Llyrica unwrapped the goods in her bundle, displayed the scores of delicate braids across the table. Intriguing patterns danced to life in subtle, enchanting color combinations. White, peach, yellow. Robin’s egg, lavender, new green. Violet, ruby, indigo. Athelswith and Byrnstan stood in unison, stared in awe.
“They are meant for toddlers’ and babies’ clothing,” Llyrica said. “Each length sufficient for the hem and sleeves of a tunica. As you sell them, represent them for what they are, Athelswith. They are endowed with the songs and prayers of a mother’s heart, will bless the wearer with health and God’s safety. But they come with no guarantee other than workmanship and beauty.”
Athelswith chose a diamond-patterned braid of ivory, pink and gold, studied it. “I have never seen a tighter, finer weave. Not a warp or weft thread is out of place. I have a market for these and can sell as many as you can weave. We will settle on a fair price.” She met Llyrica’s eyes, a first time acknowledgement.
Llyrica reciprocated with a smile. “Let us be as partners, then. I will create these as I am wont to do, as I have done since I was four years old. You will pay me well and spread the name of the Songweaver.”
A raised eyebrow broke Athelswith’s placid composure. “Why that name? Because you heard me make mention of it at StoneHeart’s lodge?”
“In part, aye. Because you know of the woman’s legend and can judge for yourself if what I will tell you is true. Because fate has brought you and me together, which will increase your trade and will help fulfill a promise I made to my mother.” Llyrica thought of her years behind the loom, a deprivation unrealized. She took a deep breath, embarked on a new course. “My grandmother was the woman who wove the Raven banner and was known as the Songweaver. My mother claimed this name, too. But she hid from the world, taking the name with her. But, now it is the name I claim for my own. The time is nigh for me to come out of hiding.
Chapter X
Two colors lace and intertwine; The pattern forms unbroken.
Two colors dance, a scrolling vine; This is my vow unspoken.
“By the bloody entrails of Thor, they were mine and I was meant to have them!”
Haesten galloped his horse across the yards and through the door of his hall, bellowing obscenities. His troops did not follow, wisely dismounted and watched from outside so as not to be trodden under their warlord’s tirade. From his short distance, Broder saw glimpses of tables and benches being overturned, casks of ale spilled, goods on shelves clattering down from the walls. The horse heaved and grunted, kicking up clods of packed earth floor and garbage strewn rushes as its master raced the beast around the hall.
Beneath the noontide sun, Broder listened to Haesten’s rampage, scanned the faces of the fifty minus six, who had also participated in the failed raid. This was the third in a sennight, fruitless efforts all. Hundreds of other warriors in the stronghold now left their naps, games and chores to find out the cause of the commotion. A great crowd gathered around the warlord’s hall and reports traveled from man to man about the day’s event.
Strange, though, that Haesten’s words seemed directed toward a different prize not found.
In Broder’s one hand, he still held the Ravenwing, in the other, a dead chicken. He suddenly realized that Norna had come to stand beside him, asked him what had happened. In a brief diversion, he thought of her, fate’s unexpected gift. She shunned the pallets of all but his, was a wordless pleasure at night. Lingering quietly by day to watch him in his sword drill in the yard or as he sat at Haesten’s side in the hall, Norna was yet a mystery to Broder. Shy, blue eyed, and slender as a sapling, she rendered him nearly mute.
Broder bade his tongue work. “We crossed the river, Haesten with a score of horsed men, the rest of us on foot, and we moved into the Saxon village. Lord Haesten said we would go take fresh meat and whatever else we could lay our hands on. The villagers again came out in full force, armed with spears, rakes and rocks. We took what we could grab before they beat us back. They killed six of us. We brought back very little.”
Norna looked at him with bashful eyes. “Has it made Haesten go mad?”
“Indeed not!” Broder’s fervent defense of his champion made Norna jump. He took a breath, slipped the Ravenwing in its sheath at his back and continued more calmly. “He is unaccustomed to defeat, needs to cool. See there, he is dismounted and coming out.”
