Seslav cowered in a corner, but Audra couldn’t leave. She shrank back against the hemp canvas, unable to breathe as the lethal blades whooshed through the air. She supposed she’d known the moment she saw Alvar in the langhus it was inevitable it would come to this. She hated Sigmar’s father although she recognized Fingal wasn’t blameless for atrocities perpetrated in the past. Now one of them would die.
Her father’s death would leave her bereft, an orphan.
But the greater grief lay in the certainty that another killing would simply perpetuate the feud.
*
As he hurried to Andreassen’s tent, Sigmar berated himself that he hadn’t followed his father instead of tending to the weeping Sophia. Mayhap he might have tempered his anger, or at least kept him away from his enemy. Now the alarm had been raised. A fight to the death was in progress.
Memories of the fear that had gripped him as a boy of twelve surged up his throat. The moment he set eyes on Audra in the smoky langhus his gut had told him that this would be the inevitable result of two bitter enemies coming together. Canute’s decision had simply provided the excuse.
It wasn’t difficult to locate the large ostentatious tent with dozens of men clustered outside, shouting loudly. The unmistakable sounds of a sword fight came from within. The first thing he saw when he stooped to enter the narrow flap was Audra clinging to the side of the tent, her eyes wide with alarm.
Relief swamped him. At least she hadn’t attempted to interfere, and to his regret, neither could he. His father would rather die than have his son come to his aid, and the last thing he wanted to do was kill Andreassen.
When the combatants came too close to Audra, he moved quickly to put an arm round her shoulder and draw her from the tent. She was like a wooden doll in his arms, but he was glad she didn’t resist. “They are both tiring,” he rasped into her ear. “With any luck they’ll wear each other out.”
She shook her head. “You know that isn’t true,” she murmured sadly. “They won’t stop until one of them is dead.”
They clung together for seemingly endless minutes, until a ghastly howl sounded from the tent. Argument ceased among the crowd. Audra had stopped breathing, trembling in his arms. Conflicting emotions ran rampant through Sigmar’s heart. He truly didn’t know which one of the bitter old men he hoped would emerge victorious.
Audra gasped when Alvar staggered out of the tent. Sigmar’s heart went out to her. Fingal’s death would leave her an orphan in a foreign land.
But then he realized with alarm that blood was oozing from his father’s belly. Alvar reached one hand towards him like a draugr. His eyes rolled back and he pitched forward to die in the dirt at Sigmar’s feet.
Honor Bound
Audra rushed into the tent, her emotions in knots. If her father had also died, the feud would be at an end. There would be no necessity for Sigmar to seek vengeance.
Fingal was on his knees, breathing heavily, apparently uninjured apart from a slash on his upper arm. Seslav fussed over him, babbling in his own language. She sagged to the ground and flung her arms around his neck, barely able to choke out, “Fader,” intense relief mingling with dull disappointment.
For all his faults, he was the only flesh and blood she had left. He’d taken care of her when they’d been cast adrift from Jomsborg.
“Is he dead?” he rasped between coughs.
“He is,” she whispered, gagging on the stench of sweat and fear.
“He attacked first. You saw it,” he said, leaning heavily on her shoulders as he came to his feet. “Mayhap now that’ll be the end of it. The man who murdered my sons is finally dead.” To her dismay he chuckled as he straightened. “Killed by a golden sword.”
She stood and glowered at him, hands on hips. “Alvar has a son too, in case you’ve forgotten. He’s out there now with his dead father. Do you not think he’ll seek revenge?”
Bitterness threatened to swamp her. Meeting Sigmar again had been a ray of sunshine in a world of darkness and death. That glimmer of hope for a happier life had drowned in the bloody pool of mead.
She turned away and wearily shoved open the tent flap. Sigmar hunkered beside his father, grief etched on his face. Their eyes met when he looked up at her. The bleakness in his gaze echoed the desolation in her heart.
