“But we now have a dispute against your claim,” said Byrnstan. “I do not think this involves anyone submitting to a test. Grant the lass an hour and perhaps the StoneHeart will not round up the lot of you and use you for target practice among his troops.”
Good of Byrnstan to inform the motley band of StoneHeart’s military might, whether or not it extended to civilian matters. Slayde concurred with menacing silence and disdainful regard. Llyrica’s notice landed on his knuckles, white where they tightly gripped his sword hilt.
Xanthus looked to hold his breath, with face turning blue in anger. He finally exhaled his frustration. “She is up to no good. A trickster, she is.” A pause elapsed as he sized up Slayde’s height, black tunica and bold braid. “One hour, then. We will follow and bring a priest.”
Slayde took Llyrica by the arm and led her out of the chapel into the rain, Byrnstan at their heels, the motley lot soon after. Llyrica knew they made a strange sight, given evidence by the open-mouthed stares of bystanders. She lamented the lack of her cloak, that she was not hidden within a hood. She also thought of Broder, wondered if he was in trouble or dead. If not for him, she might yet be safely anonymous behind the loom in the Crone’s Cave, with the deathbed promise still shrouded in her reluctance.
The tight clasp of the StoneHeart’s hand and his long, jarring strides on the muddied streets of SouthWark toward London’s garrison, induced near as much anxiety in Llyrica as the unwelcome arrival of Xanthus. She soon faced not the gentle, mint-scented sleepwalker, but a furious StoneHeart. An hour with the furious StoneHeart.
Broder did not tell Haesten every detail. But he told the warlord the high points of his adventure: escape after a false accusation of murder, a journey on a merchant’s ship, and the sister who accompanied him most likely in the hands of StoneHeart. It was the first time Broder had admitted to having a sister, a confession to his new mentor.
For Broder’s first few years he believed Solvieg’s warning. If he told anyone of Llyrica, the devil would have his tongue on a spit. In time, childish fears gave way to questions that Llyrica herself had answered. ‘Tis the way I wish to live, she had said. Keep my secret, Pup, that you have a sister who hides behind a loom. In all other things be disobedient and wild. But not in this, I pray. He had assented to the fervency of her tone, and indeed, aiding in her cloaked, clandestine visits into Hedeby fit well in his larcenous sensibilities.
“StoneHeart is a dagger in my eye.” Haesten’s slurred speech roused Broder from his memories. “And before him, his father Ceolmund.” The warlord lounged in his high seat, swigged ale from a horn.
Broder sat on a nearby bench with Egil and Lunt as companions. Haesten’s two giant advisors huddled around, hanging on their leader’s every word. From Kare, the dark wiry-haired man and Lang, balding with bushy gray eyebrows, Broder soon learned an attentive ear was rewarded. His own listening skills further put him in favor with Haesten, who talked long lessons of warfare and raiding.
The hall pressed close with afternoon warmth and one hundred unwashed Vikings. Two men wrestled, surrounded by a dozen waiting their turn. Others guzzled ale, gambling over games of morels and hneftafl. The drone of male voices ignited with frequent outbreaks of temper. Cheating and losing were not tolerated well among hungry, bored men, with only themselves for company. In the crowded barracks and muddy yards it was worse. In Haesten’s hall though, diversions lay in the form of female flesh, and a few of the whores from the previous night yet writhed beneath humping bodies in corners. Others sat on laps of the gamers, including the quiet, blond lass that Broder had taken a turn with. Norna was her name. More than once his gaze drew to her, found her looking at him through lowered lashes. He must think of a subject of conversation and find opportunity to speak to her.
The old warlord’s face reddened, a vein at his temple bulged. “StoneHeart’s father and King Alfred captured my old wife, Audhild, and my two young sons at Benfleet three summers ago, and tortured them before returning them to me. Aye, the king gave me a fortune in geld to quit, and I left with my army for Buttington to regroup. But I am returned to prove StoneHeart that he is not through with me, just as I proved it to Odo of West Francia, Rodulf of St. Vaast and Arnulf of East Francia. The lands and churches of east Wessex have much to fear from me.” He rewarded his own boasting with thunderous laughter, continuing until tears ran down scarlet cheeks. Kare and Lang cast sideways glances at each other.
