The sea tried to drown her again, yet did so by pouring hot, savory liquid down her throat. It also told a breeze to rush across her skin in drying warmth. Llyrica opened her eyes and to her left beheld dead animal heads protruding from the wall, floor to tall ceiling. Spears and shields of all lengths, colors and shapes were displayed in rows, and swords of antiquity and of ancient battles were hung beside rusted scramasaxes from centuries ago. Exhibited on pegs along high beams, she saw portions of leather armor stained black with old blood, byrnies whose metal mesh had been torn by blades, helmets bashed by hammers, and strung on strings were claws and teeth of unnamed beasts. And across from her, spanning the lengthwise wall, tapestries illustrated vicious hunting scenes and those of war at sea.
“Holy Lord!” Llyrica scrambled to her feet. “I have died and gone to Hell!”
“Nay, you are alive, awakened from a faint,” a voice said. “And not in Hell, but in heaven, a man’s heaven. The StoneHeart’s lodge.”
Llyrica found herself standing on a straw pallet, backed against an adjacent wall to the one of horror. Beside her knelt a woman, a thrall, plump and red-cheeked, framed by graying hair, her unadorned cyrtel of brown linen indicating a lowly station. She held a mug of broth.
“ ‘Tis a dreadful sight,” Llyrica said, clutching her hand to her pounding heart.
“Aye, ealdorman Ceolmund collected pieces of war.” The thrall’s eyes traveled the height and lengths of the walls. “But he is dead now, six moons worth of dead. Come sit, Viking lass, before you fall.”
“I am yet light headed.” Llyrica lowered to sit on the pallet. The thrall nudged her with the mug, enticing her to take it.
“You should be. They say the StoneHeart kissed you so hard you collapsed.”
Oddly breathless, Llyrica brought her fingers to her lips at the thought of Slayde’s mouth pressed to hers. “Aye, he did at that, indeed.”
A kiss. The first of its kind. It made her aware of twenty years deprived of male attentions and the need to make up for lost time. Yet she had felt another need, not hers, but his, as he seemed desperate for something he might find within her. He drank from her lips as a thirsty man draws water from a spring.
Another dizziness descended upon her. “But I have also been without food for two days and had quite lost my strength.”
“Finish the broth then and later I will fetch you some bread.”
Llyrica sipped from the welcome cup. She discovered she was yet dressed in her thin silk cemes, now dry with the rest of her. Small wonder. A warm breeze blew through the hall of this wealthy abode, an indication of a wisely situated dwelling. She sat close by to one of the open doors.
“Who shall I thank for the broth?”
“I am Eadgyth. Kind Father Brynstan brought you in, bade me fix it, pour it into you and look after you.” She sat back on her heels, studied Llyrica. “I can see how you would d be suited to it, from your pretty looks. Your profession, I mean. Not that I fault you. A woman, especially a Dane, I suppose, needs to make a living when she is in the world alone.”
Llyrica dismissed the thrall’s prejudice. “A woman does indeed, do what must be done.” She had been marked as a whore, but this would help conceal her true identity. “But I do have other talents other than ...”
“I am sure you do, but who will know or care when you have got those for the world to see?” With jut of her chin, Eadgyth pointed to Llyrica’s thinly covered breasts. “They all got an eyeful when they pulled you from the water.”
Silent, Llyrica puzzled the meaning of the thrall’s words. She had never needed to consider other’s reactions to her unclothed body. “My state of undress disconcerted them, then. But I have promised Father Byrnstan my reform in exchange for his protection, so will cover myself accordingly.” The peach linen lay crumpled beneath her and she readied to wrap herself in it.
“A good start.” Eadgyth winked, then indicated two garments folded beside the pallet ...a linen cemes and Llyrica’s own lavender cyrtel and accessories. “Put these on, ‘twil help. I will wash the silk you have got on and have it to you by morning.”
Though in need of a proper bath, the rinse in the sea would do for now, and Llyrica quickly exchanged her gown for the replacement. She found comfort cloaking herself with the linen. Her bone weaver’s tablets and shuttle clacked with familiarity from her shoulder brooch as she massaged into her hands a few drops of almond oil from the vial.
