Loveweaver (2 page)

“I have brought this! While it cannot bring back your comrade’s life, I pray it will ease his passing.” Her ancient rasp almost hid the fear in her voice. “Take it. ‘Tis a small fortune. Let it be payment for Broder’s crime. But know that you will have to go through me, should you demand Broder’s life instead.”

A strange tightening of the circle ensued, a leaning in as Llyrica laid the heavy sack on Xanthus’ two open palms. A hush fell over the villagers as the drunken breathing of the motley dozen wheezed heavily.

“What is this?” Xanthus asked. Llyrica knew at once that he referred not to the purse since he tossed it to TwistedBeard without looking inside. Xanthus gripped her hands and pulled them further from her cloak. She had forgotten her gloves!

She looked in horror at her own smooth pale skin, long tapered fingers, soft from the almond oil she kept in her vial.

“These are not the hands of an old hideous crone, as was reported me.” His eyebrows lifted, his pudgy lips twitched. “Remove your veil and let me see the mangled face of Hedeby’s mad weaver.”

Llyrica pressed closer to Broder, feeling his pounding heart at her back. His body was hot with sweat. She knew of his secret embarrassment that his sister, posed as an old woman, put herself between him and death. “Take the coin and a good deal of jewelry and let us leave,” she pleaded. 

But Xanthus reached forward, and though Llyrica raised her hands to prevent it, snatched the veil from her face. As the first wave of gasps from the on-lookers arose, he wrenched Llyrica’s cloak free, flinging it aside.

A genuine clamor rippled across the villagers at the sight of Llyrica revealed for the first time. She lost her mental footing for a moment, exposed now to the world, realizing she had not prepared properly for this day to come ... and certainly not in this way, under someone else’s terms. But since this bad emergence was indeed upon her with her brother’s life yet at stake, she spent not another second in hindsight. 

The motley dozen gaped, blinked at her through their drunken haze as if by magic she had appeared. She imaged what they saw as she straightened her stooped back to a proud posture. The favoring of one leg vanished. The ratty hood and veil transformed to bright flaxen hair in a free fall to her waist, and the length of tattered gray wool gave way to an ivory pleated cemes beneath a lavender silk cyrtel. Three strands of amethyst beads festooned between her silver shoulder brooches. From them hung grandmother’s weaving tools – a small shuttle, two bone tablets and a silver vial. Aye, her appearance was different. But she could not explain the overlong gazes, which swept the length of her body, where her perspiration-soaked dresses clung like a second skin.

“I am the crone’s handmaid,” Llyrica explained quickly, turning to Xanthus. The revelation of maid beneath the facade of old woman washed the grief from his expression, and replaced it with sobering shock. The new lilt of her voice must also have dismayed him. Llyrica hastened to continue, discomforted greatly by the odd twinkle in his eye that foretold of a new predicament. “The weaver is ill and bade me to this task.
Nothing is changed.
Broder admitted his crime, though due to self-defense we deem it right you should take this sack of monies as payment.”

Xanthus’ gaze fell to the silver cross that hung around Llyrica’s neck, marking her as a Viking maid converted to Christianity. “What is Broder to you?” He scratched his head as if it helped him to think. “Husband? Lover? Brother?”

She stepped around the question. “Merely the son of my mistress to whom I am sent on her behalf. Please, now, captain. Take the sack and let Broder and me return to her.”

“The sack is not enough. I am now of a mind to demand a sweetened payment for my man’s wrongful death.” A heavy silence fell upon even the motley dozen making it possible to hear water lapping at the ships in the harbor. Gulls circled and swooped as if they too desired knowledge of the outcome.

Llyrica’s pulse pounded in her ears as a hundred eyes fell to her. “I pray you look inside the purse and see how generous the sum. We have nothing else to offer.”

“Aye, you do, and if you wish to spare the life of the weaver’s son, you will agree to pay it.” Xanthus now smirked, causing Llyrica to delay in her reply. Broder stirred behind her, but remained silent.

“I will save his life at whatever cost! Name your price.”