The semi-circle of onlookers widened as the panicked horse was caught, and led away. Red faced, wild-eyed, Haesten now ranted, waving his arms at the crowd. “All to arms! The time for idle waiting is past! I have found them and I will go after them! Prepare to move out!”
His two advisors rushed in and tried to reason with Haesten’s violent behavior. “Hlaford, they are ready for us in great number,” said Lang. “We vote to stay within the fortress as was your previous rule!”
“Aye,” said Kare. “Once the Saxons are busy at harvest, then we go in. Run them over, take what we need. Wait another fortnight.”
“Mutinous tongues! Your heads are as empty of brains as your stomachs are of food!” Haesten screamed, stepping nose to nose with his advisors.
“Norna, wait here.” Broder tossed the chicken - his paltry plundered loot - to the ground. Instinct, unknown to him before this moment, made him tuck Norna behind him protectively. He felt an inkling of what it meant to be a man, and regretted the day at the harbor. Like a coward, he had let Llyrica shield him from Xanthus.
Another newfound tendency came to the fore: unwavering loyalty to the first man who had ever paid him positive notice. None other had shown him how to swing a sword, told him he had potential, or listened as if he had important thoughts.
Broder entered the huddle of gathered advisors. The warlord loomed large, bristling with scalding, unnatural fury. He turned his unflinching, glazed eyes on Broder.
Broder sucked a breath. “Lord Haesten, I will go if you ask me to go. So will we all. Send us, then! But I am thinking of your call for patience, that we might not fall under the mercy of another. Let the Saxons come to us, as you have wisely said. They will be no match for us when we burst upon them in our full number. You have the advantage and StoneHeart will be run over!”
I must have my chance to see what has become of Llyrica. I will destroy StoneHeart if he has laid one finger on her.
Haesten finally blinked, his shoulders and chest deflated subtly. He looked to sober up during the long silence that descended on the crowd. “In your youthful voice, Broder, my words spoken back at me make sense.”
“When StoneHeart falls, we will demand payment in the form of grain and gold,” said Lang, “in exchange that we not raid the countryside. For enough more, we might find it worth while to move on to shires less protected.”
“The men grow tired of the scarcity of provisions,” added Kare.
Broder opened his mouth to counter this talk of retreat, but a wheezing sigh from Haesten drew his attention. The warlord’s body withered, where it had just been formidable, and his face grayed where it had just been crimson. He stared at Broder with a look that betrayed his age. Rubbing his right cheek as if it had gone numb, he seemed to slip into despondency. “It has been done a thousand times. We will do it again. Come with me into the hall, Broder, where I will announce before all that you are my new second in command. Then get drunk with me.”
A current of murmurs rippled through the gathering of stunned warriors, and Broder saw Kare and Lang exchange the same dubious looks he had often seen. He stepped closer to Haesten to take his side, and with expanded chest and narrowed eyes, dared any man to question the warlord’s wisdom.
“I am at your service, lord Haesten, and those of your advisors and army. Command me and it will be done.”
Slayde’s head pounded, his eye twitched mercilessly. Praise God this particular duty as king’s ealdorman had come to a close. For a five-day stay in London town, he had presided over the shire-court with thegn Eadwulf and the archbishop Wilfrid. They had heard and j
udged no less than one and forty cases, most over land ownership and petty squabbles about personal property. Each disputant brought innumerable witnesses to testify to his or her claim, filling the great hall of London to standing capacity.
This last assembly concluded with a clamorous appeal to StoneHeart to crush the Viking threat. From the raised platform he stood over the men and women, readied to address them. Fresh air ruffled his tunica and hair, a lure from the door to quit the crowd, to finally draw a deep breath outside.
“Put your fears to rest.” StoneHeart sent his words to the far corners of the hall. “You can see at the garrison how well your Viking tax is spent. Each one of you knows a brother, father, uncle or cousin training there now under my command. By the change of seasons, Haesten will be removed. In this, thegn Eadwulf and I give you my word. I follow the warlord’s trail where Ceolmund left off.”
Applause rewarded his announcement and the mention of his father’s name.
