of them.”

Uncanny, Ailwin needled each of StoneHeart’s uncertainties with the same precision his arrows found their targets. Since they were children, Ailwin had done this, remained a constant threat that a mother’s boy would be exposed at any moment. Ailwin had laughed with the others when frail and fearful little Slayde wretched at the sickening sight of his own blood, spilled from fights in the yard. The hackles of StoneHeart’s old guard went up. He would not bow under the pressure to prove and prove again that he was a man and not that pitiable fairygirl.

StoneHeart drew himself up taller, challenging. “If any questions my leadership, he may take it up with me. As for you, I think your time would be better spent than spreading rumors, gossiping like an ale wife.”

That got him a fierce look from Ailwin and a warning that he would reveal a secret. “I only repeat what is true and remind you of your duty as Ceolmund’s son!”

Slayde took a step forward and grabbed Ailwin by the neck of his tunica, drawing him up. “Yea, so you have done for years! Better would it have been had
you
been his son! But I doubt you would have been man enough to tolerate knowing he was a
bent sword!
”

Ailwin growled, flinging Slayde’s hands away. “Lies told by his enemies! And now by his fairygirl of a son!”

The insult was accompanied by Ailwin's fist to Slayde’s face.

The word was finally out. Slayde recoiled from the blow that jarred his teeth and split his lip, then rebounded with a swift punch to Ailwin’s gut. From his doubled-over state, Ailwin rammed into Slayde, sending them both to the ground. This fight between them was long over due, and Slayde let loose all the violence that Ceolmund had hoped to nurture in him. So too, his need to conquer Haesten came to bear.  He tasted blood and dirt as he battered Ailwin, also receiving as good as he gave. A
crack
rang in his ear, the sound of a punch to his nose. A
thud
traveled up his arm as his fist met Ailwin’s chest. StoneHeart fought not to defend his manhood, but to pummel his boyhood into dust.

Only just, was Slayde aware of the crowd gathering around them and the flickering of their torches. Quiet stun turned to rumblings then to shouting, as the circle of men enjoyed the entertainment of StoneHeart at battle with his second. Unleashed, this never-ending requirement to prove himself took hold, urged him to win.

The two men wrestled, rolling, traded blows. Slayde saw stars, felt the queasiness that blood trickling from his mouth and nose invoked. From the slick warmth on his hands, he knew Ailwin was bloodied as well.

Another strike of Slayde’s knuckles to Ailwin’s jaw and his second no longer fought, but went limp, groaning. Slayde pulled himself up to stand over his victory. Heaving, he wiped a stream of blood from the corner of his mouth, scanned the shadowed faces of the men around him. Byrnstan’s was the only expression he could make out, concern and disappointment. All voices had gone silent.

For an instant Slayde thought to challenge any other in the crowd who might question his StoneHeart. Thinking better of it, he pointed to Ailwin’s half-conscious body. “One or more of you, get him to his bed and put him in it. He will sleep off his drunken foolishness.” Two men followed Slayde’s orders and were soon carrying Ailwin away. Still aware of his second’s taunts in regards to Llyrica, Slayde refrained from glancing toward the OnyxFox, and turned instead back to camp.

Goddamn this devil on his shoulder.

Llyrica peered out of the awning of the OnyxFox. A commotion at camp drew her guards away from their post on the ship. Moving a short distance, they appeared to strain to see what had caused men to gather in a circle with torches and raised voices. Curiosity impelled her to follow the guards, to find out why the name StoneHeart was heard in chants. Then one of the men laughed, saying it looked as though StoneHeart had just bettered Ailwin in a fight. Alarmed, Llyrica longed to run to Slayde, see to his comfort, and offer him counsel or a scolding. But none of it would be done for a litany of reasons. Instead she took a deep breath, steeled herself to seize the opportunity she had been waiting for. Her guards were distracted. She flung the old cape around her shoulders. Within moments, she was padding across the muddy field toward Haesten’s stronghold.