Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He was snoring loudly before she got to her feet, her heart in knots. She nodded to Seslav curled up in the corner, confident he would take care of her father if needs arose. She didn’t care what happened to the hated Alvar Haraldsen, but admitted reluctantly his son was a different matter. She hastened away to the tent she shared with her comrades, Praxia in tow.

  *

  “Don’t worry,” Sigmar’s father assured him, his arms around his favorite thrall as they bedded down for the night. “I have influential friends.”

  Sigmar rarely brought any of his slaves on expeditions such as this, but his father always insisted Sophia accompany them. He’d taken her captive in Pomerania shortly after the flight from Jomsborg, and she’d warmed his bed ever since. Her only usefulness as far as Sigmar was concerned was her unsurpassed skill at plaiting the side braids he favored, though he’d prefer she didn’t secure them with the glass beads she insisted on.

  Despite the winter chill, Sigmar’s brow was fevered, his heart filled with a dread he couldn’t name. “Friends such as?”

  “Torkild, for one.”

  Sigmar snorted. “You mean the man who sent us into exile?”

  His father levered up on his elbows. “He had no choice, but he knows I wasn’t at fault for the feud. He’ll support a fellow Jomsviking.”

  “Andreassen is from Jomsborg too,” Sigmar retorted, aware it would be pointless to argue about the feud. Alvar Haraldsen always conveniently overlooked the fit of rage that resulted in the first blow that had decapitated Audra’s youngest brother. But hatred for Torkild den Høje stuck in Sigmar’s craw. “He’s changed sides so often, I doubt he can be trusted. Geld is his mistress. Gold is what impresses him.”

  His father huffed. “We are not poor either,” he said. “And you should be careful what you say.”

  Suddenly feeling the chill, Sigmar gathered the furs over his nakedness, wondering where Audra’s tent lay amid the hundreds pitched at Oxenaforda and if she was warm enough. He laughed inwardly at his fancies. The woman was a trained killer who could no doubt take care of herself, but the prospect of cuddling with such a female ’neath the furs was enticing.

  He tried to drive the notion from his mind but some perfume he couldn’t name lingered on his fingertips. His body reacted predictably. It was going to be a long night.

  Omens

  Two members of Audra’s company kept watch outside the tent, but the remaining five had yet to return to camp. She bade the sentries good night, removed her padded gambeson, shirt and leggings, shucked off her boots and sought her bed after tucking the trusty dagger under the furs. It was good to be free of the clothing designed to minimize her female attributes. It had felt irritatingly confining when Sigmar gathered her into his embrace.

  She was confident the seven women who’d accompanied her would lay down their lives in her defence. She’d hand-picked them. All had agreed to come in the hope of a future in England, away from the divisive bloodbath for power in Kievan Rus between the late King Vladimir’s sons. If Canute rejected her father, there wasn’t much chance for the company, unless…

  The persistent thought refused to leave her troubled brain. Unless they found husbands. But few men wanted a trained killer for a wife.

  Meeting Sigmar had been a surprise, but she admitted inwardly she’d always hoped to run into him again. What a fine husband he would make. However, the expertly braided hair suggested he already had a wife. That notion had her pounding her fist into the suddenly uncomfortable furs when her five comrades returned.

  Gertruda eyed her with amusement. “Still too hot?” her Second teased.

  Audra sat up, gathering the furs around her, making sure to cover the single bluebell inked into her skin close to her heart. “No. Just feeling unsettled and nervous.”

  The women undressed quickly and all were soon wrapped in their furs.

  “Anything to do with being embraced by the blonde giant?” Gertruda whispered.

  Audra fumed that she’d been unaware Gertruda had followed her to the meeting. Despite the chill, she felt the flush rise in her face. Good thing the torches blazing outside the tent gave little light to the inside. Mayhap it was an omen that her days as a warrior were numbered. She should be grateful her Second had been watching out for her. “He’s simply an old friend,” she replied.

  “Is he the one from Jomsborg?”

