Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The idyllic days disappeared like a puff of smoke on his twelfth birthday. Some argument about a sheep, of all things. Cast out soon after, he fled with his father who eventually joined Canute’s huscarls. Sigmar’s promising prowess as a warrior earned him a place in the ranks of the elite force at the age of fifteen.

  Audra sat with other women clustered around Elfgifu. Her face was still hidden but somehow he knew it was her, and he’d wager from the set of her rigid shoulders she wasn’t part of the conversation. Her male attire definitely set her apart. It shouldn’t surprise him. She’d always been a rebel, scorning other girls as playmates.

  Then an icy hand gripped his innards. It wasn’t unusual for Viking women to fight alongside men, but he hoped she wasn’t part of the fabled dødspatrulje from Kievan Rus rumored to have travelled with the delegation from the east. In his opinion, killing was the business of men. Women were for pleasure, for softness, for love.

  He snapped back to reality; she had turned and caught him staring. There was naught for it but to acknowledge the well-loved urchin of his boyhood who stared back.

  Reunion

  Audra wasn’t sure why she turned away from the hearth and the chattering women. Not that there was much point in currying Elfgifu’s favor. Having secured the throne of England, it was likely Canute would seek to form alliances by wedding a woman of royal blood. It was widely rumored his hand-fasted wife would be set aside for the defeated King Ethelred’s widow, who had reportedly fled with her children to the protection of her father, the Duke of Normandy.

  Still, it would have been wiser for Audra to keep staring into the smoky hearth. Now the damage was done. She knew instinctively Sigmar had recognised her.

  His unexpected smile sent tiny winged creatures fluttering in her belly and banished any thought of rebuffing him. However, conversing in open view wasn’t a good idea. She nodded in the direction of the doorway. The moonless night would provide a dark corner. Naught amiss with sharing reminiscences of happier days with a childhood friend.

  She looked back at the circle of women, relieved no one had noted her gesture, save the still-smiling Gertruda. Kneading her thighs, she waited a few minutes, then rose, affected a yawn, and sauntered towards the entry.

  It was a relief her father was nowhere to be seen, though mayhap she’d have preferred to know where he was. The strident voice of Sigmar’s father boomed from the other end of the langhus; he was seemingly preoccupied holding forth to the king and his entourage.

  She stepped out into the darkness, rubbing her arms against the chill. Praxia scrambled to her feet, but she motioned her thrall to remain where she was. Huddled with other slaves, the girl would be warm in the winter air.

  Walking slowly, keeping close to the wall, she blinked to clear her itchy eyes. The noises from inside were muffled here. She paused after a hundred paces, listening, one hand on the hilt of her dagger.

  The certainty that Sigmar was close at hand warmed her nape. But where was he?

  “I’m behind you, min lille en.”

  She whirled, dagger drawn, dismayed by the failure of her usually sharp warrior instincts. Sentimentality had dulled her senses. Such a slip might cost her life in future. “I didn’t see you,” she whispered lamely, his deep voice uttering her long forgotten nickname still echoing in her bones. She hadn’t been anyone’s little one for many a year.

  He eyed the dagger. “That’s why I warned you of my presence. If I’d touched you—”

  No man had ever dared touch her, yet she was filled with a strange regret Sigmar hadn’t, though he’d likely be a dead man if he had. That notion was disturbing. She didn’t want his blood on her hands. They’d already shared too much grief.

  Feeling awkward, she sheathed the dagger.

  He ventured closer. “It’s good to see you,” he said huskily.

  Audra was tall for a woman, but Sigmar towered over her. “You’ve grown,” she murmured, craning her neck to look up at him, confused by the insistent throb of a pulse in her throat.

  He raked his gaze over her. “So have you.”

  Perhaps the clandestine nature of their meeting was the cause of her nervousness, though she’d been in more dangerous situations. Her life and the lives of her comrades depended on keeping her wits, yet now she was seized by a peculiar urge to throw her arms around him, fondle his war braids and blurt out her joy at seeing him again.