She ached to tell him of her sorrow for his loss, of her pride he’d been honored by the king, of her need to forever feel safe in his strong arms. She longed to take him in her embrace and cradle his head to her breast, to bring solace as he’d done for her.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured instead.
The silent crowd stepped back as he gathered his father’s body in his arms and came to his feet. “As am I,” he growled before turning to stride away.
Her father came up behind her and put his hands on her trembling shoulders. “Best be on our guard,” he said.
Audra had spent a lifetime on guard, the longing for the carefree days she’d shared with Sigmar deeply buried. Those times were gone and would never return. She’d been a fool to believe otherwise.
*
Sigmar laid his father’s body atop the bed furs. Sophia knelt beside him, rocking back and forth, howling a lament in her own language. He stared at the man who had given him life, then stolen it away. If he’d hoped to hear words of love and pride from his father, that hope was gone, in its place a dagger in his heart. He admitted to himself that he’d known the moment he set eyes on Audra in the langhus she was the only woman he’d ever wanted. The bloody-minded Alvar had robbed him of any chance of happiness with her.
Guilt gnawed at him; his father was dead, but the overwhelming emotion was anger that he was now honor-bound to avenge him.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard someone enter the tent, surprised when he turned to see Elfgifu and two of her ladies. Sophia’s lament abruptly ceased. The sudden silence seemed eerie. This was no place for noblewomen and he wanted to be alone. Surely Canute hadn’t sent his concubine to tell him he might as well forget his promotion.
He came to his feet quickly and bowed. “My father is dead,” he said, as if it wasn’t obvious a corpse lay at his feet.
Elfgifu put a gentle hand on his arm. “My ladies will tend to preparing Alvar Haraldsen’s body. He was a worthy huscarl and your king wishes him honored as such.”
He was tempted to retort that it was the king’s rejection of a worthy huscarl that had precipitated this catastrophic event. “I thank you,” he muttered.
“The king awaits you, in the langhus,” she murmured, her hand still on his arm.
He’d never paid much attention to Canute’s hand-fasted English wife, but the sympathy in her dark eyes was genuine. If the rumors of a marriage to Emma of Normandy were true, perhaps she understood more than most what it was to lose your chance at happiness.
He bowed and left, relieved to be out of the presence of death. His lungs filled with the crisp air as he made his way to his fate.
One of the King’s attendants awaited and he was ushered inside immediately. To his surprise, Canute came forward to embrace him. “I well remember my grief when my father died,” the monarch said. “England has lost a faithful servant.”
Sigmar recalled the haste with which Canute had acted to claim his father’s English crown before his older brother Harald had time to sail from Denmark. Would the monarch send him on another clandestine mission to do away with Harald, King of the Danes, now he’d regained England? Or perhaps he would recruit Audra for the purpose, a notion that sickened him, despite his having no objections to female warriors.
Canute pulled away and eyed him, no doubt thinking his failure to respond was due to his grief, not his preoccupation with Audra.
“I apologise, Sire, it’s difficult to discuss.”
The king put an arm around his shoulder and led him towards the dais. “I understand your heart burns for vengeance, Sigmar. I am aware of the feud and the reasons for the hatred between your father and
Andreassen.”
“I was but a child when it began, Sire,” Sigmar replied, unsure where the lecture was headed.
Canute turned him so they were face to face and clamped his hands on his shoulders. “It ends now,” he asserted, pressing his fingers hard into Sigmar’s flesh. “I’m told it was a fair fight that your father instigated. If you are to assemble the new company, feuding and retaliation is forbidden, just as it was in Jomsborg. This will be a brotherhood with similar rules.” He looked Sigmar in the eye, his voice cold. “I’m confident you do not wish to be condemned to another exile.”
The adder in Sigmar’s gut hissed. Honor demanded he seek revenge, but killing Andreassen would cast him adrift in a world where Canute’s reach was widening. It would also destroy forever any chance of a life with Audra.
His instinct was to find her, throw her over his shoulder, mount up and ride off together. He chuckled inwardly despite his anguish. His horses were still in London.