  She might have known the perceptive Gertruda would sense her turmoil. She was the only member of the company who knew of Audra’s banishment. “Ja,” she said hoarsely, hoping her comrade would leave it at that. She sensed the other women’s curious eyes on her and had no intention of discussing her feelings with them when she didn’t understand them herself.

  Sigmar had unsettled her. Perhaps she wanted to see him again simply to recall happier days. There would be an opportunity on the morrow when Canute announced his choices.

  “Get some sleep,” she said with authority. “Important day ahead of us.” She nodded to the two assigned to the next watch. “An hour.”

  “Ja, Kaptajn,” they replied.

  As they settled into their furs, she prayed to Odin and to Vladimir’s Christian God that her father would be among the chosen.

  *

  Sigmar bolted upright, hoping he hadn’t cried out when Audra killed his father. He swallowed hard, shivering as gooseflesh crept over the sweat sheening his body.

  Alvar’s loud snoring calmed his racing heart and if Sophia had wakened she gave no sign of it.

  He gathered a fur around his shoulders. Resting his head in his hands he tried to recall the vivid dream.

  He and Audra were climbing the tower at Jomsborg, but this time they succeeded in reaching the mighty catapult. Their glee turned to dismay when they caught sight of his father lurking in wait for them, sword drawn. He chased Audra, ignoring Sigmar’s protests, eventually cornering her by a support beam. When his father raised his weapon to strike, Sigmar changed from a boy to a man and rushed forward to tackle him. The blade clattered to the stone.

  Audra, still a child, picked it up, struggling to hold the heavy sword in two hands. Alvar shoved his son aside and lunged for Audra, but impaled himself on his own weapon. Frowning, he looked down at the hilt protruding from his chest, pointed an accusing finger at his son, then tumbled from the tower into the dark waters of the harbor like a snow goose brought down by the hunter’s arrow.

  Sigmar went over every detail again and again, dread filling his heart. Was it an omen? Would he or Audra be responsible for his father’s death?

  The Chosen

  Chewing the last mouthful of smoked ham with which he’d broken his fast, Canute dwarfed the massive wooden chair on which he sat with legs wide part. He took several gulps from a tankard of ale, tossed the vessel to Felim, his favorite thrall, gripped the ornately carved arms of his improvised throne and belched.

  Fingal Andreassen bent the knee and raised the priceless gilded sword in both hands, offering it to the king. “Majesty, accept this small token of my appreciation for honoring me as one of your huscarls. I will defend you and your throne until I draw my last breath.”

  Standing behind her father in the now mostly deserted langhus, Audra was probably the only person to hear his breath catch in his throat. She was proud and relieved Canute had honored him.

  Felim took the weapon and brought it to the king who nodded his approval, though he didn’t touch it. “A pleasing gift,” he muttered, as if Fingal had given him a puppy. The fat thrall propped the sword against the side of the chair.

  She shifted her weight nervously. Her father had promised to speak on her behalf if he were selected, but she sensed his irritation that a slave had touched his magnificent gift. Now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to commit her company to Canute’s service. Or perhaps the problem was she’d lost her enthusiasm for the nasty business of assassination.

  “My daughter,” Fingal began.

  Canute raised his gaze to her. “Kaptajn of the dødspatrul
je,” he said softly, giving no hint of his opinion of female assassins.

  Head held high, she bent the knee as a true Viking would, resolved not to curtsey. “I am she, Majesty.”

  She grew uncomfortable under Canute’s intense stare. Was he ogling her? She sucked in a gasp when his hand wandered to the top of his thigh. The new king wasn’t an unattractive man, but the thought of his hands on her…

  “We will consider it,” he suddenly declared, turning to speak to one of his attendants.

  It was evident the interview was over. They were ushered out to join the crowd of men still anxiously waiting to be summoned. The nervous silence was eerie after the noisy celebration of the previous evening.

  Her jubilant father gave her a rare hug, making no effort to hide his elation from those still unsure of their fate.

  The aide peered into the crowd. “Sigmar Alvarsen,” he shouted, sending her heart careening against her ribs.

