Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She dragged her errant thoughts back to the chamber, noting a curious little smile tugging at the corners of Sigmar’s mouth. Had he read her mind?

  Everyone seemed to suddenly realize they had no choice but to heed Canute’s insistent command to jump into the water. Robes were tossed aside and water sloshed onto the mosaic floors as naked men and women leapt into the unexpected warmth of the water.

  Only Audra’s father remained high and dry.

  “Get in, Andreassen,” Canute commanded, “else I throw you in myself.”

  Audra turned away, understanding his reluctance.

  The rest cheered when her father finally took the plunge.

  *

  The daily opportunity to enjoy the baths soon proved they were an excellent place to discuss strategy regarding Streona’s assassination. Nudity and hot water seemed to relax the members of The Dodeka and all sorts of intriguing ideas were put forth for the demise of the untrustworthy ealdorman.

  Though Streona and his brothers were to arrive at the villa on Good Friday, the king insisted no action be taken until Easter Sunday, a more appropriate day in his opinion.

  Sigmar confided to Audra that he thought the day of the White Christ’s death would be more apt. “But I’m not going to argue the point.”

  She concurred. “Waiting until Sunday will make it more difficult not to arouse their suspicions.”

  A plan was finally settled upon. Poison would be added to the almond milk traditionally served at the end of the Easter Sunday meal. By then the Anglo-Saxons would have imbibed copious amounts of ale and be off their guard.

  While their deaths might be deemed suspicious, there was less likelihood of Eadwig learning of it right away.

  Streona

  “I am of a mind to do away with this treacherous Englishman myself,” Canute confided to Sigmar as the royal party prepared to enter the hall for the Easter Sunday banquet. Streona had been at Canute’s court since Good Friday and Sigmar was surprised his arrogance and crude malice hadn’t goaded someone to kill him.

  Canute hadn’t invited Streona to enjoy the baths that had become a part of everyone else’s daily life. Sigmar missed those opportunities to catch a brief glimpse of Audra’s naked beauty. Once the assassinations were over, first thing he planned to do…

  “His manner of speech betrays him as a man of low origin,” Elfgifu whispered, jolting his thoughts back to the dining hall. “His smooth tongue and persuasive eloquence helped him rise in Ethelred’s household, but he’s always had a reputation for cruelty and perfidy.”

  Sigmar supposed she knew of his history since she had been born into the nobility in Mercia, Streona’s territory.

  “I will not tolerate treachery,” Canute hissed. “Is everything in readiness?”

  Sigmar glanced at Gertruda then nodded. “Judging by the gluttony the three exhibited yesterday, I expect the wolfsbane to do its job quickly.”

  Canute clenched his jaw. “They didn’t even control their appetites during the solemn Easter vigil.” Shaking his head, he offered Elfgifu his arm and led the procession into the hall where their guests already sat at table. Britric came to his feet as the king and his consort took their places on the dais, but Streona and Ethelmar did not.

  “That will be the last straw,” Sigmar whispered to Audra as The Dodeka filed into a tight row behind Canute’s throne.

  Streona watched them, his eyes widening in surprise. “There are women in this little army of yours, Sire,” he sniggered.

  “Norse women are brave warriors. They have earned their place,” Canute replied coolly.

  The Englishman came to his feet, grasped hold of his shaft and made a lewd gesture. “I dare say,” he declared with a wink and a broad grin. His brothers guffawed at his antics.

  Despite the carefully prepared assassination strategy, the insult to Audra was almost enough to goad Sigmar into rushing forward and lopping off Streona’s head. He clenched his fists at his sides, wondering if Canute would have the patience to wait until the tainted amygdalate and cheeses arrived.

  His heart stopped when, without warning, Fingal Andreassen left the ranks, drew his sword and strode towards Streona. “No English pig will call my daughter a whore,” he shouted hoarsely.

  The lascivious smile left Streona’s face as he stepped back, drawing his sword. His brothers did likewise. Pandemonium broke out when Andreassen upended the table and lunged at Streona. Metal clanged on metal. Servants fled. Canute came to his feet. Dagmar and Gertruda escorted Elfgifu and her sons out of the hall. Svein, Vasha and two others shielded the king. Audra and Sigmar rushed into the fray, she armed with her dagger, Sigmar brandishing his stridsøkse. He drew Britric away from Andreassen and Audra launched herself at Ethelmar.

