Loveweaver (7 page)

The women thralls accepted this presence of a Viking hostage, cloaked in peach linen, and demonstrated their interest in her work by stopping to look over her shoulder, heads cocked to hear her quiet tune. The two women who worked on the sailcloth cast many glances her way, though now they were due to StoneHeart’s brother at the door.

“I can do those things that father and brother taught me,” Elfric said, glued to the doorway. “No one would call me a mother’s boy.”

Mindful of her failure with Broder’s upbringing and Slayde’s reproach when she had comforted Elfric, she meant to withhold an outright invitation to the boy. But she could see in his blue eyes what he needed.

“Indeed, one would not. Therefore come and I will show you how this is done.”

The doorway let him loose, he knelt beside her, and Llyrica gave him a lesson in tablet weaving. He paid attention, asked the right questions and soon fit very well in her lap.

“You have a knack for it, Elfric,” Llyrica told him. “That is right. Find the shed with your finger, pass the weft yarn through, then beat it down with the flat edge of the shuttle. And to yourself, say a prayer or a poem as you do so.” She watched Elfric follow her instructions as she quietly sang her lovesong. “There now, let me turn the tablets again to form the new shed.” Leaning in, she first tidied his work. This was after all, the new braid for the StoneHeart’s tunic.

“The tablets all go forward four times, then back four times, passing the weft yarn through the shed after each turn.” Elfric turned to look up at her. Sweet face, and eager.

She kissed him on the cheek. “Aye, good listening! This is a simple pattern that goes quickly, and one we will have finished in mere hours.”

A shadow fell across the braid and suddenly the women in the lodge scurried in all directions. “We had not expected to see you again today!” she heard Eadgyth call out. Elfric shot up from Llyrica’s lap as Slayde stepped out of the doorway, the sunlight now restored to the hall.

“Get back to Teta’s, Elfric,” he said. He had his brother by the arm, urging him to the door, but pinned Llyrica with a stony glare. “Byrnstan will give you a Latin lesson before we go.” Elfric glanced over his shoulder at Llyrica, then ran off.

“There is a method by which one can weave a motif,” she called after the boy. She stood, pushed her way around Slayde and shouted out the door for StoneHeart’s benefit. “I will show it to you, Elfric and you can make a braid with rows of bloody daggers!”

“You will not show him another thing,” Slayde said. Llyrica turned to see the hall deserted and Slayde searching among the piles of wovengoods. He found her bundles, stacked them against a wall, then climbed the ladder to his loft. When he returned, he had her money purse and laid it down beside her belongings. “You get your wish. By sunset we will have you across the border of East Anglia, and leave you to your original adventure.” His fresh, green scent descended on her from his towering height.

This sudden prospect of being flung alone upon the shores of Danelaw took her unprepared. “Without an ally? What has changed that you will not first allow me to find my brother?” She clutched her linen covering with one hand, and with the other, reached out to touch Slayde’s arm. “I am heart sore to be parted from him and fear for his safety, but I had counted on Father Byrnstan’s help ...”

Slayde took a step closer, took her upturned chin between finger and thumb. “Your brother, you say. It was for his sake that you stole this loot, was it not? Is your love for him so great that you would commit such a crime?”

She worried that he had somehow received word of Xanthus. Perhaps he had learned she was the flesh peddler’s property, had stolen back the money meant to pay for Broder’s murderous act and then burned the man’s ship. Neither were the bundles of the wovengoods hers, though created by her hands and those of Soso. Fearing what paths to justice StoneHeart would pursue, his words paralyzed her even as the nearness of his body sent a scalding flush from head to toe. Her sight flitted from his dark eyes to full male mouth and back again. He seemed intent on staring at her lips.

“I have always done anything for Broder,” she finally said. “But what have you learned that you now interrogate me? Our agreement was for one week.”

“I have learned that a woman will use her soft curves, tender touches and sweet voice to drive a man to do her bidding. Just as you think to do now.” Slayde flung her linen shroud aside, and caught her up in his arms to pull her against him. A black lock of his hair fell unto his brow. “And these silks you wear. Know it will not work on me, vixen.”