  She stepped aside as a stern-faced Sigmar and his grinning father made their way to the front. Daylight revealed her childhood friend to be even bigger and broader than she’d thought. Her heart did a strange leap inside her ribcage when their eyes met. His were as blue as she remembered.

  The huscarl put a hand on the older man’s chest. “Only Sigmar is summoned,” he said gruffly.

  Shoulders rigid, Sigmar didn’t look back at his spluttering father as he entered the langhus to receive Canute’s judgement. She hoped for good things for him.

  She sought to pull her father away from the crowd, but as she might have expected he couldn’t resist taunting his enemy. “I’ve been selected, Haraldsen, whereas you stand here, seemingly on the outside.”

  Sigmar’s father growled, spat into the dirt and stomped away.

  *

  Full of misgivings, Sigmar bent the knee before the throne. It didn’t bode well that his father had been excluded. But if they were to be cast out, why had he been summoned?

  To his surprise, Canute held out his big hand. As was expected, Sigmar rose, went forward and bestowed a kiss on the king’s ring. When he raised his head, Canute was staring at him.

  “I am grateful to you, Sigmar Alvarsen for the part you played in securing this kingdom,” the king said in a low voice. “Torkild always says you can trust a Jomsviking.”

  It was ironic the king was touting the words of Torkild, a man who’d previously betrayed him to Ethelred. What’s more Sigmar had been exiled from Jomsborg for nigh on ten years. However, until this moment he had never been completely sure if Canute knew who’d been sent to dispatch Ironside. “My men and I were honored to be of service, Majesty,” he rasped, stepping back to his place below the dais.

  “Which is why you are being promoted,” Canute declared with a strange half smile. “Kaptajn of a new company,” he shouted, bringing his fist down on the carved arm of his ornate chair. “You’ll form it.”

  Sigmar bowed his head in acknowledgement. To form and command his own company! “You do me and my father great honor, Sire.”

  Canute frowned. “A worthy soldier, your father. I owe him a lot, and will see him rewarded. But he’s too old now for what lies ahead.”

  The knot in Sigmar’s belly tightened. His father was only a year or two older than Fingal Haraldsen who’d never given so much as a day’s service.

  And what exactly did lie ahead? Would Canute challenge his older brother for the throne of Denmark? Time would tell, but Sigmar’s immediate duty was to advocate for his father without jeopardizing his own position. “Sire,” he began.

  Canute held up a hand. “Your first responsibility as Kaptajn will be to inform Alvar Haraldsen of my decision.”

  Sigmar stared at the king in disbelief. Years of risking his life for the man who now occupied the throne hadn’t earned his father even a private word of thanks or a personal explanation. When Canute picked up a gilded sword leaning against his chair and stroked the blade as a man would stroke a woman, the urge to fall on the Dane and slit his throat was overwhelming.

  It came to him the huscarl was waiting to escort him from the langhus. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he turned on his heel and left the king to his gilded mistress.

  Dismissal would kill his father, and Sigmar was tasked with delivering the fatal blow.

  Fight to the Death

  Sigmar found his angry father pacing back and forth in the center of their wedge tent, the only place where he could stand upright. Sophia cowered in a corner. Alvar stopped when he entered and glared at him. “Sent you as his errand boy, has he?”

  Not for the first time, Sigmar wondered if his father had ever loved him, but this wasn’t a moment for sentimentality and recriminations. Better to get it over with. “I’m promoted,” he said calmly. “You’re thanked but not re-enlisted.”

  Alvar had enjoyed a long and lucrative career as a mercenary. He should perhaps be more interested now in the advancement of his son, but he reacted as Sigmar expected.

  “Kicked out, you mean,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I am rejected in favor of Andreassen.”

  Sigmar clenched his jaw. “There is no point tying this setback to the feud.”

  Alvar glared. “Setback?” he growled, resuming his pacing. “It’s an insult that has everything to do with the feud. Fingal came here expressly to wreak his vengeance on me.”

