Loveweaver (31 page)

The smile faded from the priest’s face, a sign that he, too, was well acquainted with Llyrica’s history of slipping away. “It was dark crossing the yard with you in tow. But I remember nothing beyond this. I drank as much ale as any of the king’s men.”

Slayde rubbed his brow at the sight of headache. “She is surely with her brother. Come. We will find her there or question the scamp as we hang him from his heels.”

Byrnstan’s frown did not dispute Slayde’s doubt. “Indeed, son. Where else would she be?”

As Llyrica had said, the tunica she had sewn for him had come to fit his body like a second skin. The black of the fabric had remained deep as midnight, the colors of the braid, clear and bold. He wore the garment now, as always, and felt the subtle, yet powerful effects of Llyrica’s song. The name Songweaver fit her indeed, but more so, the name
Loveweaver.

His tunica clung to him now, soaked and cold, as Slayde stood at the bank of the River Lea, watching it rage in the rain. Ailwin waited close by, wisely silent. Within the last hour Llyrica’s whereabouts remained a question, but other facts had come to light. Broder and his band were gone, as were Haesten’s body and one of StoneHeart’s smaller ships. The conclusion drawn seemed very likely. Especially after Slayde learned of Broder’s denied request for Haesten’s burial at sea.

Weak from his wound and from worry over his wife’s safety, Slayde bent to one knee. When his lightheadedness passed, Slayde stood and nodded to Ailwin.

“I have informed King Alfred that it must be my priority to go after Llyrica and her brother. You will take my place in accompanying the Vikings to the north. All other tasks have been reassigned as needed, since I will take a twelve man crew with me.”

“As you command, ealdorman.” Ailwin waited to be dismissed. Slayde motioned with a jerk of his head, releasing Ailwin from his emotionless stance. The blond, sinewy man spun on his heel to continue his duties.

Slayde watched him climb the rain-sodden bank to the forts and called after him. “You should have been named the StoneHeart, not I.”

The officer did not turn, but raised his hand, the only indication that he had heard.

The crew of the OnyxFox had loaded the last of the supplies and settled in to their places at the oars. Slayde took another look up the hill, knowing he would not return to the Fortress he helped to build.

“They have signaled for you, son. Your ship is supplied and ready.” Byrnstan laid a hand on Slayde’s shoulder. “Let us go find her once and for all.”

Slayde fell in step with the priest along the bank, aware that the Byrnstan stayed close, a support for a wounded warrior. “Aye, once and for all.”

But he did not go on and confess how deeply ill he felt. Humorous irony, Ailwin was better suited to this task of tracking down Slayde’s Viking wife, her unstable brother, a warlord’s corpse, and a stolen ship.

He summoned StoneHeart to overcome this broken body. But what of his failure to protect Llyrica from her brother or her own impulsive actions?

She had troubles more than he, but Slayde was not a man she could turn too. This confusion of thoughts coupled with his infirmity bade him curl up on a pile of furs back in the hut. Yet he now stepped over the strake of the OnyxFox, his thumb rubbing the pommel of his sword. The ship rocked beneath him, a welcome sensation were it not for the queasiness in his belly.

“To the oars!” He commanded and heard Byrnstan pronounce a prayer for smooth sailing. God must have answered as the OnyxFox slipped easily into the swift current. The ship surged with great speed, powered by the skill of StoneHeart’s crew. “Say a prayer also, Priest,” called out Slayde above the rush of the river and rain. “Pray that we be delivered to Llyrica ere bad fortune reaches her first!”

Black clouds accompanied StoneHeart’s swift course to London. Word of his journey arrived before he did in that late afternoon, drew great crowds along the banks. The sight of his OnyxFox brought cheers and salutations, and boisterous voices sang the praises of his fort built on the River Lea, that Haesten was no longer a threat, and the remaining Vikings had been dislodged. What Danes remained might now live quietly at peace in a Saxon land.

Many inquiries as to the health of StoneHeart’s wife, the Songweaver, were shouted from the docks. Unwelcome news, this meant she had not been seen. Slayde waved silently to the well-wishers, hoping that he was in the wake of her passing, which by his reckoning, must have happened before daylight.

He looked to Byrnstan and his small crew who worked steadily at the oars, readied to join their efforts. “Ere evening falls, we must hear or see some sign of her.” 
Or I know as certainly as I live, that I will never set eyes on her again.
“We will make contact with Deorlof at Benfleet. Perhaps something has been seen from the lookout.”

Byrnstan’s nodded with what looked like a forced smile. “You left StoneHeart’s Gate in good hands. Not much gets past Leofric’s view from the tower.”

