Free Loveweaver by Tracy Ann Miller Page A

raised the bow, and sighted down the shaft to the bright target. But in the moment he let the arrow fly, Llyrica’s lips, soft and dewy as a rose petal, brushed against his mouth in a remembrance, and a jolt shot through his torso straight to his groin.
    His arrow whizzed high over its target, lifted aloft on a breeze and sailed with no signs of slowing. The troops all stood, straining to see it nearly disappear from sight, and it might have traveled further had it not hit the thatched roof of Slayde’s house and stuck deep. Praise God it had not descended and impaled any of the thralls who now gathered around to see what had made the whoosh and thump. Nor did it hit any of his men’s family members, or Slayde’s little brother, who dwelt in the guardian’s home next to his own.
    The sound of men shifting uneasily from one foot to the other proclaimed Slayde’s failure. One of his arrows nearly missed the raven’s heart, the second broke in two and the third was a hazardous runaway. He cursed this blow to his perfect record, silently wondering if his troops blamed the little fox in his house as surely as he did. A woman had penetrated the stone heart of ealdorman Slayde, rendering him incompetent as a man’s man.
    “Bloody well done, ealdorman!” shouted Ailwin. “Might you show us this new technique! ‘Twas it wind direction played a part or new feathering?”
    Slayde detected a patronizing tone in Ailwin’s question, whether intended or not, then heard it passed from man to man. They gathered around so as not to miss StoneHeart’s reply.
    He made light of the matter, used it in his favor. “I have plans for new fletching, indeed, and the development for a high flyer. We will need every device in our fight against Haesten.”
    Christ. The name of Llyrica’s lover reminded him of her again. He turned his provocation on his army, called out to reach the farthest man. “Those who come with me, make ready to go. We are away in an hour. Ailwin, see to it. All others, the lookouts and coast patrol await their replacements.” Stringing his longbow through his arm, Slayde spun on his heel and made for his house.
    The vixen had done damage enough and would not spend another night under the same roof with him, be it of his own house, or any other. He would pack up the money purse and bundles of exotic wovengoods and bid Byrnstan to drop her off across the border. Any advantage she might gain him with her tie to Haesten would not be worth a coin if the StoneHeart’s reputation was ruined, then found his leadership undermined with snickering doubt. No one, for God’s sake, would take him seriously if he could not shoot off a decent arrow. Aye, he would be rid of her by noontide. But first he needed to conduct one last test.
     
    “Did you hear the arrow hit the roof? My brother shot it from down on the field.”
    Elfric stood in the doorway, the sun shining behind his fair head. Llyrica knew he jabbered as an excuse to watch her work the yarn into a braid. “Only a mother’s boy would weave,” he said, finally coming to the point. “Or sew or cook or clean or wash clothes.”
    Llyrica looked up from her tablet weaving. “I have never seen a man weave, but he would if he had to.” She paused to massage a drop of oil into her hands before she returned to her task. “And if a man was alone and hungry, should he eat his meat raw? Or if his clothes are rent and dirty, should he go about as a tattered peasant? Nay, Elfric, a man can do anything he chooses.”
    The boy pondered this as he watched her at her craft. “Only a mother’s boy would make patterns in color as you do now.”
    “I wonder if it was a man or woman who wove your father’s tapestries hung there on the wall. It does not seem the work of a woman. So perhaps a father’s boy could also weave. But only if he can ride, hunt, shoot a bow and arrow and swing from yon ladder.” Llyrica turned her attention back to her design and the spell she wove