  The notion that revenge had prompted Audra and her father to travel thousands of perilous miles was ludicrous. “They didn’t know we were in England,” he rasped, worried Alvar had lost his wits.

  “His daughter lied to you. Do you not see that? They knew,” his father insisted, brandishing a fist in the air, his voice shaking with rage. “I will confront him.”

  This was dangerous territory. “Challenging Canute’s decision would be considered treason.”

  Alvar seethed, pacing ever faster, back and forth.

  Sigmar’s control was wearing thin. “Your actions would taint me,” he murmured sadly, aware that would mean little to Alvar the Wronged. He hadn’t asked about the promotion, and would never consider that the honor bestowed on the son reflected on the father.

  Without warning, Alvar gave the three legged camp stool a hefty kick that sent it flying. It struck Sophia before she had a chance to protect her face. She cried out as blood spurted from her nose. It was the first complaint of any sort Sigmar had ever heard her make, though his volatile father wasn’t an easy or patient man to live with. Alvar’s angry departure snuffed out any faint hopes of rekindling a friendship with Audra.

  *

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor of her father’s large Kievan style marquee, Audra sipped the cup of mead he’d given her. Some of her comrades and several well-wishers had joined in the celebration. Fingal was in high spirits, the honeyed beverage flowing freely. A flustered Seslav wasn’t keeping up with the noisy demands.

  Another embellished sword had been removed from the locked iron chest, and her father was proudly displaying it to his new admirers. The talk was of Kievan Rus and their life in the east.

  She was happy for him, but concerned for Sigmar. Rumor was rife he had been given the high honor of forming a new company, but no one was sure what had happened to Alvar Haraldsen.

  Gertruda tapped her tumbler against Audra’s. “If a new company is to be formed, maybe your father will be assigned to it.”

  She smiled, raising her cup in salute, but worried Fingal Andreassen would never willingly serve the son of his enemy. How could he look at Sigmar and not be reminded of his own dead sons?

  “There may be hope for our comrades,” she said in an effort to change the topic of conversation. “Canute promised to think on making a place for us.”

  Gertruda leaned into Audra. “Even if he doesn’t,” she whispered with a sideways glance at the other women, “I will stay here in England. Feels more like home than the Steppes.”

  Audra wondered if mayhap her comrade had her eye on a man, but also understood why a Norwegian would prefer England. She’d n
ever learned the full story of how her lieutenant had come to Kievan Rus, but the woman evidently didn’t want to return there any more than Audra did. Perhaps Gertruda was as sick of the blood-letting as she was. However, such a notion mustn’t reach the king’s ears. Their credibility and usefulness lay in their willingness to kill.

  They stood when the tent became too crowded. “Seems word has spread the mead is flowing,” Gertruda quipped.

  Audra’s reply died on her lips, an icy hand gripping her innards when Alvar Haraldsen shouldered his way into the tent, his red face contorted in a grimace of fury. Several cursed as he shoved them out of the way until he stood nose to nose with Fingal.

  When he drew his dagger, men fell into one another in their haste to escape.

  “Think you have your revenge, do you?” Alvar shouted, waving the dagger menacingly at Audra’s father.

  The crowd drew a collective breath, but no one spoke. Seslav clasped the flagon of mead to his chest, plainly terrified. To his credit her father didn’t flinch, but held up the golden sword he’d been showing off. “His Majesty has seen fit to name me a huscarl,” he said quietly. “Do you challenge his choice?”

  Given her training it would be a simple matter to disarm Alvar, but doing so would shame her father. No Viking wanted it touted abroad that his daughter had rushed to his defence. But everyone else seemed frozen in place.

  Without warning Alvar lunged. Seslav cried out and dropped the flagon. Shards of pottery flew and mead splashed onto booted feet jostling to get out of the way.

  She breathed again when her father leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding the blade meant for his throat. Suddenly everyone was moving, a fortunate few spilling out of the tent like herring who’ve found a hole in the net.

  Despite the crush, both men drew their swords and metal clanged on metal as the two old enemies exchanged blows amid the spreading pool of spilled mead and the crunch of broken pottery.