He’d had no inclination to take a wife until he saw her again. He was beginning to realize she was his destiny, but they were trapped in a maelstrom that would likely drown one or both of them.
“Do I have your oath you will not exact revenge on Andreassen?”
Sigmar wondered if Canute was more concerned with losing a huscarl who owned a cache of gilded weapons. “I so swear,” he growled reluctantly.
The king shook his shoulders. “Good. The funeral will be this afternoon.”
“Today?” Sigmar asked, alarmed at the prospect of hurriedly arranging an appropriate send off for his father.
“Don’t worry. All is in hand. Otherwise we’ll have to wait until after I’ve received the homage of the English nobles. I want you at my side for that.”
Sigmar frowned. “Me, Sire?”
Canute smiled as he slouched onto his makeshift throne. “I value your opinion. We must ascertain who is trustworthy among these foreigners and who is not. Immediately after that we will return to London and you will begin the formation of my new company. Go. Spend a last hour with your father.”
Sigmar bowed and left, an awareness growing of the intended purpose of his new command. Canute would root out any hint of opposition and he was a warrior obliged to perform whatever duty his king demanded.
Burial
The king decreed that everyone attend the funeral rites for Alvar Haraldsen. That took care of Fingal’s complaints about Audra assembling her company on the banks of the Tamesis. She was glad to be close to Sigmar in his grief. They were well back in the ranks, rendering it unlikely he would see her. She didn’t know what his feelings towards her might be now. It was rumored the king had forbidden him to retaliate, but she acknowledged bitterly that hope of reconciliation was dead.
Though the sun had chased away the morning chill, the air was still cool, the collective breath of hundreds of soldiers hanging like a pall over the somber gathering.
Shivering, she touched a hand to where the bluebell tattoo lay beneath her gambeson, once more a terrified ten year old clutching a posy of wilting wildflowers.
Gertruda elbowed her. “Here they come.”
Canute led the procession, flanked by a Benedictine monk and the royal skald. Haraldsen’s body came next, wrapped in a winding sheet and borne aloft on a planked bier carried by four huscarls. Sigmar followed, walking tall and proud, his back rigid. Audra’s heart went out to him. He’d suffered too many losses. With his father dead, he was left with no living relative.
Behind Sigmar came huscarls with Haraldsen’s sword and dagger, then a woman Audra didn’t recognise, a thrall with a very swollen nose. She bore a basket filled with what looked like foodstuffs.
“Surely they won’t sacrifice the thrall?” Gertruda whispered.
Audra shook her head. “I doubt it. Canute was baptised a Christian long before he was king. He won’t allow the old pagan custom. I’m surprised he’s permitting the grave goods.”
The procession halted beside a deep hole that had been dug beneath a chestnut tree.
A disgruntled murmur threaded its way through the crowd. Audra sensed many of those assembled would have preferred a Viking warrior be sent on his way to Valhalla the old Norse way. But the Christian faith they espoused forbade cremation.
Canute nodded to the bearers who then lowered the bier to the ground and lifted the body from it. Four thralls climbed into the hole and accepted the body from the huscarls.
To Audra’s surprise, Sigmar turned to the female thrall. She handed her basket to the slaves in the grave. It was placed at Haraldsen’s feet.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd when, with a loud wail, the woman fell to her knees in the churned mud beside the hole.
Sigmar didn’t move, only tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Audra couldn’t see his face, but felt his anguish.
He allowed the woman to grieve for a few minutes then offered a hand to help her rise.
Audra breathed again.
Looking annoyed, Canute cleared his throat, nodding to the monk.
“In nomine patris, et filii et spiritus sancti,” the cleric intoned, making the sign of the White Christ in the air. Everyone on the bank followed his lead except the kneeling thrall. The monk rambled on at length in Latin, a language it was unlikely anyone gathered there understood, including the king, but then he abruptly switched into English, a welcome sign he was nearing the end of his homily. “Canute protects the land as the Lord of All protects the splendid halls of heaven into which we commend your departed servant.”