Broder added those victims' names to Haesten’s legendary plunderings, but sought assurances regarding Llyrica. “StoneHeart tortured your wife and children. What of my sister?”
“If she is with StoneHeart, she is gravely ill used, I vow. He is infamous for tormenting his women slaves and his demented use of a sword blade heated in the fire.”
“Say it not!” Distraught and alarmed, Broder rose to his feet. Egil and Lunt followed suit. “Do not tell me that StoneHeart would torture my sister! If she is used, the blame is mine. I ready to go to her and cut out the man’s heart!”
“Will you do it with a pitchfork used for mucking horse dung?” Lang prompted another round of laughter, soon quieted by a wave of Haesten’s hand.
More composed, but out of breath, Haesten leaned in. “You are indeed in need of a weapon, with which I will provide you. A sword perhaps, and I will put it in your hands and show you how to use it. But patience, Broder. Are you one to run off half-drawn and act without thought? Plan your moves. Do not be at the whim of impulse. ‘Twill put you at another man’s mercy.”
Llyrica had often spoken these things, but Haesten’s voice and age weighted the advice with reason. Broder took it to heart. “A sword, lord Haesten? What plans can I make against the StoneHeart?”
Haesten grimaced with a touch of infirmity as he left his seat to cross the hall. Rumblings quieted a notch as men watched in curiosity as, from a large chest, he removed a sword and returned to hand it to Broder. The beautiful thing must weigh two stone and measured the length of Norna’s slender leg. The afternoon haze shone dully on the silver blade and hilt, but gleamed bright on the ornate pommel where scrolls intertwined a raven.
“There are yet hours of daylight left. Let us all to outside for war games!” Haesten’s voice boomed to the corners and rafters. “You, Broder. Take this, the Ravenwing, and learn to use it. I will tell you how we wait for StoneHeart to come to us, for he will. Reports of his campaign have preceded him as gray clouds precede rain. He means to attack this fortress, but will be sorely thwarted. Before we put him aside though, we will demand he hand over your sister. Then you may cut out his heart.”
Broder stared awestruck at the iron weapon in his hands, took it by the hilt. He noted the envy on Egil and Lunt’s faces at the gift the warlord paid a newcomer. “I am nearly grown to a man, but the Ravenwing counts as my first true weapon. May I use it to your honor, Lord Haesten. Our enemies are one and the same.” I will run it through StoneHeart.
This looked to please Haesten. “Stay by me, boy. I am wont to tell you all I know.”
Beside his fresh hatred of StoneHeart, grateful pride and recognition of his good fortune swelled in Broder’s chest. His path had been made straight where it had only just been crooked. He dared glimpse at Norna, still in the lap of a morels player, caught her eye and shy flutter of lashes. A topic for discussion might be the Ravenwing or perhaps a comment on her flaxen hair. He would tell her how he would save his sister.
The couple’s exchange did not go unnoticed by Haesten, who roared with mad laughter until he could barely speak. “Get you skilled with the Ravenwing, Broder! And your talents with your sword with also improve!”
More timely advice well heeded.
Chapter IX
Your touch is warm; your strength runs deep. My desire is in your keep.
Now find in me the hidden cave ... the refuge your longings crave.
With an apprehensive glance over her shoulder, Llyrica slipped ahead of Slayde and quietly passed through the door. He caught the
scent of ginger in the air.
He had returned to his round house of stone, not with his new bride Athelswith, but with Llyrica, Byrnstan, and a band of flesh peddlers. They had snagged Father Ordheah, still lingering on the streets of SouthWark, as Xanthus’ choice of priests. The rain reduced to mist.
Slayde tarried outside of this house for a minute or two, asking the strange lot to stay put while he dealt with Llyrica within. The men might sit on the stone bench or stand in shin-high grass under the dismal sky, but he hoped their presence would be ignored by troops in the garrison yards. No doubt, rumors of odd activities abounded already, spread by the sentries at the gate. A litany of explanations from StoneHeart would be due this day.
His control also came to bear as Llyrica and her predicament induced a sharp pain in his chest and an unabated hunger in his loins. A lesser man would succumb to weakness and fail the following test.