  Dread constricted Sigmar’s throat. He’d never worried before about those fighting alongside him, but now he feared for his wife. What if—

  Britric shoved him hard and next thing he knew he was sprawled on his arse on the mosaic. He clenched his jaw, rolling out of the way of the Englishman’s sword as it came down towards him. Tiles flew when the blade struck the floor. He took advantage of Britric’s momentary surprise to swipe his axe across the huge man’s belly, jumping to his feet in time to avoid being crushed when the giant crashed to the floor.

  “What treachery is this?” Streona screeched when he found himself disarmed and facing several of The Dodeka.

  “Hold,” Canute thundered.

  It was as if Thor himself had hurled a lightning bolt into the melee, the only sound a peculiar wheezing from Ethelmar who slumped to the floor, Audra’s dagger embedded in his chest.

  Relief threatened to buckle Sigmar’s knees.

  Panting hard, the ealdorman of Mercia glanced wide-eyed at his slain brothers, then at Canute, then at the broken sword that lay at his feet.

  “Treachery is your stock in trade, Streona,” the king said softly. “Andreassen, pay this man what we owe him.”

  *

  It wasn’t the first time Audra had seen a man’s head thud to the floor after being separated from his body and she’d witnessed her father dispatch an enemy in one fashion or another many times.

  However, the fury on Fingal Andreassen’s contorted face as he gripped his sword in both hands and brutally executed Streona stole the breath from her lungs. Bile rose in her throat and she was afraid she might be sick. It was as if the horror stoppered up since the feud and his banishment from Jomsborg suddenly broke loose. He was a wild man she didn’t recognise.

  The entire bloody encounter had been caused by his failure to maintain ranks and follow the agreed upon plan. Had he not realized by now he was no longer in Kievan Rus? She was furious he had endangered the lives of The Dodeka, admitting inwardly her preoccupation with Sigmar’s survival had distracted her during the confrontation. When the giant had knocked him on his arse…she shuddered again at the memory. Such lapses could be deadly.

  She retrieved her dagger from Ethelmar’s chest and wiped it clean on his sleeve.

  Sigmar sheathed his axe.

  They exchanged a glance. She longed to rush to him and blurt out her relief he was safe. His eyes spoke of the same longing. But the king wanted their pledge kept secret.

  Canute slapped her father on the back. “Well done, Andreassen. A mighty blow.”

  Breathing hard, Fingal stared at the headless body then at the king as if he wasn’t sure what had happened.

  Canute summoned two thralls who avoided looking at the corpses. “Throw the bodies over the wall,” he ordered.

  “Are they to be buried outside the city, Sire?” one asked.

  “No,” he replied. “Let the carrion dispose of them. And Streona’s head is to be displayed on a pole; the highest one you can find.”

  Sigmar had reached Audra’s side. “So much for the plan to discreetly dispose of enemies,” he rasped. “I’ll warrant Prince Eadwig will know of what took place here within a sennight.”

  The Hero of the Hour


  “Your father is the hero of the hour,” Gertruda quipped as she and Audra emerged from the changing room into the baths complex two days after the assassinations.

  Audra cringed at the sight of Fingal strutting around naked. He and some of The Dodeka, including Vasha, had been in the Sweat Room. Her comrade’s easy presence among the men didn’t surprise her. It had always been thus. The constant talk among them was of the blow that had taken off Streona’s head in one swipe. Her father soaked up the adulation like the parched summer Steppes drank in the first autumn rains.

  She looked away quickly. “It’s bad enough no one seems bothered he didn’t follow orders. Even Canute sings his praises.”

  The younger men plunged into the main pool, but Fingal did not. He leaned his shoulder against one of the statues and folded his arms after waving to her.

  Infuriated, she disrobed quickly and slipped into the pool. “Thinks he’s a Roman god,” she muttered.

  Fingal’s smile turned sour when Sigmar strolled in from the Sweat Room.