“My men at Benfleet continue to patrol the coast. They are ever wary of intruders, vigilant in their pursuit. On land, the King Alfred’s fyrds protect the harvests.”
“StoneHeart!” shouted a man in the back row. “What have you to say about the business between your former betrothed and your Dane wife?”
It was a startling change of subject. Momentarily dumbfounded, Slayde managed to keep his mask of impassivity in place. A smattering of laughter rippled around the hall and up his spine. He cleared his throat and raised his voice.
“If I have sufficiently quieted your worries about the Vikings ...”
“Your wife is a Viking,” the man persisted. “Tell us about her.”
The crowd leaned in, pressed Slayde to a test. “She and Athelswith have professions which suit each other. One is the artisan, the other, her agent.”
A woman pushed to the front. “Is she the Songweaver of old Viking legend? Is it true her braids are woven spells? Where might I buy them?”
The woman beside her joined in. “Is the red, white, violet and black braid of your tunica the source of your strength and protection?”
Slayde looked over the woman’s head to the escape at the door. “When I purchased the original of it two years ago ...”
Another shout from the left: “What of love spells, StoneHeart? Some say she can weave two souls together.”
From the right: “She sings love songs into the designs which can melt the most hardened heart!”
My God, they have guessed the truth, that I was won with a lovespell. Slayde lifted his hand to slow the rising excitement of the crowd. “Take heed. This is how myths begin, one tale told atop another until truth fades. I would not put all of my hopes in a woven trim, if I were you. I look to God for strength, and yea, to this braid for a measure of luck. But it is a level head and the sword that win the fight.”
The crowd quieted somewhat at this, but grumbled as if dissatisfied. Slayde took the interlude to give Eadwulf a nod, descended the platform, and then the two pushed their way out onto the steamy streets of London. Half-heard, whispered comments about love and StoneHeart followed him, irked him, left him feeling exposed. He tightened up the reins on his outward appearance, that none would see the muddle within.
He and Eadwulf arrived at the garrison after a swift trek through town. The guards at the gate were the first to welcome them, and would swiftly spread the word of their return. StoneHeart and the thegn made straight for the hall for a stout quaff of ale. Too warm a day for inside, they ordered thralls to serve them where they sat on benches, leaned back against the outer wall.
Eadwulf emptied a cup forthwith, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are as silent as a stone, StoneHeart. Pray the ale will loosen your tongue. What have you to say about the braids that are the rage in London? Sales looked brisk at more than one vendor’s stall. Braids woven by your wife, the Songweaver is it? They say she and Athelswith have made a sizeable bit of coin in just a short time.”
Slayde lifted one shoulder in a pretence of disinterest. “Not you, too, comrade, with talk of braids. Llyrica is free to pursue her female occupations. As for Athelswith, she has always had a talent for making fortunes.”
“Indeed.” Eadwulf laughed, but wisely did not remind Slayde that Athelswith received a handsome settlement from her broken engagement. “And how will you squash these rumors of love spells bandied about in the hall and on the streets?”
Slayde wet his dry palate with a gulp of ale, then formed a casual response. “Gossip is and will continue to be a favorite pastime. To comment on this would only encourage such news to spread.”
“It may in any case. I heard a man on Market Street tell another that StoneHeart has finally met his match, a woman to soften his heart.” Eadwulf elbowed Slayde in jest, must not know the fear he had invoked, memories of Ceolmund’s relentless goading.
Slayde hid behind a steady voice. “What care I for idle talk? Let my actions speak for themselves.”
Yea, so long as he could control his reactions to thoughts of Llyrica. In his mind, soft fingertips strummed the warp of her tablet loom, songs echoed, and the scent of ginger floated along her supple skin. Nay, he must bludgeon his need for her into a trifling notion. Midday was no time for mental battles. He saved that for sleepless nights.
Praise Ailwin for his approach across the yard to make his account, a blessed diversion from the subject of love spells. Slayde turned his attention to his second. “What news?”