“I will take the purse,” Xanthus answered. His meaty fist encircled her arm. “And since I now see the fortune to be made in your gold hair and pale skin, I will take
you
with it.”

Kentish Coast, the Great Isle, three days later

          Slayde hid it well, that he was anything other than the StoneHeart his father raised him to be. Ceolmund lay dead in the family cairn, yet the old tyrant still shadowed his son here on the brink of a sea battle.
I must not give into this dread, or to any longings for a different life.

“How far hence?” Byrnstan asked. The warrior priest stood next to his godson at the bow of the OnyxFox, and squinted across the blinding sea, visoring his eyes with one hand. “The elements are in their favor.” A gust concurred, yanked at his longa tunica, which was held at bay his belted sword.

Slayde returned from his brief lapse in an otherwise perfect concentration. His black hair, the only unmanageable feature on his tall, uniformed presentation, whipped about his face and neck. The same ferocious headwind filled the sails of his enemy.

“In sight within moments.” Slayde raised his voice above the rhythmic stroking of sixteen pairs of oars. “Leofric at the tower says they look to do nine knots.”

“Holy Jesus,” Byrnstan swore. “Indeed I meant, Holy Jesus give us Salvation,” he hastened to add reverently. But the grin, which stretched between his white curtain of hair, expressed the opposite, and his gray eyes sparkled elfishly. 

“Salvation from your blasphemy.” Slayde kept his mouth firm, a habit formed from age seven after Ceolmund’s teasing. No one but father would have ever said the StoneHeart’s mouth was womanly, and indeed on a female face his lips would be too generous. But even sixteen years later, with dark stubble shadowing his square jaw, Slayde paid heed that his lips never softened.

Also damn his dark eyes, too warm, some said, for a man named the StoneHeart And his straight nose showed that it had never been broken in battle.

“The fleet is fifteen ships strong.”  He deciphered the code flashing from the lookout at the coast. From the high structure he had built and a bit of polished silver in the hands of his trained man, came information in reflected sunlight. Slayde motioned for Ailwin, who served as his second and as his conveyance archer. “Use a whistler and shoot it high,”

The blond man, towering with muscles as tautly strung as his bow, drew back his string and shot the special arrow nearly straight up. Its shrill report signaled Slayde’s fleet into formation, and he now watched the results across the water. Nineteen sleek vessels, oiled and polished to near black with foxheads at their prows, spread out to within shouting distance of each other. The OnyxFox made it twenty.

“Now the yowler,” Slayde ordered. Another arrow, a different sound called out as it pierced the summer sky. The fleet now took up its swift course toward the approaching marauders. He spotted them. “Ahead, they come.”

The distance between the OnyxFox and the advancing ships narrowed with astonishing speed. Slayde turned to Ailwin and gave his nod for another signal arrow to fly. Its shriek, as it sailed high, directed his captains, dressed in sleeveless black tunicas, adorned with patterned braid of red, violet, black and white, to increase the rhythm of their drums. Archers stood, one hundred sixty skilled men, now ready to pelt the Vikings with arrows. When Slayde commanded, their oiled tips would be first set ablaze in the fire of an iron caldron.

Slayde, Byrnstan and Ailwin stood starboard of the foxhead prow and watched the warships looming. Drums pounded across the StoneHeart’s fleet. 

“How many Dane longships will we sink, burn or watch turn and run?” his second asked, reloading his bow with an oiled arrowhead. His gaze then fell to Slayde’s sword, whose owner idly rubbed the pommel. “Another notch along your blade, ealdorman?”

“Before the day is done,” Slayde replied, avoiding Byrnstan’s stare. Damn the priest for serving as his conscience. The serrated edge of StoneHeart’s sword, one notch for each victory against the Vikings, stood as testimony to his army’s high success rate. A lucky weapon to possess, it insured that none ever questioned his prowess as leader, warrior and man. Ceolmund had questioned it though, never satisfied that StoneHeart was not a mother’s boy.

“The Danes want passage around the coast through StoneHeart’s Gate and have made a game of it. I wonder what they have in store for us today,” Byrnstan mused.