  He was too close, the smell of leather and man too overwhelming, but her back was against the wall. Her heart raced when he sifted his fingers through her hair. “How well I remember these ringlets,” he rumbled.

  She couldn’t help it. She’d shared more of herself with this man than with any other living being before their lives were torn part. “Sigmar,” she murmured, allowing him to gather her closer.

  He pulled her face to his chest, his hand gently massaging her nape. “Audra,” he whispered, his chin atop her head.

  For the first time in her life she felt a woman’s need to be held fast in a man’s strong arms. A sob emerged. It was a cry for childhood lost, for the regrets of the past, and for the future pain she’d allowed into her lonely heart.

  *

  Sigmar was prepared for the nostalgia and regret that swept over him when Audra’s strangled sob echoed in his heart. The urge to protect her, to spend his life making up for the tragedies of the past, took him completely by surprise. The raging desire to run his hands over the firm breasts pressed against him and cup her to his rock-hard arousal was alarming. He was not and never would be a man ruled by his emotions. The feud and five bloody years in Canute’s service had seen to that.

  Still, no harm in combing his fingers through the silky tresses. “Climbed any towers lately?” he asked in an effort to take his mind off the blood pulsing in his tarse.

  “All the time,” she quipped, throwing back her head as she laughed nervously. Her laughter warmed his heart, but arching her back caused her hips to brush against his arousal. He couldn’t see her face clearly but sensed the smile died. She shrank away, flattening her body against the wall.

  He reluctantly took a step backwards. She must think him a typical warrior, his shaft twitching to plunge into the nearest female sheath. Truth was few women held his interest for long. Somehow none had ever come close to carving out a place in his heart like Audra had. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “too long without a woman.”

  He fisted his hands at his sides, frustrated he’d succeeded in making matters worse. Touching her had addled his wits. “You’re dressed like a warrior,” he said, for want of something to say.

  “I am a warrior,” she replied, avoiding his gaze. “My father had no sons left. Vladimir welcomed Viking women into his service.”

  His suspicion had been correct. “You fled to Kievan Rus.”

  “My father found a lucrative place for us there,” she replied.

  “As mercenaries,” he retorted too quickly.

  She looked up sharply. “And what of you, Sigmar? Do you not sell your service to the highest bidder?”

  He bristled. Arguing with her wasn’t what he’d intended. “My father and I serve as huscarls to King Canute,” he said proudly.

  She stared at him, then made a move to leave. He grasped her arm, surprised at the firmness of her muscles. “Don’t run from me, Audra. Your friendship was the one good thing I remember from our days in Jomsborg.”

  “We can never be friends again, Sigmar,” she replied hoarsely. “My father is here seeking to join Canute’s huscarls.”

  His heart fell. His father would do everything in his power to prevent that happening. “But the king has let it be known he will select only three thousand men from those most prominent in origin or wealth.”

  “My father has already embellished his weapons with gold and silver,” she replied sadly. “The spoils to be had in Kievan Rus were beyond imagining.”

  Dread skittered up his spine. He felt obliged to warn her of his father’s standing. Alvar had served the k
ing faithfully. “Canute assumed he would inherit the English crown from King Swein. We fled with him to Denmark when the Witan Council unexpectedly recalled Ethelred from exile in Normandy.”

  Her wide eyes shone in the darkness, distracting him momentarily. Trying to recall what color they were, he inhaled deeply then carried on. “We helped recruit a ten thousand man invasion army, commanded troops, and captained two of the hundreds of ships that sailed from Denmark to regain Canute’s English throne.”

  She was breathing more rapidly, evidently bothered by what he was telling her, but he had to make sure she understood the difficulties that lay ahead. “We played an important role in the defeat of Ethelred’s son, Edmund Ironside in the Forest of Dean. The victory brought about an agreement to share the kingdom until Edmund’s death. North of the Tamesis for Canute, south of the river for Wessex.”