Blond, no nonsense, Ailwin looked fit, his lean arms a defined proof that he used his longbow often and well. He embraced this life of fighting Vikings. “King Alfred and his army are said to patrol the Pilgrim’s Way near Amesbury. All is quiet in Wessex to the west. Ealdorman Oswald of Mercia has thwarted several outbreaks along the River Severn, chased errant Viking bands back to Bridgnorth. As for here, StoneHeart, we are twelve hundred men strong. Men double up on pallets in the barracks, some sleep in tents. The training goes well. Morale is high.”
Slayde touched a finger to his eyelid, hoped the ale that burned his stomach would ease the tick - and sweet Jesus, another thought of her. He did not look up to the window of his house. “I left the garrison in good hands, Ailwin.” Another long draught of ale drained his cup. “You have given me the good news first. Now the ill.”
Ailwin’s snarl showed plain his contempt for Danes. “Haesten moved out of his stronghold thrice in this last week. Only just has he and fifty of his thieves raided Clayham in Hertfordshire. But they were turned back.” Slayde stood, ire arising as Ailwin continued. “In this latest, six of their cur lay dead and the others took off with only a few chickens and a bag of oats.”
“Holy Christ. It begins. The man does this because he starves or taunts me. Either reason is enough to move the day of our campaign closer. The fyrd is changed, the burhs are secured and the reserves are nearly all arrived and outfitted. My co-captains are returned. Food stores are abundant. Naught is left to be done but sail up the Lea and do this thing.”
Damn. StoneHeart flicked a glance up, felt his heart leap at a perceived glimpse of Llyrica. A quick recovery was in order, ere Eadwulf or Ailwin suspect StoneHeart gave his Viking wife a second thought.
A moon since I have seen her, touched her. An eternity.
“Not another week then do we wait, but move in three days. Make it known throughout the garrison that we start loading the ships tomorrow, that each man collect his gear, say goodbye to his family. Prepare to attack Fortress Lea.”
The moon raced through thin clouds, tilted his bright face down upon the deserted garrison yards and the ploughland beyond. Dogs barked their chorus from houses near to farms seen far from Llyrica’s window. In the stone house, she sat at the sill, the luxury of a single candle lighting the interior of the loft. It spilled down to where Eadgyth and Wynflaed snored on pallets below. Scented of summer earth, the chill night air rose the fine hairs on Llyrica’s bare arms as she peered out, too troubled to sleep, her shoulders fatigued from weaving.
I have nearly done it, Mother. My talents at the loom have brought me a measure of recognition as the Songweaver. Soon I will confront father.
But tales that Eadgyth told of Haesten blunted Llyrica’s self-assurance. If only half were true, her father would still be considered no less than ruthless, a deceitful murderer of hundreds. For thirty years he plundered the riches of others from Luna to Amiens, duped and betrayed kings and clerics and broke agreements, turning around to ravage the same lands he had just been paid to leave in peace. He finally left east Francia with thousands of his followers to try his hand at conquering the Isle. From the moment his foot touched the Kentish shore, Slayde’s father chased the Danish warlord from one bloody raid to the next. Where Ceolmund left off, the son took over. My husband.
A terrifying task this, for Llyrica to confront her father, a conscienceless man, an infamous wife-beating looter. Her mind stormed with too many black thoughts. Over the years she had come to blame him for Mother’s lingering death and now felt heartsick with shame at reports of his exploits. Her stomach knotted when she dared guess his reaction when he faced the daughter denied him, or wish that he might feel sadness or regret that he had not known her.
Hark, a footfall in the soft earth below the stone window. Two figures, lit by the moon, one following the other: Byrnstan following the sleepwalker toward Slayde’s round house. Sweet forgetfulness approached. At last, he came.
Her heart in her throat, Llyrica flew down the ladder, the fine silk of her cemes fluttering about her legs. Four weeks of weaving songs and selling braids had not diminished her longing for the sleepwalker’s tenderness. Nor had StoneHeart’s blatant indifference to his wife doused this lovely, relentless ache of desire. The song she wove into Slayde’s braid had wound its spell around her as well.
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