She drew a deep breath when he indicated no knowledge of her crimes. But her awareness that the sleepwalker dwelt beneath StoneHeart’s clothes and weapons quickened her pulse in the most tantalizing places. “A mishap brought me here for sure,” But I have no notion to what you now refer. I merely sit here, in my everyday garments, in your house and weave. If I have insulted you again by teaching Elfric something other than what you and your father deem proper for a man to know, I pray your pardon.”

“I may grant it if the other boys do not bloody his nose when they find he has been at a female craft.” He crushed her closer until impulse dictated she slip her arms around his waist. The thick muscles of his back tightened under her splayed fingers.

“That is an odd fear of yours, I think, that you will appear as less than a man. But it is an unfounded fear given the size of your ... when I see evidence of your ...” Her face heated. “Your height and large hands and shadowed jaw and chin.”

His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly in one corner. “I was taught to be a man and so should Elfric. Our father is gone, so I am in his stead. Every boy needs a father to raise him thus, or a man to take the father’s place.”

On her brother’s behalf, Llyrica felt keenly this lack of father. If Haesten had been a different man, she would not be cast alone on foreign turf in search of him, or under an obligation to avenge her mother’s beatings at his hand. A rare tear glazed each eye.

“You will neither change our arrangement, nor try and be rid of me. I have Father Byrnstan’s vow and the asylum of his church.” In a short time, she would also have a braid imbued with a lovesong.

“You give a fine example of how a woman works. You say one thing, but by the soft molding of your body, the pout on your lips and tears in your eyes, you plead for another.”

“I sat at the loom with no intention of pleading anything from you. Until you came, hauled me against you, and said you would throw me out. You then reminded me that my brother and I have been without a father. If this is an example of how a man works, then I may not praise the job that Ceolmund did in raising you.”

He straightened with new intensity, his arms muscles flexed around her, his chest, abdomen and thighs turned to stone. His manpart pressed so hard against her belly, Llyrica felt it throb. “This is how a man works, vixen. This is how
I
work.”

She inhaled as his mouth came upon hers, the moist heat this man had given her an appetite for. But he drove deeper this time, with his hand tangled in her hair, and at once plunged his tongue between her parted lips. Gasping in surprise and wonder, Llyrica felt her spine go limp, her knees buckling. A rush of hot pleasure coursed through her, stopping to pool between her legs and at her nipples now sensitized against Slayde’s unforgiving ribs.

He growled low in his throat, seemed to drink of her as if she would quench some deep thirst. A merciless kiss, allowing no opportunity to breathe, it was so passion filled that Llyrica sensed again it sprang from a painful need. A need she compassionately felt aroused to satisfy. But reason saved her, reminded her that she was not the previously unkissed woman newly rescued from drowning, and he was not the tender sleepwalker. StoneHeart disparaged her at every turn.

With a forceful shove, she managed to put a hair’s breath between their lips. If she could but name his intoxicating scent. “You have only one trick, it seems, to ply on women, to show your male powers. I have now been impressed twice.”

“I am glad to say I am not impressed by your female wiles.” He shrugged. “And unfortunately for you, they will not keep you under the priest’s protection another night.”

Aye, she would stay at all costs. God had delivered her to the kind friend of Father Byrnstan, none better to help her navigate this strange land. But of more importance, StoneHeart was her choice of weapons to use against her father.

“Then tell me, ealdorman. If I have not impressed you, then what accounts for this hard part of you that now presses against me?”

“Yea, tell her, Slayde,” said a strident female voice. “I should also wish to know.”

Llyrica, still locked in the StoneHeart’s clinch, turned to see a handsome woman standing beside Byrnstan in the center of the hall. Four handmaids flanked her, with her two men-at-arms waiting just inside the doorway. The priest grinned at the sight of a Viking foundling and the Saxon ealdorman in their heated embrace.

“Athelswith has come up from Canterbury where she has been conducting business,” Byrnstan said. His lips curled oddly, appeared to suppress his amusement.