“Suppertime approaches.” Eadgyth took Llyrica’s silk as she groaned to a stand. “The bread is done. The master will be in soon and all the women need to clear out before he and his captains come. If you are to stay in this house tonight, you will be the first woman to do so. Much less a Viking dame! Even when his father, Ceolmund, lived in the house it was the rule, a rule which has never been broken. Women weaken a man and his house, he said. And his son, Slayde of Kent thinks the same.”
“It is a singular theory I have never before imagined. And I cannot fathom that this large house is home to only he and Byrnstan.”
“Aye, but sometimes also StoneHeart’s half brother, little Elfric. Rest now while I help the others prepare. The night after a victory against the Danes always fills the house with hungry men.”
Eadgyth trotted off. Whispering, thralls flicked glances at the curiosity in peach linen, giggled as they prepared for the diners’ arrival. Llyrica hid herself under the fabric, pulled it over her head to watch as they tended the great central fire, stirred caldrons, roasted meat and turned the bread baking on hot stones. Some swept rubbish from the oak-planked floor, replaced the old rushes with new. Wall sconces were lit to accommodate the onset of eventide as one group rounded up benches from the perimeter of the hall. The thralls placed them around the table already laden with platters of food and pitchers of ale, and which stood in view of the walls of horror.
The far end of the hall held the loom and its accompaniments. Wool in various stages lay about, raw fleeces in large soft piles ready for carding and spinning, and dyed yarn wrapped on arm-long shuttles. Odd and ends of yarns and fibers colored the floor, and so too were stacked piece goods ready for sewing. She also spied her own bundles of wovengoods in the corner, beside two large storage chests.
The loom itself was an immense, vertical device leaning against the wall, warp-weighted with large stones, and wide enough to weave a banner, as her grandmother had done as the legendary Songweaver. Women passed the shuttle from one side to the other, weaving sailcloth for the StoneHeart’s fleet, known to Llyrica by the black foxhead on a red background.
She now recalled the braid on Slayde’s and his captains’ tunicas. Astonishing to find it was braid woven by her own hand! Indeed she knew it well, had sung the song of victory into the design. Her braids were sold in every corner of the world, but she had not considered finding them on the Isle. The fact that StoneHeart wore them carried implications she would need to ponder. For now though, the familiar presence of a loom and the sight of wool saddened her, reminding her of Mother and Solvieg. She was far from home in this foreign land, on her way to fulfilling a deathbed promise. Her aunt’s farewell and last words at the dark harbor of Hedeby returned to her:
“You must away, Llyrica, since you have escaped Xanthus. Hiding in our cave is no remedy for your turn of fate. How suddenly it is upon you.”
“Aye, Solvieg, though I long to crawl behind the loom to hide as I have done for years. Now I am forced to go when before I might have been content to stay forever. A path is presented before me and I will now honor my promise to Mother. Would that I were powerful, famous and rich as I told her I would be.”
“The promise has never been far from either of our thoughts. Yet Gala did not consider that your brother would keep you from its fulfillment. Now his actions give you opportunity to pursue it. You can sing and weave, talents for which you are valued. And you are beautiful.”
“What power are those things when Mother bade me go to father to make him suffer for her suffering? I well
remember the pain and evil she said he has done to her, but where shall I begin?”
“You promised her you would discover a way and you shall. The river will take you away this night, so the time has come for me to tell your father’s name. The rings your mother gave you bear his mark, the same he put on you. It will be proof that you are your father’s child.”
“Where shall I direct my course that I may find him? The River Trene to the North Sea? Or the River Elder to the Baltic?”
“The Trene to North. Then get you to the Great Isle. In Danelaw you will find your father. His name is Haesten, the warlord and conqueror.”
“Pray it is not true! It is a daunting task, Soso, to cross the ocean to go find a father who is a cruel stranger."
“Aye, and he has searched for you since your were but a tiny girl.”
“But I shall never see you again. Take these coins to pay for any grievances incurred this night. You have been my mother, my sister, my teacher. When I see a length of linen or wool or silk finely spun, tightly woven and brightly hued, I will think of you.”
