Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He walked past her, smiling into her face, while she stood there and stared at him like an idiot. She had no idea why she should look at the man so, or why the bluebells in his hand had jolted her, but she came to a halt as he walked by and he, too, slowed his pace as he turned to look at her.

  There was a glimmer of something in his blue eyes just as there was a glimmer of something in hers. Something deep, of longing, of ages past…

  … a memory?

  “There are bluebells on that tomb over there,” Annie said, pointing to the boxy tomb several feet away. “Where did you find those growing around here?”

  The man let his tour group go on without him. He turned and took a few steps back in Annie’s direction. “I didn’t find them around here,” he said in a heavy Scandinavian accent. “I brought them with me.”

  Annie was being pulled towards the man by forces she couldn’t explain. She couldn’t even stop to think that she was being pulled towards him as her legs began to move in his direction. Suddenly, he was walking at her and she was walking at him. There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to it, simply two people being pulled together.

  But our love it was stronger by far….

  “Oh,” Annie said, drawn to the man’s features, a face that she thought she might have seen once although she couldn’t remember where. In a dream, perhaps? “I… I was thinking that if you’d found them around here, I might pick some and put them on that tomb because the woman inside must have liked them if she had them carved on her tomb, so… wow, sorry, I’m just rambling on. Go enjoy your tour. And nice flowers.”

  Embarrassed, and bewildered by her reaction to the man, she started to turn away but he stopped her.

  “It’s so odd that you would say that,” he said, closing the distance between them as she stopped and turned around. “Actually, that’s exactly where I was going to put these flowers. On that tomb.”

  Annie’s eyes widened. “Really?” she asked. “Why?”

  He shrugged, unable to take his eyes off her. “Because I was here last fall with my father and I heard the story of Annabel Lee and her lover,” he said. Then he laughed. “You know that they really push that poem around here.”

  Annie laughed softly in return. “I know.”

  The man continued to grin at her for a moment longer, mesmerized by her smile, before continuing. “I don’t know… maybe you’ll think I’m weird, but I felt really compelled to come back here and put flowers on her tomb,” he said. “Bluebells, like the ones in the stone. Maybe that tomb has the same effect on other people, being as the legend behind it is so sad.”

  Annie could only nod her head. God, had she heard that voice before? It sounded so familiar to her, a sweet baritone from deep within the recesses of her memory. He sounded so incredibly familiar to her but she couldn’t pinpoint how, or why, she knew him. Of course, it was impossible that she did. Maybe she was just imagining things.

  “It is very sad,” she said. “But very romantic. I’m Annie, by the way. Ann Leigh.”

  The young man laughed. “Like the poem!”

  She blinked, cocking her head with thought. “Hey,” she said when she realized he was right. “It is like the poem. I never even thought about that. In fact, I’d never heard that poem until today.”

  He smiled at her, warmth glittering in the pale blue eyes. “It is a beautiful poem,” he said. “So appropriate for this legend.”

  “Very true.”

  The horn from the bus blared again and Annie knew she had to go, but gazing into the man’s eyes, she clearly didn’t want to. She wanted to stay and talk to him, to listen to that beautiful, rich tone. She’d never been more sorry to leave anything, or anyone, in her life.

  “That’s for me,” she said, throwing a thumb in the direction of the bus. “I have to go. It was really sweet of you to bring those flowers for the maiden. Wherever she is, I’m sure she appreciates it.”

  She started to back up, walking to the bus, but the man followed. “Maybe,” he said. “I’m just doing it because it felt like it needed to be done. But now that I look at you… I’d rather you have them. You’ll appreciate them more than an old tomb.”

  He was extending the flowers to her and she came to a halt, hesitantly reaching out to take them. “Are you sure?” she said. “You waited months to bring them back here.”

  He smiled as she took them, holding them to her nose. “They belong to you,” he said quietly, sincerely. “My name is Ron. Ron Brosskaar. It’s very nice to meet you, Annie.”

  Annie smiled broadly. “It’s very nice to meet you, too,” she said. “A fellow human who is influenced by an old legend and a crumbling tomb.”

  Ron laughed. “It’s pretty strange, that’s for sure,” he said. Then, he sobered, his gaze boring into her. “I don’t mean to be forward, but are you here alone? If so, I… I would really love to talk to you again. Maybe over dinner?”

  Are you here alone? She might as well have been. The connection with her boyfriend was gone. She was coming to realize that, made worse by the domineering parents. Any guy who would let his parents take over like that wasn’t the guy for her. Although she had been considering flying home, alone, now she wasn’t so sure. She certainly wasn’t someone to be disloyal to anyone, and she didn’t bed-hop from one lover to another, but her attraction to the Scandinavian guy was so strong that she couldn’t resist it. It was taking her over completely. The man had known her all of two minutes and, already, he’d given her flowers.