Slayde released Llyrica. In spite of a worthy effort, she teetered as the strong support of his arms was removed. Bereft of his hard warmth, she quickly composed herself and resumed her place at the loom, not far from Slayde’s feet. The presence of this beautiful woman eyeing the StoneHeart made the necessity to finish the braid multiply tenfold.

Byrnstan cleared his throat. “As well you might have guessed, Slayde, your betrothed has come to discuss your wedding.”

Chapter V

When this you wear, of me you will dream; I am woven in your heart.

The love I have sewn within the seams ensures we will never part.
 

From the grave Ceolmund yet wielded his influence, though his son could not fault his choice of brides for the StoneHeart. Nearly as tall as Slayde, Athelswith at six and ten years, proved a good match in her looks, aye, might be mistaken as his younger sister. She possessed striking dark eyes and black hair, now styled in severe twists tight to her head, adorned with glass and jet beads. Arrayed in a snowy white cemes, and heavy brocade cyrtel, blue and trimmed in gold embossed braids, she dressed the part of a sedate and wealthy independent. Her pragmatic disposition led Slayde to believe her indifferent to passion, though she might warm enough to submit to a physical coupling for the conception of a child. Otherwise, neither Slayde’s heart nor his success in war would be in danger from Athelswith. Indeed their marriage would bind the royal fortunes and good names left to each by departed fathers. No documents had been signed, but he had given as her bride-gift, two hides of land near Aylesford.

“I had not thought to intrude,” she said, without a trace of jealousy. She crossed the room as if to observe the loomstress at work, and appeared to consider the stack of gaily colored wovengoods. The priest accompanied Athelswith, but knelt beside Llyrica. The handmaids disbursed, surveying the hall. “Byrnstan told me all about the rescue.” Athelswith raised her eyes to Slayde. “And I see evidence of the talents of which he spoke.”

“Aye, it appears she can weave.” A cool reply. But he took an abrupt second look, recognizing the blue, red and white pattern of his braid on Llyrica’s loom. His gaze lingered on the deftness of her fingers. Though she sat once again hidden under her linen cloak, he noticed her breath came in labored puffs, as did his own. His test had not concluded satisfactorily, and his loins yet ached unabated. A remnant of unwarranted jealously at the thought of Broder, her lover, caused a twitch over his right eye. Realizing his lips were still wet from Llyrica’s kiss, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I speak not of her weaving, Slayde,” Athelswith said. “Though it is precise and richly wrought. Viking women are famed for their tablet braids and I have purchased many myself. Nay, I was referring to a profession older than those of the loom. In the future, I shall expect discretion in your illicit liaisons. Perhaps you will choose other than a Dane.”

Slayde tore his sight from Llyrica’s hands where they labored with swift efficiency. “There will be no liaisons, other than those which involve my own wife. Byrnstan says you have come to discuss the wedding. I find no need, since I am glad to leave the details to your expert attention. Merely tell me when and where and I shall be there.” The haunting undercurrent of Llyrica’s humming distracted him, strummed a muscle deep in his chest.

When Slayde offered his hand, Athelswith laid hers upon it, and allowed him to escort her from the corner to a bench along the wall. Llyrica’s song followed him, and so did her enticing scent. Athelswith seemed oblivious to both. She sat, smoothing her gown as Slayde remained standing.

“Men think to make things easier,” Athelswith said, with icy amusement, “by affecting disinterest in wedding plans. But it would prove more complicated were I to set the date and time only to find you off on a campaign or meeting. I tell you the place is the chapel at St. Paul’s in SouthWark, but you must tell me the day.”

“You are right, since my written log shows each of my days assigned to a different event. I am in Rochester tonight, then move onto London to begin organizing and training the army against Fortress Lea. I will be engaged for many weeks after with little time to spare. Therefore, if day after the morrow, at noontide, is agreeable, I shall make note of it.” Llyrica’s voice continued to weave a disquieting warmth into his limbs.