The air had warmed considerably with the restless shifting of hundreds of booted feet.
“Amen,” Canute shouted, evidently impressed.
The crowd mumbled its relieved Amen.
The king then nodded to his royal poet. The monk scowled but took a step backwards as the skald came forward to intone a death poem in Old Norse. Audible grunts of appreciation echoed as the rendition progressed. Sweat broke out on many a forehead. Men cast their eyes heavenward, perhaps envisioning their own journey to Valhalla, nodding when the poet concluded with, “Canute, the Freyr of battle has cast England under his rule. The warrior satisfies the hunger of the Valkyries’ ravens.”
Throughout this lengthy mingling of Christian and Viking rituals, Sigmar stood completely still, only his cloak rippling occasionally in the light breeze. But Audra doubted he was unmoved.
At a signal from Canute, the slaves who’d scrambled out of the grave began scooping dirt from a nearby pile into the hole, using their bare hands.
Sigmar bowed to the king, accepted his father’s sword and dagger from the huscarls and placed them carefully atop the bier. Men nodded as understanding dawned. Four other thralls lifted the bier and waded into the river where they set it adrift on the outgoing tide. Someone handed Sigmar a lit torch and he tossed it onto the drifting bier.
“Fair winds, Fader,” he declared.
The kneeling thrall keened, rocking back and forth. Sigmar put his sword hand on his heart, as if in salute.
“They must have coated the wood with something,” Gertruda observed as the flames quickly took hold.
The burning bier made it to the middle of the river, where it broke up and sank like a stone with a bubbling hiss, taking the weapons with it. Soon nothing remained but a pall of dark smoke creeping over the water like a wraith. If smoke truly showed the way to Valhalla, Alvar would arrive there quickly. The stench of burning wood and pitch hung in the air, but the general mood of the crowd had lifted. Canute had seen the wisdom of a token gesture to the old ways.
The king and his entourage paraded off towards the langhus. The crowd began to disperse. Sigmar turned away and strode up the bank, his jaw clenched, his face an unreadable mask. Audra had seen that face before, long ago in Jomsborg when the sentence of banishment was pronounced.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her throat constricted. The man who had begun the feud by slaughtering her brother in a fit of rage was dead. She ought to be elated, but her heart
grieved for Sigmar, for what might have been and for what was yet to come.
*
Sigmar thanked God and Odin the ordeal was over. The only thing that had sustained him was the knowledge Audra stood somewhere behind him, the one person in the whole host who understood his torment. At the end he’d placed a hand over his hidden tattoo, seeking the solace of memory it always brought.
His comrades often teased him—a warrior who bore a tattoo of wildflowers along with the usual battle honors earned in the long and bloody campaigns in Mercia and Wessex. Those were inked into his biceps. Only the bluebells held his heart.
He thought of the day he’d shyly given Audra the little bouquet—just an ordinary boy, with a father he honored, a loving family, a happy and secure life in Jomsborg. He would treasure the memory of her wide-eyed delight with the wildflowers until the day he died. The future held only heartache and regret.
He was empty and exhausted. He’d feared Sophia might throw herself into his father’s grave as she’d threatened. Canute had denied her right to die with her protector. What was to become of her? He certainly didn’t need another thrall.
What he needed was to walk into Audra’s embrace, crush her body to his, and weep into her hair. But he kept his eyes fixed on the grass as he strode away to the langhus, relieved there was to be no funeral banquet. The English nobility awaited Canute’s pleasure. He absently wondered what they’d thought of the half pagan, half Christian funeral, but in truth he didn’t care. They would bow and scrape to Canute, unaware that the huscarl standing at his side was judging them. He feared his despair might result in recommending they all end up headless.
Pledges of Allegiance
Wedged in near the back of the crowded langhus, Audra wished there was room to move away from her agitated father.
“Why is it the son of a murderer stands at the king’s right hand,” he hissed, “while I am relegated to the rear?”
Men turned to scowl.
Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection Page 10