Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Sigmar fervently hoped the fat abbot didn’t end up in the water. Such a mishap wouldn’t enhance his standing in Canute’s eyes, although it seemed he could do no wrong. He wondered again at the king’s confidence in him.

  He glanced back to the river. Andreassen’s boat was nowhere in sight and he doubted Audra’s father would linger in Abingdon. The abbot had been present at the ceremonies in Oxenaforda, and Sigmar suspected he had played an important role in securing the agreement of the Wessex nobles to observe the laws of King Edgar. Why else would Canute spend time courting him?

  Ethelsige waddled off along the dock after assuring Canute of his obligation to make sure the abbey was properly prepared for the king.

  Sigmar offered a hand to his monarch.

  “No need,” Canute told him with a wink as he vaulted over the side of the longboat onto the dock. “I’m not a fat old cleric.”

  The king brushed off his leggings as they stood side by side in the weak January sun. “You wonder why I woo such a man,” he said softly. “English churchmen know who has the coin, and it’s not the House of Wessex. Abbeys and monasteries need money. It has taken a considerable amount to rebuild this abbey after our Viking forefathers destroyed it nigh on seventy-five years ago.” He chuckled. “Ironic isn’t it? Ethelsige is in the forefront of monastic reform and he needs my patronage, as does Lyfing, Abbot of Tavistock. They will keep us informed of Eadwig’s movements in this region.”

  Sigmar nodded. It was as he had surmised. But this private moment was a chance to take care of a personal matter. “Sire,” he said. “I haven’t thanked you appropriately for my father’s rune-stone.”

  Canute stared at him as if he’d spoken in Greek, confirming his suspicion it hadn’t been the king’s idea. “Ja. He deserved no less, as Elfgifu rightly pointed out,” the king said absent-mindedly, striding away towards the abbey.

  Sigmar looked back to the river. Still no sign of Andreassen’s boat, but he sensed Audra’s nearness. He was more convinced than ever she’d had a hand in honoring his father.

  To Sleep and to Dream

  The next morning Sigmar strolled with the king in the direction of the royal longboat, still moored at the dock. Abbot Ethelsige had spared no expense in wining and dining Canute and his retinue. Sigmar’s belly was full, his body well rested after a night in a small but comfortable cell furnished with surprisingly fresh linens. The only thing lacking was Audra, though he’d dreamt of her. Sometimes she’d appeared as an elf, singing songs of enchantment as if he were the knight of the Elvehøje; other times she was the half-woman, half-bird Siren the ancient Greeks told of.

  Were such dreams an omen that she was luring him to his death?

  His fears melted away when she came to him as a woman, sensuous and fragrant and loving, making all his considerable fantasies come true. He fervently hoped the abbey’s stone walls had prevented others hearing his groans of pleasure. The linens certainly weren’t fresh when he left the cell.

  Lost in his thoughts as he inhaled the crisp dawn air, he failed to notice the king was eyeing him expectantly. “My apologies, Sire, I was enjoying the scenery,” he babbled lamely.

  Canute pointed to the fields at the end of the abbey’s waterway where several tents had been pitched. This was no surprise. Huscarls were expected to remain close to their monarch. However, he was startled to see Fingal Andreassen standing at the water’s edge, staring in his direction. His enemy wandered away when he saw the king looking back.

  “He’s not convinced,” Canute said.

  “Of what, Sire?” Sigmar asked, though he knew full well why Andreassen watched his every move.

  “He believes you will kill him.”

  “I may want to, but I have given you my solemn oath I will not,” Sigmar replied.

  “His fear of you outweighs that.”

  “Why should he fear me?”

  “Because of your hold over his daughter.”

  Was his preoccupation so obvious even the king had noticed it? “Audra and I share much in common,” he rasped in reply, studying his boots, “some good and some not.”

  “I know your history,” Canute replied. “I am not speaking of that. There is a bond between you, an irresistible force neither of you can deny. She’s in your heart, as Elfgifu is in mine.”

