Free Loveweaver by Tracy Ann Miller

he stalked toward his men, one hand holding his bow, the other stroking his sword’s pommel for luck.
    He would conclude this morning drill, as he did all others, by shooting three arrows into an old Viking banner tied to a hay shock, the cloth so full of holes that the raven design was nearly obliterated. Such actions reserved for men only were blessedly free from female trappings and for a short time he need neither think of Llyrica nor of the impending visit to his mother.
    But if thoughts of women did not disturb his male pursuits, then those of his father would, making him second-guess each accomplishment. Slayde took credit for his skilled army of archers, the first in Wessex, yea, perhaps the entire Isle, and he also took pride in his foresight to see the potential of bows and arrows in war. This idea, at least, had not met with Ceolmund’s disapproval. Nor had his tower with the flashing code, his arrowheads, forged with holes for signal sounds, and his other inventions of warfare. A creator and a builder were not professions of a warrior and he hid these tendencies behind practicality. During Slayde’s unorthodox construction of Ceolmund’s house, he had convinced his father that the complex timber framing meant durability not artfulness. The upper rooms showed evidence of their highborn status and were not for the frivolities of comfort or privacy. He also won Ceolmund over to the idea of polished plank walls instead of rough-hewed by telling him of the impressive background they would make for his trophies of war and the tapestries depicting a man’s violent victories. War and manhood. He had been raised to believe that any other life would mark him as a fairygirl.
    As Slayde crossed the field, Ailwin commanded the men to attention, their arrows put down and bows propped under one arm. They stayed in the formation of one great row, their shouts of StoneHeart’s name transformed to chanting, though they parted to allow their ealdorman his place at the center. His position was a two score rod distance from his target, ten more than the average at which his men practiced on the fifty hay shocks. The target had been cleared of arrows, the red and black banner pulled tight across the shock, and a yellow fabric circle the size of an egg placed where the raven’s heart would be. This mark was sufficient in size to accommodate three arrows, cleanly shot. StoneHeart had never missed a one.
    As the chanting of his name died down and his troops each lowered to one knee, Slayde focused on the yellow spot, blocking out the sounds of thralls in the gardens beyond his house and the washing of clothes in the river below. Not dogs barking, warm breezes ruffling his men’s tunicas, or a bird calling overhead swayed him from his fixed goal. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to the string, drew back and took aim.
    Llyrica’s cheek, soft as dove’s wing, flashed in his mind the instant he released his fingers from the nock. The arrow zinged, then hit the outer edge of the raven’s heart. In unison, his men gave a shout of approval. Slayde kept his face placid, took a deep breath, and none would know his momentary lapse. He increased his determination, set up another shot and pulled.
    As he fired, Llyrica’s flaxen hair, ginger-scented, swept across his chest in a daydream. A loud crack ensued. His arrow had inexplicably snapped in two. A rumbling of disbelief clamored through his men as his second silently stepped forward to pick up the two halves of the shaft where they lay at the ealdorman’s feet. Ailwin receded back to his kneel on the ground.
    Slayde set his jaw, removed another arrow from his quiver and inspected it for defects and finding none. Aye, the weak place lay within his heart and good to see it now as a test, one that with unequaled concentration, he could win. In a perfect stance and deliberate form, just as his father had taught him at age three, Slayde nocked his arrow, stretched the string,