  He didn’t reveal that only he and a handful of others knew the true circumstances of Ironside’s mysterious demise only weeks after the truce.

  Even as he told her of his father’s prowess and service, he wondered if loyalty and sacrifice would count for as much as gilded weapons.

  He tensed on hearing the unmistakable sound of his father’s voice somewhere nearby. They should part now and forever. “I must see you again, Audra,” he whispered urgently, tightening his grip on her arm.

  She slipped away into the darkness, leaving him unsure if she’d replied or not.

  Duty

  Audra’s head was stuffed with the feathers of a hundred seagulls. As she made her hasty way back to the entry, her lungs didn’t seem to be working. An opportunity for a few moments of reminiscing with an old friend had quickly turned into something else entirely.

  Sigmar was no longer the boy she remembered, that was for certain. There’d been no mistaking the hard maleness she’d inadvertently brushed against. After her initial surprise, she hadn’t been shocked. He wasn’t the first man to desire her, but the overwhelming need to press her body to his had swamped her like a longboat caught in the storm tide.

  Such forbidden desires had to be crushed. Her duty now was to inform her father of the likelihood of Haraldsen’s opposition to his bid to enter the ranks of Canute’s huscarls.

  Fingal Andreassen had two black marks against him, age and his banishment from Jomsborg. An influential voice opposed to his joining the elite guard might be the final straw, notwithstanding his wealth. If her father was rejected, it would be difficult to find another position, and she’d have no choice but to return to Kievan Rus and a life she’d come to despise.

  Banishment from Jomsborg evidently hadn’t prevented Sigmar’s father from joining the huscarls, but that was before Canute could afford to be selective.

  Preoccupied with these thoughts as she hurried to find her sire, she failed to see Alvar in the shadows near the lintel post.

  “Well, well,” he sneered, grasping her arm. “Audra Fingalsdatter.”

  Praxia hurried to her side, but Audra waved her away. She admired the Baltic girl’s loyalty but what could a wisp of a child wrapped in a thin blanket do against a burly warrior? She was angry she had again allowed wayward thoughts to distract her. Death stalked the inattentive. She yanked her arm from his grip, but he barred her way.

  “I would pass into the langhus,” she said softly, having learned men were never sure how to react to the quietly menacing voice of a female. She locked eyes with him so there might be no mistaking her resolve. Viking men didn’t expect defiant women.

  “Cheeky as ever,” he chuckled, making a mock bow.

  Relief surged up her spine. Armed combat with him was something she’d rather avoid.

  “Is your murderous father here in England as well?” he taunted as she walked past.

  If Audra were a man, such an insult could not go unanswered. Hand on the hilt of her dagger, she hesitated, itching to challenge him. Her father hadn’t killed his sons. That brutal act of revenge had been the handiwork of her brothers, who’d paid with their own lives. She opened her mouth, but quickly shut it when Sigmar loomed out of the darkness.

  “Leave her be,” he rasped.

  Haraldsen scowled at his son. “Strange you’d both be out here at the same time,” he grunted.

  Having no wish to be the cause of an argument between father and son, she hurried away to find her own father, relieved Sigmar had appeared, but unreasonably irritated he apparently felt the need to protect her.

  *

  “A tryst with a murderer’s daughter?” Alvar asked derisively.

  Sigmar hadn’t expected his father to let the matter drop. He braced his legs, thumbs tucked into his belt. “You know Audra wasn’t responsible for what happened, any more than I was.”

  “She’s Fingal’s spawn.”

  Sigmar shook his head, saddened that family loyalty bound him to divulge what Audra had confided. “Andreassen intends to seek entry into the ranks.”

  “Never,” his father spat. “I suspected that’s the reason he’s here.”

  “He’s wealthy. Apparently he has weapons embellished with gold and silver.”

  His father snorted. “You shared a lot in your brief tryst.”