“Your wondering will be through, shortly, Priest,” answered Slayde. “See there.” He thrust his chin toward the oncoming ships.

“Aye!”  exclaimed Ailwin. “One ship leads two, with three behind. And four after. Then five and on! The wind brings them swiftly, too and they look to charge straight through us!”

“Turn the wind around!” Brynstan prayed. “And may our first volley hit true! God preserve us from hand-to-hand with our foe!”

Indeed, Lord God.
StoneHeart also prayed as the confounding twitch of his eye began again.
May I spill no blood today.

“Aye, turn the wind! We can smell the filthy cur from here!” shouted Ailwin.

Slayde ignored his second’s disparaging remark. “Send up a flamed arrow.” Once done, it alerted each poised archer to light his tip, then take aim when assured his target would be met. “Our fire will reach their sails long before they reach us.”  

Within moments, his words came true as one hundred sixty flaming arrows arced, cut through the wind, most finding homes to ignite Viking sails and banners. Men on both sides shouted threats and taunts, the drums increased in volume. A second barrage of arrows followed, and a third would be aimed at human targets.

The Dane ships were now close enough to identify. The first five were crippled, one more overturned, causing a pile up behind them, and their crewmen wounded or jumping into the sea. A calamitous wreck ensued, uncharacteristic of an accomplished fleet, with sounds of hulls colliding and weathered wood groaning. Though Slayde did not expect a return of arrows, neither did he see a glint of spears or drawn swords.

“Something is amiss, Byrnstan!” Slayde called out above the noise. “These ships are an odd collection, some warships, aye, but look, some are barely seaworthy, some are paltry knorrs.” 

“Great God Damn!” Byrnstan replied. “See there!” He pointed as the OnyxFox closed in, near enough to now see the faces of the Dane crew - youths long before their beards had grown in. “No seasoned sailors these! They think to make men of themselves by challenging the StoneHeart!”

“Ailwin! Fire three whistlers!” commanded Slayde and saw it done. “Turn about and keep firing flaming arrows,” he shouted to his archers. “ ’Tis burning ships we are after, not dead boys who are out for a mischief.”  Slayde noted Ailwin’s raised eyebrows, the questioning of StoneHeart’s lack of bloodlust. For a lifetime, Slayde had hidden his fear of the sight of blood. Especially from Ailwin, the right hand man who had once been Ceolmund’s.

Slayde’s fleet circled, put enough room between them and the on-comers to avoid man-to-man engagement, yet close enough to continue raining the Danes with fire. Striding to the tiller, Slayde watched the campaign of foolhardy youths collapse more quickly than it began. Some boys swam for shore, others crowded aboard the few ships now turning back, leaving the majority of their vessels aflame, rocking dead in the water. He breathed a sigh of relief to see no casualties.

A series of flashes from the lookout tower confirmed the Vikings posed no further threat, but Slayde shouted a command for ten ships to take chase. “’Til they are well past the mouth of the Thames!” 

Ailwin fired the corresponding signal arrows as the OnyxFox stilled and his co-captains’ orders reached each of the nineteen. With the sails now raised, the StoneHeart’s fleet divided. Some would press the Vikings back to the border, and the others, who now came around, passed Slayde’s ship, and headed for homeport. Slayde surveyed the burning wreckage, while his crew, still breathing heavily from their exertions, congratulated each other in rowdy comradery, planned an evening of celebration. Their victory had been an easy one. 

“We will not see the bloody scum burn with their ships,” Ailwin said, with obvious disappointment. “But we will still get the notch in our swords?

Though he bristled, Slayde never commented on Ailwin’s derogatory words. Instead, he swelled his chest, learned from his father as a sign of authority. “No burning flesh, it is true. But due to the skill aboard this ship, the Viking troublemakers have had their fright. You all will get your ...”

Something caught his eye, a movement amid the fiery reflections on the water. Debris of all kind bobbed beside what he now identified as a merchant's ship, overturned. He blinked, thinking he must be mistaken, yet there it was. There
she
was. 