  Canute’s words struck him like Thor’s hammer, befuddling his wits. That a king would share such intimacies was astonishing, but Sigmar knew it was likely Elfgifu would be cast aside for Emma of Normandy. Was Canute trying to tell him he should crush his feelings for Audra?

  The king slapped him on the back. “As the Romans used to say, Carpe diem, my friend. Seize the day.”

  How had it come about that he was suddenly a royal friend and confidant? He resolved to be wary. Those in power had only to hear rumors of disloyalty for favorites to fall out of favor. He supposed there were many besides Andreassen who would wish to see him fail, if only because of their dislike and mistrust of his dead father.

  He increased his pace in order to offer his help to the king as he stepped aboard the opulent boat, but again Canute refused his aid, turning instead to his favorite thrall. “Find Audra Fingalsdatter,” he instructed. “She’s to complete the rest of the journey with us.”

  Sigmar frowned at Felim’s broad retreating back, his heart careening around his rib cage. To travel with Audra all the way to London under the king’s all-seeing eye!

  Canute settled into the carved chair under the elaborate canopy in the center of the boat. “Once Elfgifu joins us, we’ll have a chance to discuss Fingalsdatter’s role in your new company,” he explained with a chuckle. “If I was Eadwig I’d be shaking in my boots at the prospect.”

  *

  Audra had spent countless nights sleeping in her father’s boat but had never acquired the knack of getting comfortable. Constant dreams of Sigmar made it worse. She’d woken herself up several times and was certain the other women had heard her cry out as she writhed in pleasure beneath her naked warrior. They were light sleepers. It came with the job.

  The male crew had slept on shore. Their boisterous antics in the icy cold river woke her before dawn and she left the boat for a bite of bread and cheese to break her fast. Seslav always made sure provisions were ready for the men. In the course of the long journey from Kievan Rus, the crew had become accustomed to the presence of female company and seemed to have no inhibitions about cavorting naked in front of the women. She’d known some of her father’s men since they’d first arrived in Kievan Rus. Many of the mercenaries hired in Constantinople had been dismissed in London, only the most trusted kept on.

  It had never occurred to Audra before to study these men, but now, sitting on a fallen log, she found her eye drawn to their male form. Despite the morning chill she began to perspire at the image she conjured of Sigmar, naked, splashing in the water, carefree, like when they were children. Except she was a woman now and he was a grown man.

  She became worried when she espied her scowling father striding hurriedly along the riverbank toward her. Had he seen her watching the men? He was accompanied by a fat giant she recognised as one of Canute’s principal thralls.

  Fingal pointed an accusing finger. “You’re to ride in the king’s boat,” he thundered, as if she were a naughty child.

  For a brief moment she was back in Jomsborg, gripping the wilting bluebells. The heel of bread crumbled in her fist. “Just me or the whole company?” she asked, trying to calm the tremor in her voice. She didn’t fear Canute, but sailing all the way to London in Sigmar’s presence was a daunting prospect.

  “His Majesty said nothing about others,” Felim replied.

  She came to her feet, wiping her hands on her leggings, wishing she’d had the chance to bathe. Sigmar had spent the night in the abbey and had probably—

  Enough!

  “Lead on, Felim,” she commanded, determined to comport herself like the much-feared warrior she was and not some lovesick maiden.

  A C
ruise down the River

  Sitting beneath the elaborate canopy with the richly garbed king and his beautiful consort, Audra felt like a filthy street urchin. The biggest drawback for a woman who lived her life among men was the difficulty in finding a private place to bathe. She’d had no opportunity to take care of her personal needs for days what with the fatal sword fight, her father’s preoccupation with Sigmar’s vengeance, the funeral and the scheme to organise the rune-stone. Despite the winter chill, the more heated Sigmar’s gaze on her became, the more she perspired and the worse she felt.

  Nervousness made her ravenous and she willingly feasted on the rosy red apples and crumbly cheese laid out for their pleasure. They likely deemed her an uncouth savage who’d lived like an animal on the eastern Steppes.