“I am agreed. Father Ordheah, who also sees to my legal matters, will officiate and Father Byrnstan will witness if you wish. It is a simple affair, which by my design requires few extraordinary preparations. I would ask though, that since I am aware of the Viking woman’s offer to refurbish your tunica, you let her do so before the wedding. Your uniform is appropriate for our ceremony, but not its well-worn appearance. See there, she is nearly finished with a cunning replica of your braid.” Athelswith now turned her critical eye at the faded colors he presently wore.

“I must decline your request, Athelswith. I have reigned victorious over a score and eight battles in this tunica, and will not tempt fate by altering its qualities.” He gave it a tug and squared his shoulders, hearing yet another stitch pop loose.

“Very well, keep it. And in it, marry me, a rich woman of esteem, who trades in fine, imported cloth, and none will question my groom’s state of dress. Then wear it when you move to London. The soldiers you rally will no doubt appreciate that you do not rank yourself above them, and the crew of the StoneHeart’s fleet will admire your frugality.”

He had no intention of parting with his tunica. “Your practical and rational thinking, though cloaked in sarcasm, has made me see the sense of your advice,” he said, feigning appeasement. “Therefore I shall have a new garment made to be worn on special occasions.”

“A perfect compromise, StoneHeart. Now to the next item. Shall we enact the consummation in your London house or mine? And to which house shall we have the gifts sent?”

“I prefer mine.”

She tilted her head in thought. “It is a bachelor’s house, small and austere. But of course, you will be more comfortable there with its close proximity to London’s garrison. Indeed, from your loft window, you can look overlook the training yard. I will agree, though I shall send ahead thralls to stock the larder and see to fresh bedding.” Slayde nodded to her reasonable request. “Then all is settled.” Athelswith stood, bent a knee in a subtle curtsy, briefly lowering her dark lashes. “My mounted entourage awaits me at the gate of the earthwork and we are shortly up lower Watling Street to London. Byrnstan kindly offered me passage on your ship, but I am loath to travel by water. Ironic, since I make by business with overseas merchanting.” She laughed without mirth. “Day after tomorrow, then?”

“We will meet and the union will be made.”

Athelswith summoned her handmaids from their study of Ceolmund’s war collection, then turned with one last look to Llyrica. “Her money purse may contain good coin, gold and silver, but look you to the wovengoods in her possession. I vow they resemble the works of the hideous loomstress of Hedeby. That fabled woman made your uniforms’ braid, as I recall. Many say the old hag rivals the talents of the Songweaver of a generation ago. The Songweaver was a Viking known for her banners, endowed with powers of invincibility and flown over innumerable Dane victories. Her Raven banner was captured when the men of Devon defeated the Vikings seventeen years ago. It is said she died soon after. For the world of textiles, it is a shame she did not pass on her gift, but perhaps a blessing to Saxon levies. Ah, but I bore you. Just know that in London, these yardages here would be worth a small fortune, so if you come into their ownership by some default of this Viking tart, I can easily sell them for you.”

Slayde noted, then disregarded the pause in Llyrica’s song. “Your offer is appreciated, but they will accompany her into Danelaw after all.” 

With an assenting nod, a turn, and a sweep of brocade, Athelswith exited the house, one handmaid at each side and two behind. Byrnstan asked Llyrica’s leave, threw Slayde a frown, then hurried after Athelswith, saying he needed to confirm a detail or two.

When assured that his betrothed was well on her way and out of earshot, Slayde returned to the weaver’s end of the hall. Bending to one knee beside Llyrica, he raised her face to his with a curved finger. Dear God, such bright eyes stared at him from within a peach hood. Holy Lord, her lips were created for kissing. A wise move, this ... to be done with her before she disrupted further, the order of his life.

He swallowed, knew his voice would be thick with desire. “This is our new arrangement and one I deem as fair. I will deliver you and your goods to your initial destination, without further question. In exchange, you will look through your bundle for a suitable black material ...”

A cough interrupted Slayde and he looked up to see Ailwin in the doorway, narrow-eyed with disapproval. “I have come to pack your sea chest of belongings, ealdorman.” Disdainfully, he looked down his nose at Llyrica. “And have a thrall prepare you a basin for washing your hands?”