A woman, by God. Holding precariously to a rapidly sinking barrel.

Chapter II

God’s sword be yours and His shields divine.

Courage, valor, and victory be thine.
 

Without saying another word and before his crew could react, Slayde removed his sword, baldric and tunica and dove into the cold water. Two score strong strokes brought him to her just as she and the barrel submerged, but he quickly reached below the surface to snag her sinking form.

He immediately encountered felt something incredibly soft - a breast - so moved his hand beside it, found a nearly-as-soft upper arm, gripped it and pulled. Treading water with his legs, Slayde lifted the woman, encircling her waist to draw her to him and bring her face above the surface. She flung her arms around his bare shoulders in the panic of drowning person, coughing and sputtering into his neck. Blond hair floated around her.

“I have got you. Be at ease.” Slayde took a firmer grasp around her waist. His words calmed her, caused her to relax her desperate grip as she continued to purge her lungs of seawater. In stages, her labored gulps subsided and she laid her cheek against Slayde’s chest in relief.

With the woman’s rescue assured, Slayde became aware of his own pounding heart, his response to his headlong dive and swim. He could naught but be aware of the woman’s negligible clothing, a long silk cemes, which scantly separated their bodies beneath the water. Her close proximity gave him intimate knowledge of her shape. Below a narrow waist, a rounded hip pressed against his abdomen, and smooth, slim legs brushed against his as he kicked to stay afloat. The lush breast that he had briefly held in his hand now joined its twin in molding pliantly against his chest, their nipples felt as pearls through wet fabric. Even with the water’s chill and the serious circumstance, this Viking siren hardened his flesh beyond that which sheer will alone could remedy.

Heavenly God, this woman embodied the very softness his father warned him of, taught him to avoid. A woman with a body such as hers could unman the most stalwart, render him weak, blithering and feebleminded. Yet to conquer a female form of this sort without falling victim to sentimentality would be to pass the ultimate test of male fortitude.

“My-my brother. H-have you saved him, too?”  She stammered through chattering teeth. Her language, though similar to that of the Saxon, told Slayde that she was surely a Dane. He now confronted wide aqua eyes, bloodshot, yet luminous. “Bro-Broder. Where is he? We h-have met with m-misfortune.” Her lips, tinged violet from the chill, promised the juicy sweetness of a sun-ripened peach. The delicate features of her face proved as dangerous a threat as did her soft form.

“Nay, I have not seen any Broder,” Slayde said in strident tones. He still pumped to keep them above water. “All the boys have swum off or sailed for home. Once aboard my ship, you will tell me what you are doing here.”

“My brother would ... would not leave me. Perhaps he has drowned!” She twisted in an effort to look around, and gazed toward three bundles that floated nearby. He now saw the silver cross hanging around her neck. “And my things and ... and ... money. I may not lose them!”

“I vow none have drowned. As for your possessions ...” Slayde turned in the water so that he could see the OnyxFox and signal for assistance.

Seventeen crewmen stood on the deck gaping at Slayde with the half-dressed woman in his arms. He recognized these looks. They had seen their ealdorman in female clinches, though never in water. Most likely they envied him, but pitied the lass who would soon join the ranks of the brokenhearted. StoneHeart let the rumor persist that he had never succumbed to a woman, other than to satisfy a male’s basic urge. The success of his career balanced on the fact that none had ever softened his heart.

No man dare make jokes about the rescue, but Slayde expected little respect from his godfather. Warrior priest Byrnstan looked strangely pleased at the sight, a prelude to another episode of his constant meddling.

Slayde called up to his crew. “Two volunteers jump in and fetch these bundles before they sink.” Eight men seeking favor with their ealdorman obliged at once. 

A short time later the woman sat at the bow, a spectacle in transparent clothing. Slayde stood dripping over her, noting her skin was goose bumped in the wind. Her oilcloth-wrapped goods had been retrieved from the sea and lay untied and unrolled, their contents spread across the deck for inspection. The light scent of ginger effused. The items included a heavy money purse and bound yardages of fine woven materials. A smaller bundle revealed the woman’s remaining clothes: a lavender silk cyrtel and leather scohs. Within these were found a silver gyrdel, festoons, and two shoulder brooches from which dangled bone tablets and a weaver’s shuttle. The last female curiosity, a small silver vial, Slayde opened just long enough to smell the oil inside. Almond.