  The king and Elfgifu chattered on as if they were conducting a tour of the river, explaining Alfred the Great’s fortifications to defend Wallingford from the Vikings; pointing out the Chiltern Hills in the distance along which ran the ancient Icknield Way; laughing as Canute retold the well known story of Ethelred’s men protecting themselves from the missiles thrown from London Bridge by Canute’s Vikings.

  “Tore the roofs off nearby houses,” the king said, choking with laughter, slapping his thigh, “and carried them over their heads!”

  Why Canute found this retelling of his defeat at London and subsequent flight to Denmark so funny was beyond her comprehension. She supposed it was ironic that Canute was now king of England and had chosen to be the first English monarch crowned in London and not Kingston.

  Elfgifu smiled indulgently at the father of her children. It was evident to Audra she loved the big Dane.

  Were Audra’s feelings for Sigmar as obvious?

  The journey was coming to an end. She risked a glance at her childhood hero, wishing he would stop staring, and that the king would get to the reason for her presence aboard the craft.

  “So, Sigmar,” Canute said, his voice suddenly serious, “I have in mind that Audra will be your Second.”

  The smile left Elfgifu’s face though she nodded to Audra.

  Sigmar furrowed his brow, but said nothing.

  “You have likely both realized by now the purpose of the company. There are many among the Anglo-Saxon nobility who will need to be rooted out discreetly before they cause disruption to my rule. I want a small force that can deal with such matters quickly and decisively. You both have experience in that regard. In London you will recruit and train ten others with a view to being prepared to act before Easter. I want to celebrate our Savior’s resurrection without worrying about rebellion.”

  Canute was another Vladimir; a devout Christian not averse to slaughter when it suited his purpose, and possibly intending to keeping Elfgifu as his mistress after he wed Emma.

  The king eyed them. “I have chosen twelve for a specific reason.”

  Audra assumed it was because the White Christ had twelve apostles, but Canute then went on to regale them with a long list of twelves: the twelve labors of Hercules, the twelve thrones surrounding Odin’s throne, the twelve halls of Valhalla, the twelve sons of Jacob, the twelve shepherds who came to see Jesus in the manger.

  “Do you understand what I expect of you?” he asked finally. “The last great king this country had was Alfred.” He lay a hand over his heart. “The next will be Canute, son of Sweyn Forkbeard, grandson of Harald Bluetooth. Twelve of you will guarantee it. It’s not a coincidence, Sigmar Alvarsen that you were banished from Jomsborg at the age of twelve.”

  Surely Canute wasn’t superstitious enough to have chosen Sigmar to form the new company because of his age when he was banished. As well, Audra feared her childhood friend might object to a woman acting as his Second. Many men would view it as an insult. Confusion deepened Sigmar’s frown. “I understand, Sire,” he said finally. “With Audra’s help I will assemble an effective group.”

  Her heart leaped into her throat. It seemed Sigmar understood the significance of twelve, but she couldn’t think of any connection between herself and the apparently powerful number. “I am honored by your confidence in me, Sire,” she muttered hoarsely.

  Canute chuckled. “Thank your father. He has touted your murderous skills.”

  For the first time it occurred to Audra that Canute’s true purpose in enlisting her father had been to secure her services. She had half-hoped her days as a killer were coming to an end. How could she expect Sigmar to love a woman skilled in the art of clandestine assassination? They were no longer the innocent children of Jomsborg. She might as well resign herself to living and dying as a warrior—one of twelve.

  *

  Sigmar thought back to the little girl with blonde ringlets who loved to laugh and climb towers. A skilled assassin?

  Yes, she had become that, but deep down he hoped she was still Audra, the only female he had ever held in his heart. Life’s unforeseen tragedies had forced her into a life of violence and murder, just as it had molded him into a warrior who could be relied upon to take a life quickly and quietly, with no one the wiser as to how it came about.

