Lady Of The Lake
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“East Anglia, by the color of the dust on their horses,” Venn whispered, cautious now, for sound could travel easily over the trees.
They listened to the clop of the iron shoes of the oncoming horses. Embla and her guard rode out to meet the newcomers. Her standard refused to spread out in the still, dusty air. The day’s ferocious heat battered down cloth the same way it hammered people into exhausted lethargy. Sweat prickled Tala’s scalp and ran between her breasts. She twisted her head, straining to hear the greetings the Vikings exchanged.
“By the gold offerings at the bottom of the sacred Leam!” Venn whistled. “Look at the size of that wagon train! More settlers for sure, Tala.”
Appalled, Tala counted the wagons following the crush or riders. Behind the vanguard came a clutch of beasts of burden, pulling sleds piled with chests and bundles. When they ran out of oxen and horses, thralls pulled the remaining sleds. Tala had never seen the like in her life! Not even King Alfred brought such a massive train on his annual progress to the frontier.
Next at the hilltop appeared a jewel-bright chaise draped in shimmering silks. It was borne on the shoulders of a dozen sweating thralls. Women peeked out from behind the cloths. Jewels on their heads and throats sparkled in the dazzling sun.
Embla’s party of six riders came to a halt before the kingly procession. The oncoming Vikings had cast off their cloaks to accommodate the day’s grilling heat, presenting an almost dazzling spectacle of sun-bronzed arms and sweaty, glistening chests.
Even Embla had shed the ermine-edged cloak that she sported day and night as a badge of her rank—niece marriage to the king of the Danelaw. But she hadn’t sacrificed her plumed helmet to the heat.
As the two parties met on the open road, Embla drew her sword and clanged it against her polished shield. The words of her greeting were lost in the clamor of five other swords striking bronze.
Embla dismounted, as did the foremost rider from the east. The newcomer put out his hand in greeting. Embla clasped his arm in a familiar Viking greeting, then, wonder of wonders, put her knee to the ground, removed her helm and actually bowed her golden head before the man.
“Who is he?” Venn demanded, shocked to see proud Embla Silver Throat bow down before any man. “A king, do you suppose?”
Just as astonished, Tala shook her own head. “I don’t know.” Her eyes were riveted on the tall, dark-haired man towering over Embla. Bands of gold encircled his bare upper arms. Two glittering, bejeweled brooches held a cloth mantle fastened to the leather braces bisecting his powerful chest. He was as dark as Embla was fair, and his skin gleamed as though it were made of polished golden oak. “He is no one that I recall seeing at King Guthrum’s court.”
At his side walked a man darker than precious ebony, wrapped from head to toe in bleached linen that swept the dust on Fosse Way beneath his feet.
Tala lifted her hand to her brow and pressed against it, unable to fathom what her eyes beheld. She whispered to Venn, “Could they be Romans?” Her jaw sagged further, nearly touching the stone beneath her chest, and her blood quickened as she returned her attention to the uncommonly handsome man dressed in Viking trappings. “Who is he?”
“Let’s go find out.” Venn quickly put his arrow away and shouldered his bow. He slid down from the stone and put a hand up to catch Tala as she dropped beside him.
Just as curious, Tala nodded as she refitted her girdle to hold her short mantle close to her body. “Let’s! I’ll race you to King Offa’s oak.”
Their passage out of the forest was silent and swift. Neither disturbed so much as a twig, for it was fence month— the time when does dropped their fawns. Both Tala and Venn respected all of the forest creatures and demanded their people do the same.
The short run took them to the very edge of the Leam, where a stand of silver beeches had broken the last time the river flooded, some three summers ago. The bleached trunks spanned the dry river. Only a few remaining puddles wet the caked bottom.
Tala skipped across the natural bridge and stopped at the base of a massive, ancient oak where their grandfather Offa had rested on the day of his coronation. Fed by an artesian river, the oak’s gnarled and twisted trunk supported the largest canopy to be found on a living tree beyond the Black Lake’s forest. Consequently King Offa’s oak shaded a goodly portion of Watling Street.
Nimble as a squirrel after a hoard of acorns, Tala shinnied up the tree and took her favorite position high above the road. Venn climbed up behind her. She could hear his lungs bellowing softly, the wheeze a reminder that he’d been deathly ill this winter past.
Tala spared a look at his face and found it damp with sweat. Pale blotches tempered the blush on his smooth cheeks. He settled on the limb adjacent to her and calmed himself. The sound of many horses approaching brought her attention back to the business at hand—spying on Embla Silver Throat.
A pair of greyhounds ran into the clearing, preceding the travelers. They paused beneath the great oak to sniff, jump and bark. Tala cast a quick spell that made them sit abruptly and whine in confusion, wondering where their prey had gone off to.
“As you can see, my lord Edon,” Embla boasted proudly as she rode into the shade of King Offa’s oak, “I’ve cleared the land south of Warwick to this river. The soil is agreeable here, as along the Avon. My best man, Asgart, and his thanes have applied for tenancy of the new bottomland. This time next year the valley to the south ridge will be plowed and planted. Oats and wheat and hops grow well here.”