The woman wrapped her arms around herself to stay from shivering, though she immodestly did not cover her breasts, showing her either unaware or unconcerned at what was in plain view beneath wet silk. Slayde allowed her to take a length of pale peach linen, just barely damp, from the stack of wovengoods. She unfurled it with upstretched arms, then let float down upon her head and shoulders. Her uninhibited movements caused a gentle sway of those lush orbs of flesh and emphasized a curvaceous agility. This incited Slayde’s crewmen to increase their openmouthed stares. Though he briefly considered that the woman acted with naiveté, it was hard to believe she could be oblivious of the affect she induced. Puzzling him further, she draped the fabric over and around herself, gripped it from within, leaving only an opening for her eyes. She reminded him of a discovery once made, while he encamped in the Weald, of a small burrow housing a litter of foxes. One of the kits had peered out at him with bright inquisitiveness.

“How came you to ride with misadventure?” Slayde asked as re-donned his tunica. His crew formed a semi-circle around him, ogling her as they awaited her reply.

“It is clear that she is an escaped thrall from Denmark, and a thief, as well,” Ailwin interceded, as he motioned to the loot. “These Vikings swarm to the Isle like maggots. We have seen it too often, have we not? They breed as rabbits until they have overcrowded their own land, then come to our shores to  ...”

Slayde answered with a stony expression, bidding his second to desist. “Go extinguish the fire in the caldron, Ailwin.” He addressed his crew. “And break this up, the rest of you. Get to the oars and take us home.”

Ailwin cast the woman a disdainful glance before he turned to his task. “She is likely a whore, one I would take off your hands were she not a Dane.”

Slayde pondered Ailwin’s conjecture of her vocation. She proved oddly calm for a woman found among soldiers, which hinted at a certain comfort level with men. The silk garment she wore, and that among her belongings, spoke of sensual arts. Also hinting at erotic pleasures were the yardages pulled from the water, woven as they were of scented, colorful and exotic threads. Such fabrics could be sewn into alluring garments and draped enticingly.

But more so, a woman of her middle age, which he judged at twenty summers, should have long ago been married. Perhaps in her younger days, she came under the influence of a panderer who started her in the life unholy liaisons.

Muttering under their breath and tearing their fixed gazes from the Viking woman, the crewmen obeyed Slayde’s order to move. They took up their positions and soon urged the OnyxFox toward the coast. The woman straightened, craned to see the vanishing view of burning ships over the heads of the rowers.

Byrnstan nudged Slayde. “Ask her again, but first ask her name,” the priest said.

Mindful that his crew watched his every move, heard his every word, he knelt beside the woman, and was joined by Byrnstan. “Tell me your name and then your tale.” Slayde spoke in a low volume as she turned her hooded head back to him.

“Llyrica. And for whom shall I praise God for saving me?” Her melodic voice sounded from within the linen shroud, evoking a queer vibration in Slayde’s chest.

“Slayde the StoneHeart, ealdorman of Kent,” the priest answered first. “We patrol these Kentish waters for King Alfred of Wessex. And I am Byrnstan, servant of God.”

Llyrica seemed to consider this for a moment. “I am apparently not come to East Anglia. But I should need find my brother since we are now separated. How far off am I from Danelaw?”

Byrnstan, apparently without the worry of appearing seduced, fell sway to the lilt of her voice, smiled broadly. “From Danelaw? We are four and ten  ...”

“We are asking the questions,” Slayde interrupted. He ignored the rich timbre of her voice. “Tell us what brought you here, lest we think you have something to hide.”

She shrank back as if affronted. “Broder and I escaped from  ... what I mean to say is my brother took me  ... that is  ... he booked us passage on a merchant ship as I hid in a barrel. Three days hence, and my bread ran out in two.” She paused, perhaps to rub her empty stomach. “Earlier this day a commotion struck  ... pirates, I think, and I was moved from one ship to the next.”