“When I see an artful pattern, worked in a tricolored braid, I will think of you, the Songweaver. Go out claim your rightful name. Now travel with God, whom I have taught you to love.”
Aunt Solvieg. There would need be a time to cry over that parting. Now Llyrica fretted over Broder, as it seemed he had quickly found kindred troublemakers.
Eadgyth returned with a wedge of bread, handed it to Llyrica and readied to speak. But a sound outside caught the thrall’s attention, prompting her to cry out.
“The StoneHeart is coming!” Eadgyth’s shout echoed from thrall to thrall and brought Llyrica to her feet.
A chaotic spectacle, each woman made a quick end to her chores, then ran out of the hall at the loom end of the lodge. Llyrica was nearly induced to follow. But the sight out of the open door proved a stronger enticement, bade her stay and stare, indeed rooted her to the spot.
A sight to behold, this ealdorman Slayde of Kent, son of Ceolmund, rescuer of drowning women, kisser of virgin lips, ascended the steep, terraced stonewalk, leaving his fleet moored below. He was owner of such male composition that Llyrica could scarcely give its description lest it related directly to her own body. His long legs made those two dozen men who flanked and followed him work to keep up. They entranced her. Powerful thighs were covered with red linen braccas and massive calves wrapped in winnigas of soft leather. She remembered his legs pumping below the water and pressed to hers during the kiss, tantalizing her legs with strength and efficiency. Her eyes traveled up Slayde’s torso and found narrow hips and waist. Over a broad chest and shoulders spanned his black tunica, its ill fit saved only by the sublime shape of the wearer. But Llyrica knew this upper half of him by the security of hard strength. She had felt it twice, first in the water, as he held her in safety, and then on the deck, when he had pulled her against him in some sort of male demonstration.
Now she considered his bare arms as they swung at his side, flexing so hard, that if not for the bronzed skin, she might see in detail the inner workings of every tendon and muscle. Yet the encircling of those arms around her, in the water and on the deck, demonstrated not just brawn, but the knowledge of how to utilize it.
In Llyrica’s limited knowledge of the creature called man, she had not fathomed one who was not as Xanthus, squishy and mired in flesh, nor as her father, a cruel wife-beater, nor like her brother, impulsive and directionless. She at once defined the StoneHeart as the true meaning of man.
“The spear drove so deeply it broke Sigehelm’s foot.” Slayde’s voice carried up the walkway. An afternoon breeze from the estuary below lifted his untamed black hair from his shoulders as he told his tale. “But he yanked out the weapon, turned it on his assailant and gutted him with it. Then Sig bound his bloody foot with wood slats and continued to fight.” Slayde paused dramatically. “When later his men asked what bade him go on with such an injury, he replied, ‘Wooden shoe?’ ”
His poor joke elicited laughter in the men around him while his lips did not so much as twitch. But neither this stay of a smile nor the set of his teeth made Llyrica forget the hidden talent of his mouth, and she could barely withstand the fluttering in the pit of her stomach.
“Ah, there she is now!” Byrnstan shouted up at her in the doorway, advancing from behind Slayde. The priest held the hand of a towheaded boy, perhaps five years old, alert and small for his age. “Just as I said, Elfric. A woman from Denmark in StoneHeart’s house. Tell Teta all about it when I return you to her.”
The boy stared mutely at Llyrica after flicking a glance up the tremendous height of his half brother, a look to seek permission. Dwarfed amid a crowd of men was not the proper place for the poor boy. The effort showed on his face as he made an attempt to resemble Slayde’s posture and mannerisms.
Slayde seemed to disregard his brother as he looked at Llyrica with dark, humorless eyes. He then shot her a hostile glance, a warning which oddly invoked more trepidation in her than had an evening with Xanthus. It urged her to turn and run for cover in the abandoned hall. Old habits carried her toward the far end of the lodge, where she gathered an armload of carded wool and dove behind the safety of the loom. Through the yarns of the warp and the stone weights, Llyrica watched the hall fill with Slayde’s uniformed captains and heard the wood on wood scraping of benches pulled back from the table. A youth, out of breath and sweaty, ran into the hall, handed Slayde a rolled parchment, bowed, then made a hasty exit. Slayde unfurled and read the dispatch, then tucked it into his belt, perhaps saving it for later. Llyrica nibbled at the bread, still in her hand.