  Bluebells…

  Perhaps it was a sign.

  She was willing to go on a little blind faith no matter how foolish it seemed.

  “I’m here on a tour,” she said, a semi-truth. “I’m staying at the Sir William Fox hotel in South Shields.”

  His smile grew. “I’m not far from you,” he said. “I’m staying at the Best Western. There’s a bar down the street called the Magpie’s Nest. If you’d like to meet for drinks before you go, I’d love it.”

  Annie didn’t even hesitate. Nothing was going to keep her from meeting Ron for drinks, for dinner, or anything else. Clutching the bluebells to her chest, nothing in her life had ever felt so right. To hell with the ex-boyfriend and his demanding parents; Annie could see something in Ron’s eyes that she’d never seen anywhere else, something warm and inviting and attractive. Throwing caution to the wind, she simply nodded.

  “Tonight?” she said.

  “Tonight.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Swear it.”

  Odd how she felt as if she’d heard those words before, too, somewhere down in the depths of a murky dream she’d had once. The sense of déjà vu she’d been experiencing was only growing stronger.

  “I do,” she laughed. “At ten?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The bus honked one last time, long and loud, and Annie grinned at Ron one last time before she took off running.

  Ron stood there and watched her get onto the bus and continued watching until the bus pulled out of the car park and headed up the road. Only when it was out of sight did he turn away, moving back down the path towards the cluster of tombs and the ancient settlement. He was lost in thought, overwhelmed with meeting a woman he swore he had met before, but much the way Annie had felt about him, he had no idea where he could have met her. She was clearly American; he was clearly not. Nay, it wasn’t possible that they had met before.

  He was simply glad he’d met her now.

  The tomb with the bluebells was off to his left and he paused on the footpath, seeing the faded bluebells carved in the stone. He’d meant to leave the bluebells on the tomb but he didn’t feel badly at all in giving them to Annie.

  Ann Leigh.

  Something told him that he’d given them to the person they’d been intended for all along.

  ~ THE END ~

  Annabel Lee

  By Edgar Allan Poe

  It was many and many a year ago,

  In a kingdom by the sea,
>
  That a maiden there lived whom you may know

  By the name of Annabel Lee;

  And this maiden she lived with no other thought

  Than to love and be loved by me.

  I was a child and she was a child,

  In this kingdom by the sea;

  But we loved with a love that was more than love –

  I and my Annabel Lee –

  With a love that the winged seraphs in Heaven

  Coveted her and me.

  And this was the reason that, long ago,

  In this kingdom by the sea,

  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

  My beautiful Annabel Lee;

  So that her highborn kinsman came

  And bore her away from me,

  To shut her up in a sepulcher,

  In this kingdom by the sea.

  The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

  Went envying her and me –

  Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know,

  In this kingdom by the sea)

  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

  Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

  But our love it was stronger by far than the love

  Of those who were older than we –

  Of many far wiser than we –

  And neither the angels in Heaven above,

  Nor the demons down under the sea,

  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: –

  For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

  And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: –

  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

  Of my darling – my darling – my life and my bride,

  In her sepulchre there by the sea –

  In her tomb by the sounding sea.

  Banished

  By

  Anna Markland

  Copyright © Anna Markland 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  “Put two ships in the open sea, without wind or tide, and at last they will come together.

  Place two enemies in the midst of a crowd and they will inevitably meet.

  It is a fatality, a question of time. That is all.”

  ~Jules Verne

  For my grandfather, James Syddall.

  Night of Feasting

  Oxenaforda, England, January, 1017 AD

  Narrowing her eyes against the thick wood smoke in King Canute’s langhus, Audra feigned interest in the chatter of the other women gathered around the hearth. They ignored her and Gertruda. Women in gambesons tended to make such courtiers nervous. They were foreign creatures, fawning on Queen Elfgifu with their fluttering eyelashes and simpering manners.

  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a well-muscled warrior stroll in with an older man, likely his father judging by the resemblance. The nagging certainty that both were familiar prompted her to risk a second glance.

  Otherwise she wouldn’t have been interested. Men were all muscle and no brain. The boisterous, bragging throng amid which she sat was living proof of their priorities: drinking, wenching, plundering and killing, usually in that order. On this night of feasting in celebration of Canute’s coronation many also manoeuvred for positions of influence in the new regime.

  Before the night was over, disagreements would probably result in the death of some unfortunate. It was the Viking way.

  Her father loomed out of nowhere, tankard of mead in hand, and spat at the hard-packed dirt floor. “Haraldsen,” he muttered, cocking his head in the direction of the new arrivals before loping off into the crowd.

  Memory washed over her. Of course. Alvar Haraldsen and his son, the boy she’d grown up with in Jomsborg a lifetime ago, and thought never to meet again. She’d had a family then. As little children do, she and Sigmar had pledged to each other, sworn to marry. But that was before the blood feud had erupted between their families.