In two hours, the timber fortress was in sight high above the shore. Apparently having spotted StoneHeart from the high tower, a ship rowed swiftly out to meet the OnyxFox. Deorlof himself captained the vessel, closed in fast, then pulled up along side StoneHeart’s vessel. He stood, sweat beading on his closely shorn fair head, evidence that he had done his share of rowing.

Deorlof raised his hand in a hail. “Well met, StoneHeart! Your campaign was a success!” But now a crease of anxiety marked his brow. “I have a report of note, though, and sent a dispatch to you this morning. We were … ”

Slayde took a deep breath. “As you see, I am not there to receive it. What do you report?”

Deorlof jerked his head to indicate the shore. “Rumors up and down the merchants’ ports speak of seeing the Songweaver … I mean your wife, passing in a dark vessel early yesterday morning. She traveled with her brother and several others.”

StoneHeart waited for more, turned his palms up in a request for Deorlof to continue.

“She, with the vessel, then rowed on out of site.” Deorlof blinked, seemed to make an effort to maintain eye contact with StoneHeart. “Then, this morning we gave chase to an old adversary of yours, Xanthus and his rebuilt ship, the BoarsJaw.”

StoneHeart stood straighter, felt his ship rock beneath his feet. “He was to never cross these waters again! You chased him to where?”

“As he passed, his ship was already in full sail, but we followed until he was well out to sea. And we watched his ship sail out of sight.”

Slayde turned to Byrnstan who stood listening. “If the ports are abuzz with sightings of Llyrica, and that news reached Benfleet, then chances are Xanthus has heard of her, too.”  He squinted toward the ocean horizon of aqua, violet and gold.  “Pray, now, old man, to our God and to Odin, as well.”

“Llyrica, awaken. ‘Tis first light.” Broder squeezed her arm until she blinked her eyes open. She could scarcely make out his face in the dark.

“Or it will be in an hour,” she said in a ragged voice, rubbing the back of her neck. It was stiff from sitting all the day and night before, then sleeping propped against the strake of the ship in the damp air.

Others still slept. She straightened and looked up the narrow channel of the cove that led back to the estuary. Black, gray, and silver shadows rose up the sides of the cliffs and rippled in the water.

A shift in the dark, a glimmer low in the sky whispered the arrival of dawn. “Aye, best do this now,” she said. “Awaken the others.” Llyrica shook the shoulder of the boy curled up at her feet as Broder crawled between bodies, giving each a nudge. He kissed his Norna awake.

After a silent breakfast of dried fruit, each took a place at the oars and began winding their way back to the sea. To be moving again gave Llyrica a sense of relief. This mission would soon be complete, and perhaps help mend the breech between her and Broder. Pray this had not caused a new and irreparable breech between her and Slayde.

The ocean beckoned, its violet horizon dotted with the black silhouettes of ships.  But no vessel was nearby, and Llyrica, her crew and corpse would go unnoticed at this hour. They rowed out from the estuary toward open water. A moderate tide would prove ideal to carry the funeral out to sea.

She turned to her brother, who looked out past her to a distance vision that only he saw. With her hand on his, she gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Father will be at peace within the hour. Help me with the final preparations.”

Lorna lit the torch, holding it aloft. With the others watching, Llyrica and Broder laid an oil soaked cloth over Haesten’s body. Inwardly, Llyrica said a prayer to her Christian God, but then readied to summon the words befitting the pagan funeral at sea for a Viking warlord.  

“Help us now,” Llyrica bade the others. “We must lift Haesten over the strake and lower him into the water.” Three of the crew counter-balanced the ship while Llyrica, Broder, Egil and Lunt accomplished putting Haesten in the water. One prayer was answered when it seemed the planks would keep the body afloat. She pushed it off from the ship as Lorna handed the torch to Broder. With a look grave, yet calm, Broder tossed the torch upon Haesten’ body as it floated away from the ship. The current rocked the ship as they sat watching a fire soon flare up, yellow and orange against the black blue of the pre-dawn sea. 

Tears of confusion burned in Llyrica’s throat. Strange grief this, to mourn the man from whom she had hidden her whole life.

She coughed, took a breath and sent a command to Haesten. “From the flames arise and meet the valkyries as they welcome you to Valhalla. There you will dwell as an honored warrior among your father and father’s father.” Lowly then, she sang a simple song of mother’s, remembered from early childhood. It spoke of warm garments woven at the loom, of hearty meals and the loving embrace of homecoming.

Broder wept, holding his sword, the Ravenwing, above his head. “I will join you my lord Haesten, my father, come the day you call me.”