  “Here comes the real thing,” Gertruda remarked with a smile.

  A hint of jealousy spiked, but Audra quickly dismissed it. Her comrade was right. Sigmar’s sweat-sheened body was male perfection. He’d abandoned the war braids and his wet hair caressed his broad shoulders. Licking her lips, she raked her gaze up his long, powerful legs. Desire spiralled into her womb when Sigmar touched his fingertips to the bluebell tattoo before joining the others in the pool.

  “His tattoo is almost identical to yours,” the other woman remarked.

  Audra was about to reply when Sigmar’s slave Nathan appeared, carrying a robe. Sigmar went to the side of the pool and quickly hauled himself out of the water. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as the water sluiced from his bronzed frame before Nathan wrapped the robe around him.

  He walked over to Audra’s end of the pool, cinching the belt at his waist. “There is word of Prince Eadwig in the west,” he explained. “Canute has summoned us.”

  He held out a hand to help her out of the pool. She glanced over at her father, still scowling by the statue. Gertruda had a knowing grin on her face. Nothing for it but to get out of the water and retrieve her discarded robe as quickly as possible.

  As if sensing her uncertainty, Sigmar picked up her covering, holding it open and enfolding her in its concealing warmth when she exited the pool. She relished the hard strength of his male part pressed to her hip. “I have to seize every opportunity to touch you,” he rasped close to her ear before withdrawing his arms.

  They walked side by side to the changing rooms.

  A chill stole away the warmth when her father intercepted them. “I’ve already killed one man for insulting my daughter,” he hissed.

  She was tempted to blurt out how ridiculous he looked strutting around naked, but instead locked eyes with him. “If you kill Sigmar, you kill my husband, and I will take my vengeance,” she muttered softly.

  His mouth fell open, anger darkening his gaze. “Husband?” he shouted.

  Sigmar stood between them. “Audra and I have pledged to each other as man and wife, Andreassen,” he said softly, “and for the sake of our children I ask your blessing. It’s past time to end the feud.”

  All noise had ceased in the cavernous chamber except for the echoing splash of the fountains, every curious eye fixed on the scene playing out between the three. This was not the time or place she would have chosen to tell her father but it was a relief he knew.

  She became alarmed when gooseflesh marched across his skin and he began to shiver. She hoped beyond hope he would embrace her, despite his nakedness, and give his blessing.

  But the tragedies of the past evidently outweighed any consideration for her happiness. Her belly churned when he fisted his hands at his side and clenched his jaw. “I will die before I allow the spawn of Alvar Haraldsen to defile my daughter,” he seethed.

  *

  His heart heavy for Audra, Sigmar watched Andreassen stride away to the Sweat Room. He understood the man’s hatred for him, but could he not give a thought to his daughter’s happiness?

  “He will never agree,” she murmured.

  “Ja, he will,” he replied, hoping he was right. “Dress quickly. The king is waiting.”

  He glanced over to the pool. The others seemed to have lost interest so he pecked a kiss on her forehead then patted her bottom. “Go.”

  A short time later he emerged from the changing rooms having reluctantly taken care of the insistent erection aroused by touching Audra’s firm bottom. But when he saw her waiting in the hallway, cheeks flushed, damp ringlets frizzy, luscious curves accentuated by the tight leather, interest stirred anew in his needy tarse. “By Odin, Audra,” he swore, taking her by the arm as they began the walk to Canute’s council room. “I cannot wait to get you into my bed. You are beyond beautiful.”

  She licked her lips and fluttered her eyelashes, not like the whores he’d seen in many a market, but innocently, like a woman in love. Desire darkened her brown eyes. “Mayhap now Streona has been dispatched—”

  His need intensified. No matter how long it took…

  He shook his head. “I fear Canute is about to tell us Prince Eadwig is next. He’ll want to keep the unit together until that’s accomplished.”

  The king was pacing the small chamber when they arrived and waved away the bow they offered. “A message has come from Lyfing, Abbot of Tavistock,” he declared, still pacing. “Eadwig is raising an army in Exeter. Fomenting rebellion.”

  “If I recall correctly from the Wessex campaign, Sire, Exeter is a five day ride,” Sigmar said.