“No pirates, but ruffians out for sport,” Byrnstan interjected. “The same who fell under our flaming arrows, then high-tailed back from whence they came.”

“And where to, since my brother may now travel with them?”

“You said you escaped,” Slayde broke in. “From what or whom would you hide in a barrel for three days? I am inclined to consider my archer’s opinion, that you are of a questionable profession, have stolen from your owner, perhaps a panderer, slipped from his grasp, then have fled your country with his property. And God only knows what crimes your brother has committed.” The little fox drew a sharp breath, a sure indication that he had hit upon the truth. “If you sought anonymity, you have come to the wrong shore. Indeed, you have fallen into the wrong hands - mine. I am paid to keep Vikings, especially malfeasants, from the land of Kent, not to let them wash ashore in barrels. We have written procedures for cases such as yours and I am wont to follow them to the letter.”

Byrnstan looked worried as he tucked his hair behind his ear. “Tell us something, lass, to dispute a bad report. Say your only fault is that you are a Viking, that a nefarious past has not followed you. Perhaps you were forced to leave?”

However surreptitious her behavior of hiding in barrels and now in a length of linen might seem, she was not a ready liar. Slayde grew impatient for her reply.

“I should neither dispute nor agree to the ealdorman’s appraisal,” she finally said. “Since either might ... incriminate me.” 

“When one pleads not to comment, I have found it is to hide the worst,” Slayde said. “And since the worst in your case deems you a whore, a thief, and a fugitive, and, of course your brother some sort of criminal, and since we have enough of these already among the Saxon population, it is my duty to immediately send you back to your beginning.”

This appeared to strike her hard. Impassioned, she reached out from under her cover and clasped Slayde’s hand with one of hers. It was a silky and flawless, an artful creation, hinting of nimbleness. As the wind ruffled the linen that hid all but her eyes and hand from sight, he noted that he had never experienced the laying on of such soft fingertips ... save perhaps his mother’s. He wanted … nay …
needed
this Viking’s hands to touch him everywhere. More than just her beauty, this woman seemed to possess exquisite tenderness. The gut-jolt that ensued reminded StoneHeart that to succumb to affection would cost him everything. 

“I pray you not send me back!” Llyrica implored. “From yon money purse let me withdraw a sum. I will pay you to allow me to find my brother, and then he and I will go to East Anglia, to a Danish settlement, which is our destination. ‘Tis a simple matter, really.”

“Not so simple when you are a Dane, your brother has fallen in with bad company, and the money is not yours,” Slayde countered. As a test to prove himself impervious to her touch, he allowed her to keep hold of his hand. “Or deny it now and say that what is in the sack is yours, unfettered by obligations. Then perhaps in addition to shipping you back, I will not also investigate from whom you might have stolen.” 

She withdrew her hand and pulled the linen tighter around her. “Where those monies came from is complicated and I cannot tell you all. But I will say that I have earned them through my own labors, though the sack is not now wholly my possession ... though through no fault of my own.”

“You see there, Slayde,” Byrnstan said in her defense. “She said
through no fault of her own
. Consider she has been a victim.”

“She talks in riddles, now, Byrnstan.” Slayde reached for the money purse. “Let us have a look inside for a clue.” He untied the knot in the drawstring and opened the sack, pouring its contents onto the deck floor.

“Your interrogation leaves her little wiggling room,” Brynstan said leaning in. But his hopeful expression turned to disappointment at the sight of the damaging evidence.

Slayde shook his head in disbelief as he viewed the small fortune. “Coins from across foreign lands.” He sifted through the pile. The jangling of loot and the sun reflecting from precious metals raised curious stares from his rowing crewmen and brought Ailwin to stand behind his ealdorman. “Gems, bracelets and brooches of all sorts. And rings.”

Llyrica inhaled audibly. Slayde picked out two silver bands, twins save their difference in size. He recognized at once the insignia on the rings, but made no comment aloud.