He entered his house, slammed and latched his door, leaving outside a flustered Xanthus and bemused Byrnstan. Llyrica stood across the room opposite of the fire pit. She must be out of breath due to the quick donning of her linen cloak and the removal of her muddied scohs. Her hood was pulled low, her face in shadow. Labored from contained outrage and desire too long denied, Slayde’s own breath dragged heavily through his lungs. They filled with the intoxicant of ginger and almond.
His voice would be strident and deep. “Show me your proof, vixen.” With a thrust of his chin, he indicated her stack of fabrics. They yet lay next to her pallet by the fire, close to his feet. “I think it lies there hidden among your things. Perhaps a document ... a note from a priest ...or a testimony from a witness who upholds your claim. Pray I find it or I am done with you and will send you packing with Xanthus.”
His hollow threat and her lack of reply agitated him, and he bent to his knee to tear through her bundles. He untied rolls of bold silks and rich woolens, unfurled and tossed fabrics in heated frustration. Wisps of iridescent colors floated and fell in a rising frenzy. Braids unrolled in bright patterns. Crisp linens snapped in anger, joined the disarray on the marble floor. An excuse and he knew it, as the pile of variegated materials grew, to keep his distance from Llyrica, to stay the inevitable. Would that he could rip off her clothes with the same abandon that he had littered his floor with fabrics.
Slayde heard Llyrica’s sharp intake of air. “The proof is not there,” she whispered. “It is here.”
In his furor, he had not noted it before, Llyrica’s ivory and lavender silk garments in a pile on her pallet, along with her gyrdel, shuttle and tablets. The gossamer gown was missing from the bench. The trail of water droplets led from the water ewer to Llyrica across the room. He stood and turned. Control poised on the precipice of desire.
Llyrica had doused herself from neck to toe. Uncloaked, the peach linen now puddled at her feet, she pressed back against the stone wall dressed in naught but shimmering transparent white. Vertical slivers of pale skin showed where the gown did not meet at the sides. Gold braid graced the ankle length hem ... and dripped water. The fabric was soaked, molded to every curve, clung to every hill and vale. Damp on the ends, ribbons of light hair hung in a tease around her breasts.
Never had a woman been so unclothed as Llyrica in wet silk.
“I-I am the proof,” she said. Her expectant look, though laced with fear, was an undeniable invitation. An offer he would seize.
Three swift strides took Slayde to her. One breath and she was a soft cushion pressed between the stone wall and the StoneHeart. He caught her chin in an upward tilt to raise aqua eyes to his, splayed the other hand on the small of her back. Cool, wet succulence met black wool and need, an erotic contrast of textures. A warning, a presage of his readiness, he pinned Llyrica’s hips with his, the ache of his sex forced hard against her. Restraint frayed further and he bent to kiss her. Llyrica’s lips parted with a swift inhalation, drew him deeper into the soft interior of her mouth. With arms frozen to her sides, her body was unexpectedly rigid, when he had anticipated pliancy. It impelled him to jerk her closer, to kiss her into a buttery collapse. In devouring Llyrica, his pent up frustrations were released as imaginings of her in wet silk came to fruition. He needed her softness, to lose himself in lush flesh and sweetness, to use the comfort of her body to allay for a time, the trap of his life. But Ceolmund’s voice rumbled in Slayde’s head, reminding his son of the price he would pay. Take her, yea. Succumb, nay.
At last, Slayde felt Llyrica sway, her knees weaken as she sagged in his arms.
He lifted his head, encountered Llyrica wide-eyed and breathless, her mouth swollen. “What proof is this?” Slayde whispered. “That you are a talented seductress? Well, so you are.”
After two deep swallows, she answered. “I had merely thought to repeat our joining of last night, that you will remember and testify to the priests that we are one.”
“It seems I will need reminding.” Swinging her into his arms, he carried her to the pile of unfurled materials, laid her among a bed of exotic colors and myriad of fabrics. Llyrica was woven of alabaster and twilight, creamy skin and allure, her hair spun of summer sun. StoneHeart fell on her, covered her with his length and weight, kissed her fiercely, fisting handfuls of her hair. His erect member rubbed at her inner thigh, fabrics chafing, sliding, rasping. Llyrica shifted beneath him with urgent little noises, ran her gifted hands inside his tunica and gripped at strained muscles.