  “So the sooner you depart, the better. We must make certain everyone knows who rules this land now,” Canute replied. “By the time you get there, Eadwig will have learned Streona’s fate. He’ll be wary. If he flees to Cornwall across Dartmoor, we’ll lose him.”

  Mention of the desolate moorland where pixies supposedly dwelt and phantom hounds were reputed to roam sent a peculiar shiver of apprehension up Sigmar’s spine, but he dismissed it. Chances were they would find the prince before he could flee. “A sennight will be sufficient time to make arrangements,” he assured the king, a plan forming in his mind to approach Exeter from the sea.

  Canute ceased pacing. “Will you take Andreassen with you?” he asked.

  The question took him by surprise. “He is a member of The Dodeka.”

  The king clenched his fists. “He put all of our lives in jeopardy. If any harm had befallen Elfgifu and my sons…”

  “I take the blame, Sire,” Audra said. “He is angry because of me. It’s clouding his judgement.”

  Canute shook his head. “My opinion is that nothing will free Fingal Andreassen from his anger. Even if you killed Sigmar, he wouldn’t be content. He must learn to follow orders or suffer the consequences.”

  “If we leave him here, his resentment will increase,” Sigmar said reluctantly.

  Sherborne

  For four days The Dodeka followed old Roman roads to Salisbury, traveling light, sleeping under the stars or in ancient ruins.

  The usual April rains didn’t fall and the air warmed, enabling them to dispense with campfires. This prevented smoke attracting attention but also meant meals of bread, cheese and salo, a preserved meat from Kievan Rus. Audra had taught the cooks at the villa how to prepare it and was pleased the others seemed to be developing a taste for the salty food she loved.

  They relied on the night watch to warn of animals lurking. They bathed in frigid rills and stagnant ponds. It was a far cry from the comfort they’d become accustomed to at the villa.

  On the fifth morning Sigmar gathered the group. “Today we head deep into Wessex territory,” he reminded them. “First west to Sherborne, where I have arranged for us to be guests of the abbey. The monks will guide us thence to Lyme on the coast where they have provided a boat. They own salt-boiling rights near the river Lym that Canute has guaranteed to honor. The Narrow Sea will take us to Exeter
, a town given to Emma of Normandy as part of her dowry when she wed Ethelred. Stealth must be our watchword, or Prince Eadwig may flee.”

  Audra worried about her father’s ability to act in the stealthy manner vital for the mission. He was a man of bluster and bravado, the only one to complain about the rough conditions. To her surprise and relief it was Vasha who seemed able to temper his outbursts.

  “The two are becoming boon companions,” she remarked to Sigmar as they set off for Sherborne.

  He said nothing in reply, but she sensed he too was concerned about her father.

  They rode all day, Dagmar and Sigmar leading the way, Audra and Gertruda bringing up the rear. Fingal made no effort to lower his voice, his main topic of conversation still the blow that had beheaded Streona. He seemed oblivious to the impatient glares of the others.

  It was plain from the rigid set of Sigmar’s shoulders he was becoming irritated. As the abbey came into view he wheeled his mount and rode to her father’s side.

  “We are approaching the abbey, Andreassen,” he hissed. “Keep your voice down. You’re putting all our lives in danger.”

  Fingal glowered.

  “Mayhap I should have taken my revenge for Alvar’s death,” Sigmar growled before spurring his horse back to the head of the troop.

  Her father grinned then spat into the dirt.

  Audra worried he had succeeded in his purpose, to goad her husband.

  They were welcomed by Abbot Elfmaer, though not warmly. He seemed particularly taken aback by the presence of women. He led them to the Refectory where monks served them in silence.

  Audra sat next to Sigmar on the crude wooden bench, grateful for the strength of his thigh pressed to hers after a tiring day. “They’re not happy to see us,” she remarked, tucking into the mutton stew, “but it’s good to have cooked food.”

  Sigmar nodded. “They have agreed to help in order to protect their lucrative salt trade. It’s their only source of income. Abbot Lyfing of Tavistock has convinced them Eadwig would take the revenues for himself if he regained Wessex.”