The StoneHeart took a seat at the center of the gathering with the violent tapestries behind him and stared across the hall to Llyrica’s hiding place. “This is a good start, Byrnstan.”
The priest sat to his left, young Elfric to his right and across was the man called Ailwin. The remaining, all yet dressed in black tunicas, filled in.
“The vixen knows to stay out of my sight. Pray she remains so, and also unheard.” Slayde glanced around the table, motioned for all to sit and eat. “Although when after our supper and business is concluded, I might allow her to show herself, providing she is wet from head to toe!” His comments summoned pounding on the table, and whoops and whistles of appreciation. He swept his gaze across the congregation, waited until the noise died down. “Then you all might go home this night to your wives, mistresses or whores and imagine what you cannot have!”
Llyrica understood he dangled the idea of her before these men, but oddly put her off limits to them. They laughed though, and made lewd comparisons about the size of women’s breasts, the lengths of their legs and other references that Llyrica could not decipher.
“Indeed, she wisely stays hidden,” agreed Byrnstan. He looked to shake his head at the lustful male attitudes. “There would be little discussed among such men of brawn and distinction to interest a mere woman, and of course, nothing she would say could be heard above the din of intellect.” His remark contained sarcasm, and he looked toward Llyrica’s hiding place at the loom with a compassionate smile. He turned to the boy beside him. “Elfric, watch and listen well to all you see and hear. We will discuss it later.”
After the little boy nodded and Slayde gave Byrnstan a stony glare, the company at the table turned their attention to the food, limiting their talk to only that which pertained to passing a round of bread, filling a cup with ale, and spearing slabs of meat. Elfric observed the adults, especially Slayde, and mimicked them, but listened intently whenever Byrnstan bent to the boy’s ear.
A half of an hour passed before Slayde pushed his trencher away, tossed in a heel of bread. He put a leaf from a green sprig into his mouth, chewed it as he cleared his throat. This seemed to signal the men at the table to quiet and take heed.
“We bettered the Vikings today. I consider it no less a feat than if they had been other than unseasoned youngbloods. But as the harvest nears, Haesten surely
plans to send legitimate forces to engage us at sea, while he moves into Kent by land.”
Haesten. Llyrica gasped distinctly at her father’s name, then listened well to determine if it might belong to another man. Slayde cocked his head at her little shriek, frowning before he continued.
“Such pincers are his method and we must double our vigilance during the changing of the fyrd. He might see it as a time of disorganization, when our army is at its most vulnerable.”
A fair-haired man leaned in to address his ealdorman. “We all know that Haesten has again got his eyes on our corn crops. We can not be in two places at once.”
“Deorlof is right about the harvest,” Slayde said, straightening. “Haesten and his thieves have been seen skulking along the Thames just north and east of the border, inspecting the richest fields. The same fields he ransacked last autumn from the safety of his fortress on the Lea. He thinks to feed his men on the fruits of Wessex’s labor while he deprives us of our harvest. Folks in the fields make easy targets.” The StoneHeart fisted his hands where they rested on the table. “He still thinks London can be his.”
“We estimate he has a thousand men at Fortress Lea,” Ailwin said, sweeping his sights around the table. “If he operates as he did last year, he will wait until the harvest is near complete, move his men out in bands of fifty or so, and take by force our carts of corn, oats, barley and whatever livestock they can haul off. Damn that he is not opposed to setting fire to fields and houses if he meets with too much resistance.”
“He will not, by God!” shouted the man beside Ailwin.
“Give me clear aim at the Danish devil and I will put him down right quick!” another yelled.
“I will join you, Ciawulf! Two arrows through his black heart and his thieves will fall asunder!” added yet another. “He will not add the Thames to his exploits on the rivers Loire, Sarthe, Maas, and Schedt!”
“Aye, his stunts end with us, lest his legend grow to include the conquest of Kent and of Wessex!” Ailwin took to his feet, inciting others to theirs. Elfric climbed out of his seat, unnoticed and wandered around the hall.
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