  “You know him,” Gertruda said.

  Audra looked into her perceptive comrade’s eyes. “You see too much,” she replied with a half smile.

  Gertruda shrugged. “It’s the reason I’m still alive. He’s the one you told me about.”

  Audra stared into the glowing embers of the hearth fire, remembering the day the horror of the feud was unleashed. Sigmar had just pecked a kiss on her cheek and shyly presented a handful of bluebells picked from the meadow. They shared a birthday, his twelfth, her tenth, and he knew they were her favorite.

  The hollow stems withered in her crushing grip as she watched his angry father drag him away. Minutes later she learned of the murder of her brother and was ordered never to play with her friend again. Within a fortnight all their older brothers had been killed, and both mothers were dead from grief. It was more than a child’s heart could bear.

  But these were memories she didn’t want to share, even with Gertruda, the one woman who knew more about her than anyone. She swallowed the lump constricting her throat. “The strict code of the Jomsviking brotherhood condemned strife between its members,” she explained, though her comrade was already aware of the story. “We were cast out when Fingal and Alvar refused to reconcile. Fader and I fled east to the Steppes of Kievan Rus. I never saw Sigmar again—until today.”

  “He’s tall,” Gertruda observed with a sly smile, “even for a Viking, and whoever fashioned his war braids knows a thing or two about how to do it.”

  Gertruda was right. Many men in the gathering sported war braids but none were as tightly braided nor as decoratively beaded as Sigmar’s. An unexpected pang of jealousy pierced her heart. He must a have a doting wife.

  Audra fiddled with the fraying edge of her sleeve. “The scrawny boy has grown. No wonder I didn’t recognize him immediately.”

  He was almost as tall and broad as the newly-crowned king who held court at the far end of the langhus. Both men were fair of hair and complexion, but Canute’s nose was thin and hooked, whereas Sigmar’s features were pleasing.

  He smiled readily as he exchanged greetings with acquaintances. She’d missed that crooked smile. “Perhaps he’s been in England all these years,” she mused aloud.

  “Maybe,” Gertruda replied, “though people from every part of the North Sea Empire are gathered to witness the English grovel before their new Danish king.”

  Unexpectedly, Sigmar glanced in Audra’s direction. She turned her back quickly, sweat trickling down her spine. Hearth fires had been lit in the recently constructed langhus to ward off winter’s chill. “Seems to me the builders haven’t provided adequate air for this overcrowded space,” she grumbled.

  Gertruda grinned. “I’m sure that’s the reason you’re overheated.”

  Audra pushed away the elbow her comrade dug in her ribs and studied the chattering courtiers again. She doubted any of them had ever cut a man’s throat. Not that Audra killed for p
leasure. It was a question of survival. Her family’s sons were all dead. Her father had eventually convinced Vladimir the Great of the merits of an elite shield-maiden guard. She’d had no choice but to live up to his vision of her future.

  She prayed Sigmar hadn’t recognized her, and that if he had he would keep away. It wouldn’t take much to rekindle the flames of the old feud in her father’s heart. She didn’t want to be the one to kill her childhood friend.

  Childhood Memories

  Sigmar Alvarsen kept telling himself the woman with the golden hair sitting by one of the hearths couldn’t be Audra Fingalsdatter, a fondly-remembered childhood friend he’d always hoped to meet again.

  He should stay away. If he uttered a single word to her his embittered father would pounce on them.

  He itched to see her face, but she’d turned her back. The brief glimpse he’d managed to get on entering the smoky Mead Hall showed a pleasing figure, though she and her companion were dressed in military tunics more suited to men. He’d never forgotten the spunky tomboy with the blonde ringlets. Come to think of it, he had no recollection of his playmate ever wearing a gown, at least not willingly.

  The deaths of his brothers had left scars on his soul that could never be erased, and he suspected most in Jomsborg still talked of the feud that brought his childhood to an abrupt end.

  Too many lives lost—on both sides.

  He clenched his jaw. He’d resolved long ago not to revisit the past. It was the best way to avoid the pain.

  He sauntered from group to group, slowing working his way through the crowd in the long hall, sipping his mead, hoping for a better view. He paid little attention to the meaningless conversations, nodding when he deemed it expected.

  Despite his determination not to look back, his mind filled with memories of carefree adventures in Jomsborg. Audra and Sigmar, children born to mothers past their child-bearing years, both with parents and siblings too old to be bothered. They shared a make-believe world of fun and mischief. He’d never forget the day they climbed one of the stone towers that guarded the harbor, determined to reach the catapult mounted on top. One slip and they’d have fallen to their deaths, as their parents repeatedly reminded them once they were safely back on firm ground.