Dropping his fingers from Llyrica’s face, Slayde stood angrily. “Such remarks are best kept to yourself, Ailwin, since you nearly cross the line into insubordination. I well know your prejudices toward Danes, whether warriors or civilian, but you insult me as well as this woman when you suggest I have sullied my hands by touching her. Go on up, then. Pack my chest and waste no time returning to the harbor.”

To dress a man down in front of a woman broke a man’s unspoken code. And to boot, this was Ailwin, the enforcer of Ceolmund’s philosophies, a reminder of a turning point in Slayde’s young life.

Ailwin did not take StoneHeart’s reprimand well. With a locked jaw and face heated red, he stalked off to the ladder that would take him to the loft. Another bit of trouble due to the vixen’s presence. Yet it reminded Slayde that most would disapprove if he consorted with a Viking, and he could not help but think Ailwin’s comment fitting. Slayde indeed planned to wash his hands of Llyrica.

With a curse uttered under his breath, Slayde strode to the door, ready to make a clean getaway after finishing with the Viking in silk. He hardened himself to the vision of the woman gazing at him from her loom. 

“You will sew as we journey to Rochester upon which time I will put you on another ship. This garment I now wear, you will use as a guide to make me a new tunica. A tunica to please my bride on our wedding day.” 

Llyrica’s expression revealed nothing. “I will do as you say, ealdorman. And sew you a new tunica. ” Quiet and deep, her voice was a subtle mockery of his. “One with which your bride will be well pleased.”

Though rankled slightly, a satisfied Slayde took a few steps outside and motioned for the thralls to return to his house and to their female tasks. But as he continued on to the harbor below, he heard Llyrica call out the name
StoneHeart
from the door of his house. He did not turn to look.

“Know, however,” she shouted after him, “You will find you are not so easily rid of me!”

With the last stitch in Slayde’s new tunica, Llyrica looked up from her seat at the bow, to see their approach to Rochester. A warm raindrop landed on her forehead, the first of many. The town’s profile reminded her of Hedeby’s, save upon closer study, she noted the structures here were constructed as much of stone as of wood. A prominent church tower gave evidence and so too the wall that fortressed Rochester, beginning at the outer points of the harbor and continued, Llyrica surmised, to circumvent the whole of the town. Outside of these limits lay farms, granaries, and smithies, and through light drizzle, Llyrica discerned a few sheep grazing on green sloping fields. Brown air clung to trees and thatched rooftops. Gulls wheeled overhead.

The harbor was heavily trafficked with vessels ranging from one-man faerings to magnificent knorrs of golden oak to war-battered longships. With its accompaniment of two, the OnyxFox sliced black and sleek through the water, its red and black foxhead sail bold against the threatening sky. Their arrival garnered shouts and cheers of the StoneHeart’s name from passing ships and from the crowded docks, answered by Slayde at the bow with a nod or an occasional wave. Ailwin and the crew grinned arrogantly at the attention, while Byrnstan with a sword at his belt, kept a vigil beside Slayde.

“Hand it up,” Slayde said, suddenly towering over Llyrica. “You look to be through with the tunica. Now we will find you passage on through to East Anglia. Immediately upon landing, with any luck. Prepare to gather your things.”

Across Llyrica’s lap lay Slayde’s new garment, sewn on the four-hour journey along the inner coast of Sheppey. Found in her bundles, the piece of black was woven of imported Mediterranean yarn, spun finely from long wool fibers. This, combined with Soso’s talents, had rendered a cloth possessed of a dark sheen, smooth surface and soft hand. Llyrica added her knowledge of fit, small stitches and the braid, fresh from her tablet loom, to fashion a garment both elegant and enviable. No one would see, though, the song she wove within, a lovespell that would bind her to the StoneHeart. It had worked for Mother when she wove Father’s cloak of violet, indigo and harvest gold. Now Llyrica held her breath, wondering if her talents as Songweaver gave the power to direct her fate.