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jut of her chin, Eadgyth pointed to Llyrica’s thinly covered breasts. “They all got an eyeful when they pulled you from the water.”
    Silent, Llyrica puzzled the meaning of the thrall’s words. She had never needed to consider other’s reactions to her unclothed body. “My state of undress disconcerted them, then. But I have promised Father Byrnstan my reform in exchange for his protection, so will cover myself accordingly.” The peach linen lay crumpled beneath her and she readied to wrap herself in it.
    “A good start.” Eadgyth winked, then indicated two garments folded beside the pallet ...a linen cemes and Llyrica’s own lavender cyrtel and accessories. “Put these on, ‘twil help. I will wash the silk you have got on and have it to you by morning.”
    Though in need of a proper bath, the rinse in the sea would do for now, and Llyrica quickly exchanged her gown for the replacement. She found comfort cloaking herself with the linen. Her bone weaver’s tablets and shuttle clacked with familiarity from her shoulder brooch as she massaged into her hands a few drops of almond oil from the vial.
    “Suppertime approaches.” Eadgyth took Llyrica’s silk as she groaned to a stand. “The bread is done. The master will be in soon and all the women need to clear out before he and his captains come. If you are to stay in this house tonight, you will be the first woman to do so. Much less a Viking dame! Even when his father, Ceolmund, lived in the house it was the rule, a rule which has never been broken. Women weaken a man and his house, he said. And his son, Slayde of Kent thinks the same.”
    “It is a singular theory I have never before imagined. And I cannot fathom that this large house is home to only he and Byrnstan.”
    “Aye, but sometimes also StoneHeart’s half brother, little Elfric. Rest now while I help the others prepare. The night after a victory against the Danes always fills the house with hungry men.”
    Eadgyth trotted off. Whispering, thralls flicked glances at the curiosity in peach linen, giggled as they prepared for the diners’ arrival. Llyrica hid herself under the fabric, pulled it over her head to watch as they tended the great central fire, stirred caldrons, roasted meat and turned the bread baking on hot stones. Some swept rubbish from the oak-planked floor, replaced the old rushes with new. Wall sconces were lit to accommodate the onset of eventide as one group rounded up benches from the perimeter of the hall. The thralls placed them around the table already laden with platters of food and pitchers of ale, and which stood in view of the walls of horror.
    The far end of the hall held the loom and its accompaniments. Wool in various stages lay about, raw fleeces in large soft piles ready for carding and spinning, and dyed yarn wrapped on arm-long shuttles. Odd and ends of yarns and fibers colored the floor, and so too were stacked piece goods ready for sewing. She also spied her own bundles of wovengoods in the corner, beside two large storage chests.
    The loom itself was an immense, vertical device leaning against the wall, warp-weighted with large stones, and wide enough to weave a banner, as her grandmother had done as the legendary Songweaver. Women passed the shuttle from one side to the other, weaving sailcloth for the StoneHeart’s fleet, known to Llyrica by the black foxhead on a red background.
    She now recalled the braid on Slayde’s and his captains’ tunicas. Astonishing to find it was braid woven by her own hand ! Indeed she knew it well, had sung the song of victory into the design. Her braids were sold in every corner of the world, but she had not considered finding them on the Isle. The fact that StoneHeart wore them carried implications she would need to ponder. For now though, the familiar presence of a loom and the sight of wool saddened her, reminding her of Mother and Solvieg. She was far from home in this foreign land, on her way to fulfilling a deathbed