Loveweaver (9 page)

She emitted a ragged sigh. “If Ceolmund had truly realized how expertly he forged you into the StoneHeart, he might have stopped blaming me for spoiling you. It was not enough that he kept my little boy from me, would not let me love you, touch or hold you. Nay, he drilled it in you this absurd notion of what it means to be a man.”

“Not this again, Judith,” he said, with fingers pressed to temples. “Must we reduce my visits to discussions of my upbringing?” His thoughts turned briefly to the frail little boy he had been. Afraid of blood, afraid of the stern hand of Ceolmund.

“You are a result of your upbringing and it pains me to see you thus.”

“He was not satisfied with me and now you say neither are you?” Slayde pointed to the door. “Go out and ask any in Rochester or in the whole of Kent if they expect more from me. They will say they do not, Judith. Just as they turned to ealdorman Ceolmund to represent Alfred and unite the shire against the Danes, so do they now look me, his son, and know how well I serve them.”

Judith gripped her cup with white knuckles. “There is more to life than destroying Haesten. No matter what Ceolmund taught you. And his preposterous notion about women making you weak ... ”

“I will not listen, Judith. You are yet grieved over his death and bitter about his mistress and the child she produced. He ...”

“Aye, I grieve!” she cried, launching to her feet. The teacup clattered to the stone floor. “But not for him, who came to my bed only once, the night you were conceived. And not about Elfric, poor child, who was also the product of the man’s attempt to fool the world about his true leanings! I grieve over you, my precious son, and for my lap that lamented your absence and my arms that were not allowed to comfort you as a child! And my lips, dearheart, denied by
him
to kiss your hurts!”

Slayde’s heart protested its cage, hammered for freedom. “Calm yourself, dame,” he said, stepping forward. He took her by the shoulders and eased her into her chair. “Ceolmund was a singular man and neither did I have an easy time of it under his rule.” This admission came swiftly, unwarranted. Said aloud for the first time.

With tears that did not fall, Judith raised her eyes to her son’s. “I have a lover who is not threatened by my touch nor words of endearment ...” She raised a hand to halt Slayde’s protest on the subject. “In the years I have been with him I learned not to blame myself that Ceolmund loathed the soft womanly ways that God bestowed on me. I also discovered that your father did not care for women at all.” Slayde paid close attention to her unblinking gaze. “He did not care for women at all, son. He
cared
for men.”

“I will not take the meaning you intend, Judith,” Slayde said, faltering a step backward. “Ceolmund, whatever his faults, and I concede there were many, upheld the standard of man for his troops, for his comrades, and for his sons!”

“He maintained such while living a lie. No one knew save me and his male lover.”

“Say not another word, dame.”

She did not, but nodded. 

Inconceivable. The idea that father harbored desire for men over women contorted every event and attitude instilled in Slayde’s memory. He stared blankly at Judith as years rushed back to drown him: remembrances of holding back tears, loneliness for his mother, and being surrounded by deep voices, bloody fights and never-ending false bravado. He recalled Byrnstan’s subtle interventions and the affections that a female thrall could occasionally impart on little boy Slayde.  Ceolmund, the law of the universe, towered over all, directing his son away from any endeavor other than that considered pure male.

Impossible to think of Ceolmund as a bent sword.

“Let me take Elfric,” Judith said, a blessed intrusion on Slayde’s chaotic thoughts. “His mother was kept from him, as I was from you and she died here in this house crying for him. Would that she had lived beyond Ceolmund and taken back the boy. Leave him here with me. Do not drag your little brother to war, as you were dragged.”

Slayde swallowed a rising panic, willed his pulse to slow. He resisted the urge to stare into his sweaty palms. “’Tis much to think on, Judith. But I will consider all you have said, and give you an answer anon.” With a polite but abrupt bow, Slayde turned and left the house.