Hazy familiarity, a dream half remembered. “I have done this before,” Slayde said against her mouth. He took a nibble of her lower lip. “It is clear how you enticed me to come to you of a night. Even a sleeping man could not resist this.” He caressed a path down her ribs, waist and hips, wet silk slipping under his hand.
“I-I did not ask for you to-to come to me,” Llyrica whispered between gasps. “The sleepwalker began this.”
Jealousy surged through Slayde at the man he was at night, a man with the freedom to be reckless with a woman. The StoneHeart was his own rival, challenged to better the sleepwalker. “If he has had you, so will I.”
With a flicker of confusion and expectant silence, Llyrica stared at him, the pastels of her face framed by garish hues of exotic fabrics. He took her lips again in new fervency, thrust his tongue inside, determined to summon her to breathless ardor. Gone were concerns of failing tests and of men waiting outside. Forgotten were warnings of falling under the power of Llyrica’s soft influence. Slayde left that to the sleepwalker. The StoneHeart would finally have her and she would be in no doubt as to who was who.
A spirited mix of resistance and beckoning, Llyrica clutched at him, moaned her passion beneath his plundering mouth. She inhaled deeply, found air, as he moved his heated kiss across her cheek and jaw.
“I am wont to hear your voice,” she murmured.
“What would you hear?” He swirled his tongue in her ear. “That you are a soft creature, made to console even the devil?” A divine encounter, the outer swells of her breasts molded in his palms.
She quivered and sighed. “Aye ... the sleepwalker would say so ....”
“Forget the sleepwalker, vixen,” he said in a low growl. “He may use words to excite you, but I have a more direct means.”
His hot nips at her throat induced a gasp that spoke of gentle pain. “I pray thee prove it, then, StoneHeart.”
Her dare intensified his lust, made his member throb mercilessly against her supple thigh. Control need remain lest she judge the sleepwalker a better lover. The StoneHeart would not hurry his enjoyment of Llyrica’s offerings.
Rising up on an elbow to look down at her breasts, Slayde used his fingers to stretch smooth and taut, the wet silk over her nipples. He bent to take one hard pearl into his mouth. Ah, the spicy taste of flesh and silk as he sucked firmly, drinking droplets of water wrung from wet fabric. Llyrica cried wild little whimpers as she twisted beneath him, might seek escape when he would keep her trapped.
StoneHeart bordered the edge of danger, losing control as he urged her
passion ahead of his, moved down her body to further quench his thirst on the dew of Llyrica’s skin and slippery gown. At the well of her desire he stopped, drew nectar from silk and soft intimate folds.
Llyrica stroked his hair as he stroked her flesh, parted her thighs, then moved silk out of the way of his seeking lips and tongue. Exposed, soft, she would climax before he took her, prove the man by day surpassed the man of night. He had not though, anticipated the effect of Llyrica’s quiet melody, now hummed as a seductive undercurrent.
“Husband, your touch is warm.” She exhaled in a soft song. “Your strength runs deep.”
A wave of comfort rolled over him, invited him to pause and lay his head on her belly. His body throbbed, flexed with need, yet he must luxuriate a moment on this pillow, catch his breath.
Her desperate lilt continued. “My desire is in your keep.”
He must come to her now, rose to his knees and ripped apart the ties at the sides of her gown. Llyrica gasped at the hiss of rending fabric. Slayde gathered the garment, slipped it over her head and flung it, resigning it to a drape across a bench. Pale against so much color, Llyrica was left gloriously bare. Easing his way up her body, his black tunica and red braccas skimmed over the white shimmer of her skin. Reaching under his braided hem, he loosened the ties at his waist, freed himself at last. She was spread beneath him as colors swirled and passion demanded satisfaction.
With trembling urgency, Llyrica put her arms around StoneHeart’s neck. “Now find ... in me ... the hidden cave.”
He did, widened her thighs with his knee, lifted her hips, fingers on supple flesh, and fit his erection at her entrance. To touch his tip to her velvet heat brought forth the first droplets of male passion ... an anointing. Holy Christ, he was nearly undone at the threshold of Llyrica’s soft center. The world fell away.
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