  He glanced across at her. Kievan Rus had taken a toll. She looked weary but he suspected the lifelong quarrel between their fathers that had come to a head with Alvar’s death had much to do with that. Did the carefree little girl who loved bluebells still exist within the dark exterior? The role he was sure she’d played in the rune-stone gave him hope.

  As the boat skimmed the silvery waves of the mighty river and London came in sight, he worried that perhaps he was infatuated with a memory. Was a longing for the innocence of the past clouding his judgment? Living with a woman trained to kill wouldn’t be easy, especially when they already shared a bloody history. Neither of them were innocent any longer.

  The opportunity of his own command offered a challenge he relished. He was strangely confident having a woman as his Second would be a help rather than a hindrance in the mission Canute had assigned. He suspected the king’s motive in enlisting Andreassen had been to recruit Audra.

  The expectation was that they both continue to murder. He was a warrior who would do whatever his king demanded of him. If the Dane wished history to remember him as Canute the Great, Sigmar would strive to help him fulfill that ambition. Audra had proven her worth as an assassin, but as he studied her now he wondered if a woman who had it in her to kill, also had it in her to love.

  A Near Thing

  Carpenters and thatchers had obviously been hard at work in the sennight since Sigmar had sailed up the Tamesis with the rest of Canute’s huscarls. Work to provide structures to house the fighting men and officials had begun shortly after the triumphal entry into London following Ironside’s unexpected death. Since the coronation, the wooden buildings clustered around the abbey had grown to the size of a village.

  As the boat docked, Canute was the first to stride over the side. He turned to assist Elfgifu. Once ashore she waited patiently while he spoke to one of the contingent of huscarls who’d greeted him on the dock. “Is the langhus for the new company ready as I requested?” he asked.

  Sigmar had just stepped out of the boat and offered his hand to Audra. The king’s words took him by surprise and he looked away for a moment. Audra missed his hand and lost her balance. With a startled cry, she fell into him, half in and half out of the boat. He quickly put his arms around her and lifted her safely onto the dock, expecting she’d be furious that he’d caused a near-accident in front of the king.

  Instead, a peculiar squeak emerged from her throat and she sagged against him. His body recognised immediately that it wasn’t a little girl he held. The firm curves and the alluring smell of a woman clad in leather played havoc with his senses. Her lips fell open, filling him with an urge to delve his tongue into the warmth of her throat. His hips took on a life of their own as he pressed his arousal to her mons.

  Canute coughed loudly, snapping them back to reality. Audra stepped away, straightening her tunic, her face crimson.

  “I’ve had a
langhus built for your company, Alvarsen,” the king said sternly. “This guard will take you there.”

  Watching Canute stride away with his retinue, Sigmar marveled at Fate. He had left London a simple soldier in the royal army. Now he commanded a company, albeit only two persons strong.

  In his eagerness to fathom ways to get Audra into his bed, he’d behaved like a lovesick fool in front of a powerful man he had to impress.

  “Canute evidently had all this planned,” Audra said, her brow furrowed.

  Sigmar nodded and held out his hand. “I believe you are right, and I promise not to let you fall again if you’ll allow me to escort you to our new quarters.”

  To his relief she smiled. Her hand was cold, but her touch warmed his heart. “Lead on,” he instructed the waiting guard.

  *

  Audra should have been mortified. Coming close to tumbling into the frigid water, thanks to Sigmar.

  Yet she relished the strength of his arms, the firmness of his body, even parting her lips, carried away by a lunatic hope he might kiss her. The press of his hard maleness against her most private part sent desire spiralling out of control. All in front of a king and his consort. The recollection of her loss of control sent prickly heat surging up her spine.

  Thanks be to Thor her father hadn’t witnessed the event. He’d have taken his golden sword to Sigmar’s head. That notion sobered her. She’d forgotten Fingal. If only life were that simple.

  “I’m not certain where my father is,” she said lamely, hoping he wasn’t watching her march up the street arm in arm with his enemy. There’d be hell to pay. How absurd for a warrior to be afraid of her father’s wrath. But her fear was for Sigmar, not for herself.