In the lukewarm rain, he walked the muddy streets of Rochester, filling his mind with plans to gather and train troops and the development of a swifter and longer-flying arrow. He must rid the Isle of Haesten, the unavoidable goal inherited from his father. With these undertakings he could resume the orderly life he had known before had he pulled a Dane loomstress from the sea. With a grating fear, he dreaded that resumption, but saw no alternative.

Returned to Judith’s house, Slayde climbed uploft to his hard pallet, where the day and its expectations finally ended, and he could find the peace of mind that came with sleep.

Chapter VI

The wool is soft:  how warm the night. The rain yet patters above.

Your dream’s aloft into peaceful flight. Carried high on the wings of a dove.
 

“Marry me.”

The words drifted through the darkness into her dream. But it was no dream. Llyrica lay fully awake behind the loom, hands folded to her chest in a cocoon of linen. The sleepwalker’s lips to her ear were as real as the stone floor beneath her bed of wool.

“Say you will, Llyrica,” he whispered. With his arm and his leg thrown over her, he nestled closer, inhaled deeply at her neck. “I will bear anything if I have you. If I do not, I shall fly apart.”

Enrapt with his nearness, Llyrica would not speak yet, as she invited the press of his naked body to invade her senses. Praise God for the linen barrier pulled nearly to her neck, a protection against a thousand touch points threatening to ignite between her flesh and his.

“I must have you, too, StoneHeart.”  This declaration came from heartfelt depths, though Llyrica felt uncertain of what it meant and of the future it might unlock. “Yet you are to wed Athelswith day after tomorrow.”

Slayde arose on one elbow, his other arm lying across her ribs. Only just, could Llyrica discern the features of his face mere inches above hers. “There will be no wedding other than that which binds me to you.”

“I think you are troubled by your heated exchange with your mother, as you should be. Even I, who knows naught the half of it, could scarce listen to the sorrow in her voice. I know you come to me for comfort, but ...”

“You do bring me solace, my soft little fox. When I am here, I can think of little Elfric content in your lap and not fear he will become a milksop. I can remember my taskmaster father and not turn to stone. And I can think of my long-suffering mother and imagine going to her without Ceolmund barring the way.”

“Then tomorrow, of a morning, do more than imagine it. Say but one word to your brother to show your affection. Perhaps give your mother the smallest token of your regard.”

Llyrica felt his body tense, his breath become labored, and he wadded the linen over her abdomen in his tightened fist.

“But now, be still,” she hastened to add, lest he become agitated and awaken. She quietly sang a peaceful song.

With a deep sigh, Slayde’s body eased, and he exchanged his grip on her linen for a one-armed embrace around her waist. “You are skilled, Llyrica. With color and pattern, voice and hand. You possess the softest of qualities. I wish to know everything about you.” 

The sleepwalker raised slightly above her as she yet clutched her hands to her chest, covered in linen. He descended to take her mouth with his. In languid exploration, he used his teeth and tongue to taste and tug, and tucking her closer, his warmth surrounded her, making his body, as well as his lips, a part of the kiss. Time slowed, became unimportant, unhurried. With a muffled gasp, Llyrica opened to him with the most primal of impulses, attempting to give as she received, struggling to withstand the heat rushing through her veins. Her unschooled response was no match for the sleepwalker’s masterful kiss, but even as it threatened to undo her in some inexplicable way, it increased a hunger for more. A quiet cry of passion rose from her throat, a foreign sound, as the sleepwalker now pressed his lips to her cheek, brow and eyes. This proved but an interlude though, as he soon dipped to take a nip of her neck and moved his hand to caress the upper swell of her breast.

“I am lost in you.” His breath was hot, awash with its fresh scent. A day’s growth of beard bristled lightly at her neck. “I am wont to kiss every morsel of you.”

A staggering suggestion, inciting both alarm and wonder in a body already overwhelmed. “Yet you were wont to put me on a ship this previous day, and are bound to do so tomorrow.” She recalled her dismay at the unexplained sighting of the TwistedBeard, feared it might happen again. “My mind is in a whirl as to your truest intentions.”