  Sigmar bristled. “It wasn’t a tryst. Just two old friends exchanging greetings.”

  His father suddenly leaned towards him, but Sigmar knew his sire well and grasped the old man’s wrist, thwarting the attempt to grab him by the balls.

  “Ha!” his father scoffed. “As I thought. The wench has you hard as a rock. Nothing like a woman in leggings to make a man’s tarse sit up and beg.”

  It perplexed Sigmar that his mother had been seemingly unaware of her husband’s crass nature. He’d never doubted his father instigated the deadly feud by drawing first blood.

  He decided to give him something to chew on. “She’s a member of the Kievan Rus company of assassins.”

  Even in the darkness he sensed his father’s hesitation. The company’s reputation was legendary. The notion of elite female assassins trained to strike silently and without warning was enough to send chills up any man’s spine.

  “The dødspatrulje?” he rasped.

  Sigmar walked away whistling, satisfied he’d given his father reason enough to leave Audra alone. But he worried what would become of his childhood friend if her father didn’t join the royal army. Would she return to Kievan Rus? Perhaps that was her intention no matter what happened. The prospect left him strangely bereft.

  I Have Friends

  After some searching, Audra finally located her father in a dimly lit corner of the still crowded langhus, carousing with some of his crew from Kievan Rus. Well into his cups, he beckoned. She knew these men, and avoided them. However, she had to impart what she’d learned. Canute was to announce his choices on the morrow.

  “Time to seek your bed, Fader,” she cajoled, pulling him to his feet in an effort to get him away from the others. They objected loudly to her interference and she was surprised when he agreed.

  “Ja,” he mumbled, holding on to her for support.

  On the long, unsteady walk to his tent, she rehearsed how to tell him about Sigmar’s father without revealing she’d met with her childhood friend. Praxia trailed behind, but did not enter the tent.

  Her father’s waiting thrall took over and helped his master to the bed furs. She turned her back as Seslav began the task of disrobing him while he made shushing noises, chortling like a child privy to a secret. After several hiccuped attempts to speak, he took a deep breath and said, “Haraldsen thinks to keep me out of the huscarls.”

  The knot in her belly loosened. She risked a sideways glance, relieved Seslav had succeeded in wrestling him into his nightshirt. “How do you know this?”

  He tapped the side of his nose. “I have friends,” he whispered, grinning from ear to ear.

  Since they had spent years in Kievan Rus she wondered who these knowledgeable friends at Canute’s court might be.

  Her father belched. “Had a long talk with Torkild.�
�

  The specter of Torkild den Høje still haunted Audra’s nightmares from time to time. As head of the Jomsborg brotherhood, it was he who had pronounced the sentence of banishment. The seagull feathers were back. “Torkild? Here?”

  “Ja. It was his defection to Canute with forty ships that turned the tide of the war against Ironside.”

  She snorted. “And Canute forgave his previous treachery of siding with Ethelred?”

  He wagged a finger. “Apparently a childhood mentor can be forgiven anything. Anyway, he has assured me he will use his influence to speak on my behalf.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He confided to me he’s aware of who began the feud. He knows we were not to blame. Mention of my gilded weapons seemed to impress him.”

  Confused emotions swirled in Audra’s heart. If they weren’t to blame, why had they been punished? But acceptance into Canute’s elite force would be a relief and a fitting way for Fingal to end his career with dignity. “I suppose it will entail the gift of an embellished sword,” she said.

  “Unlikely,” he replied with a yawn, crawling onto his furs. “With the thousands of troy pounds of silver Torkild has extorted in geld he probably has an armory full of gilded weapons.”

  She knelt beside him and pecked a kiss on his forehead. “Good night. Sleep well.”

  He folded his hands atop his chest. For a brief moment he looked alarmingly like a corpse laid out for burial, but then he smiled. “I’ll dream sweet dreams, knowing I’ll be a huscarl and Haraldsen will be sent packing.”