“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.
“You have arrived with us and been here one day.” Haesten addressed Broder in voice of deep and astounding resonance. “And in your gratitude that I have allowed you a place in my army, you and these two others set loose a score of horses, chased them round the yard and caused one to stumble in a rut and fall lame. Since all witnesses deem you the instigator, you shall decide what your reparation should be.”
Broder’s thoughts turned to Soso, but mostly to Llyrica, prayed she was safe in her unknown whereabouts. He sorely felt her lack of assistance and money purse. “I have no money with me, hlaford. In time, I might arrange for payment ...”
“I have no use for your coin, boy.” Haesten’s voice reverberated through Broder’s chest. “You need make useful amends. You look to be full-grown and I have need for every man willing to do his part. Answer for this and I will not think you are slack as well as a prankster and will think of some remedy other than giving you the boot. Now name your punishment.”
The warlord’s words, which charged Broder with accountability, yet without condescension, invoked an odd effect: shame where pride should be. The fact that Haesten might consider him a ne’er-do well made for a bad start and Broder was suddenly wont to redeem himself. His mind cogitated as it seldom did.
“I have an idea, lord Haesten.” Broder’s companions perked, since Broder’s fate included theirs. “We will put ourselves to mucking the paddocks, which are ankle deep in manure.” Egil and Lunt groaned, and Haesten’s advisors laughed. “I will see to the lame horse myself,” Broder continued. “Though I will need advice on how to go about it.”
Haesten leaned back, obviously pleased. “Well done, lad. Well done. Now go on out and find yourself a rake. Put your shoulder into it and see that the next news I receive of you is high. And take your cohorts with you.” He then dismissed Broder with a wave, making a remark to the man on his right about the next item of business.
A thrill ran through Broder at Haesten’s praise, though it was soon tempered by the warriors in the hall prodding the trio to the door, and by jokes about where a boy, whose beard was as soft as goose down, would haul a ton of horse dung. Broder must now go begin the task he had just promised, and do so with two comrades none too glad at the penalty they must pay.
They crossed the compound to the side farthest from the river, and upon Broder’s return to the scene of the misdemeanor, he viewed it differently. An opportunity for folly had become a workplace. A light rain had ended and the sun broke out, heating the wet air and causing steam to choke the empty paddocks. The herd of two hundred or so had been let out to the adjoining field and men had already mucked and hauled dung to a mountainous pile. Much was left to be done. Spurred by Haesten’s expectations, Broder picked up a pitchfork, his comrades sullenly following him, and began his chore.
An indeterminate number of hours later, long after the others deemed the job sufficiently done and quit, Broder kept at it, sore of back and neck and soaked with perspiration and horse wastage. The amount of manure these four-legged creatures produced astonished him, but his desire to please Haesten urged him to dig, fill the cart and remove the odiferous slush until he reached the layer of fresh earth.
“Hail, Broder!”
He turned from the dung mountain to the sound of Haesten’s bellow, saw him in his staggering approach with an entourage of six.
“Lord Haesten!” Broder shouted, out of breath. “I had hoped to finish before a report was made you. I have not had a chance to look to the horse!”
“Put the fork down, boy!” Haesten leaned heavily on the paddock gate, waving Broder to him. “If you get this any tidier, the horses will fare better than my men. Or we will need name that mound of manure after you! Come instead and have some ale.”
“I will be grateful, hlaford, for I am parched indeed. But know that I will return anon,” said Broder. Once through the gate, Haesten motioned for Broder to walk beside him, and his men divided.
“You are past ripe, boy!” exclaimed Haesten, covering his nose. The others laughed, making rude noises as they stepped away. “Nay, you will not go back to it since I have other plans for you. The first is that you go to the bathhouse and use it.” He surveyed Broder’s dung-splattered clothes. “Put on the garments I will send, then come to my hall. You will stay there instead of the barracks.”
Broder suspected he was the butt of a jest. But if so, the drunken swaggering of the old warlord gave no clue. “I do not take your meaning, Lord Haesten. Your hall is meant for the higher ranked. For those who have proved themselves ...”
“As you have today. You did not flinch when you were accused, and then you chose the lowest of chores and labored at it as if it were the highest. I deem a man worthy who owns his mistakes and makes them right again. I also reward those who take my commands to heart with fervor, as you have done.” Haesten walked on, viewing the expanse of his fortressed yards and the plank buildings. Warriors occupied themselves repairing huts, wrestling, fist fights and spear throwing. Some played catch with dogs. Others could be heard at the river hammering strakes on ships, washing and even swimming.
Broder felt his life turn a corner. “If I have pleased you, hlaford, it is because I should like to serve you. Know I will always heed your commands and take lesson from you.”
Haesten laughed at Broder’s solemnity. “Very well, then. Be off. But show yourself by eventide. A nearby settlement has just brought us a load of meat, a welcome respite from p
orridge, and ale enough for five hundred men to drink their fill. In my house tonight is an exceptional event, of which I may partake though happily wed. Two score women have come to share their pallets with any man who has the need. Count yourself among them, Broder.”
“Aye, Lord Haesten. This command I will also take to heart.”
Upon first awakening Slayde had noticed it, and not even his morning sprig of mint dispelled the taste of soap in his mouth. It lingered as he had negotiated the terms under which his mother would keep Elfric and when he had patted his brother’s head with a good-bye and a promise to fetch him soon. The taste continued as he had taken his mother’s ring and allowed her to kiss his cheek when he took his leave. Neither did it wane throughout his State of the Shire address to the assembly of Kentish thegns and ceorls. Hours later as he journeyed to London, the flavor of soap yet prevailed.
Trade and military vessels choked the Thames, and Slayde’s men labored at the oars against the current, a headwind and treacherous fog. Though they maneuvered cautiously around oncoming ships and paid attention to traffic behind, a knorr had nearly tagged them once and they almost overran a faering, too small a craft to venture out in such crowded waters.
The OnyxFox and its sister ships made slow progress, and Slayde regretted that he had not scheduled an extra day to arrive in London. His landing now looked to occur in late afternoon. Yet there would be ample time before dark to hand Llyrica over the border, see that his London house was in order and prepare to organize a fighting force. Ah, yea, indeed ... and marry Athelswith.
By fixing his eyes starboard from the bow, Slayde resisted the urge to study Llyrica’s nimble fingers at work as she sat on the deck. He averted his attention from the diaphanous piece of white fabric she sewed in her lap. The vixen had told him, without his asking, that she made his bride a gown for their marriage: a gift of goodwill before he set Llyrica on East Anglian soil. To stay his arousal envisioning how Llyrica would feel in the gossamer, gold-braided gown, without a stitch underneath, her body wet and pressed against him, StoneHeart planned how to present the gift to Athelswith. He also kept his ear to Ailwin and Byrnstan. Slayde’s second was not yet wise to the futility of arguing with the priest about the meeting earlier that day.
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