“I only intend this,” he said, with her earlobe between his teeth. “That there will never be a ship to take you from me. Yield now, little fox, that I might claim you as my own, by tasting you from lips to thigh.”

She heated in a hot flush, struggled to speak. ”But I shall certainly go mad if you do.” Unfolding her hands, Llyrica pressed them to the sleepwalker’s chest in a half-hearted attempt to stall him, inadvertently encountering the hard nubs of two male nipples. A thrill shimmered over her. “Or perish entirely. I have never ...” 

“If none have ever rewarded you for your gifts, let me be the first. I promise you will yet live when I am through.” He began by forging kisses down her throat.

Other than to shudder as she let her hands fall to her sides, Llyrica froze with wary anticipation. “But I vow I shall be left without the ability to form a clear thought or ...”

The power of speech left her as his lips seared heat across to her bare shoulder, then, lowering the linen until its edge grazed her nipples, he kissed his way to her breasts.

“I dream of these creations,” the sleepwalker whispered, nuzzling in their valley. His hands joined in praise, cupping her soft hills with a gentle squeeze. “I shall not live without them. Or you.”

With his ear to her heart and his hands caressing her breasts, the rest of his hard muscled frame now sprawled atop her, arousing Llyrica from stillness. She could naught but put her hands in his unruly hair and keep him from venturing further. Aye, if so, she might survive these liberties he took with her flesh and emerge unscathed, save trembling limbs and the surge of hot moisture between her legs. The lovesong imbued into StoneHeart’s braid must have also cast its spell on her, wove her longings into a tight weave with his.

“Ah, Llyrica, you are soft beyond the world,” the sleepwalker murmured. He raised his head, and peeling back the linen, exposed her nipple to his warm breath and to his lips. Around its perimeter he lavished kisses and circled its mate with his thumb, causing Llyrica to twist and sigh audibly beneath him. She felt a queer tightening of her nipples and she must stifle her rising gasps, lest she awaken the house. Her hands, still in his hair, pushed and pulled indecisively. He suddenly drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked firmly, exciting a jolt of pleasure to her feminine core.

Moving to the other breast, he massaged as he suckled, then ... Holy Lord ... eased down the center of her body. “You are a feast,” he whispered.

Llyrica held her breath as the sleepwalker slipped away her linen defense, kissing inch by inch, each new bit of uncovered flesh. He moved the wet torments of his lips and tongue perilously lower toward an unthinkable destination, his hands gliding down the sides of her waist and hips, then under her thighs to part and lift her slightly.  

“And now your soft center.” He spoke from between her legs.

Panting in disbelief, she blinked open mouthed at the dark ceiling as he pressed his lips to the sensitive folds of her womanhood. He kissed her deeply in unspeakable intimacy, using his mouth and hot breath to summon pleasure to the surface of her flesh. It built there, as the sleepwalker did not relent, but continued to caress her tender nib with lashes and swirls of his tongue.

Llyrica quivered uncontrollably as exquisite tremors pulsed from her arousal, escalating in its intensity. It must find some measure of completion or she would indeed perish of ecstasy, as she had feared. “Please ... help ... you must ...” She pleaded in a whispered rasp, not knowing what to ask, while writhing beneath the sleepwalker.

“Sweet Softness,” he uttered against her swollen femininity. Tilting her hips for better access, the sleepwalker now took her fully into his mouth, sucking in a rhythm that bade Llyrica close her eyes and move with him. She whimpered under her breath as the sensation roiled, swept her toward an unseen precipice. Once at the edge, she fell into an abyss of bliss.  

Left shuddering, weak and waned, Llyrica was scarcely aware of the sleepwalker easing his way up her body, then pulling her to him, the linen gone, somewhere in a muss at her feet. Ah, a divine moment this, with flesh to flesh contact, the hard confines of the man’s body gathering her back after her complete shattering. Unmistakable, between them now, was the sleepwalker’s shaft, a firm, enlarged and pulsing organ, and his unique scent, now blended with that of the soap she had washed with earlier.

“Say you will marry me, Llyrica. I mean to make you my bride.”  He rolled atop her, taking her face in his hands, his manpart wedged between her thighs. “I will not let you go until I hear a
yea
.” Now he settled in beside her, perhaps awaiting her answer.

Whether by the power of her braided lovesong, or Slayde’s inner need, or simply by the hand of God, Llyrica’s desire to bind herself to him had come to pass. Indeed, a sweeter fate could not be bestowed than marriage to the man comprised of both the StoneHeart and the sleepwalker. Yet there lay the dilemma.

Llyrica did not doubt the sleepwalker’s insistence that they should wed, and she would like to spend each night thus, wrapped within his embrace. In time and with quiet hours, she might discover the secrets of this man’s heart, the workings of his mind, and further witness the talents of his body. This man of the world would guide her in all she had not seen or done, save that from within Soso’s cloak and veil.

But the impregnable StoneHeart would benefit her the most. As the wife of Slayde, ealdorman of Kent, her identity would be further hidden. As the wife of the man most bent on destroying Haesten, she could arrive before her father girded with power. Llyrica yet needed to find her much-grieved-for brother, but with StoneHeart as her ally, she would be ready to fulfill her promise to Mother.

She dare not guess StoneHeart’s reaction or the morals of the plan she now concocted, but considered no other option except to pursue this course of madness. Father Byrnstan must also help.

“You tarry, Llyrica,” the sleepwalker said as he rose at bit to drop a kiss on her brow. “Give me your answer, lest I am forced to stake further claim to your silken skin.”

Deathbed promise or no, Llyrica had only one reply. She spread her hands over the broad columns of his back and gazed into the sleepwalker’s eyes. A soft footfall was heard, Father Byrnstan come to return the sleepwalker to bed.

“Aye, StoneHeart. I will marry you and be your bride.”

Muddied to the knee and smelling of horse dung, Broder and his partners in petty crime, Egil and Lunt, stood sheepishly under the discern of Haesten’s penetrating gaze. The warlord sat in the high seat of his dank, but well endowed hall, flanked by his large, protective advisors. One hundred warriors also filled this dwelling, looking up from their bowls of gruel at the morning’s entertainment. At any moment, Broder might find himself yanked up by the scruff of the neck by one of the burly giants and flung through the fortress’ gate and into the River Lea. But they did not move, perhaps not without a signal from their lord. Broder awaited sentencing, shifting from one foot to the other, while from the corner of his eye, he surveyed the room.

It bore some resemblance to the crowded, steamy barracks on the compound, but Broder deduced this hall was furnished from Haesten’s renowned raids from across the continents. The loot was evident. Lush, exotic tapestries graced the walls, covered table and bench tops, and a few lay underfoot. Marble inlaid chests hinted of hoarded relics from razed Saxon churches and Danegeld paid by harried kings desperate for the Viking scourge to quit. Collections of gold cups, ewers and plates gleamed from shelves. Even the bowls from which men now slurped barley mush shined of ornate silver. A discovery of note, a sign of his ownership, nearly every item of worth had Haesten’s insignia stamped, embossed or embroidered into its surface.

The select warriors in the hall, though neither their meal nor poor state of dress could be envied, wielded an array of stunning swords and scramasaxes, some which, no doubt, were prizes lifted from their former, and now dead, Saxon owners.

  At first sight, Haesten proved a disappointment to Broder, since he had not considered how old the warlord should be or how reeking of ale. His hair and beard, certainly once blond and of more volume, waxed gray and thin, and his violet braccas and embroidered red tunica hung loosely about his frame. But as Haesten now straightened in his seat, twisting one of the many rings on his fingers, his bloodshot blue eyes flashed with disturbing intensity and unquestionable authority. His body heightened and expanded to fill his clothing, creating an ominous presence that bade Broder take a step back. The awe he held for the Dane legend returned tenfold.