Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Prince Eadwig.

  No Jomsviking would grovel like a dog in front of the man she’d been sent to kill. Summoning her last vestige of strength she stood on unsteady legs and peered through salt-crusted lashes at the man whose crown Canute had taken for himself.

  Eadwig perched atop the stunted remnant of a ruined stone pillar. She stifled a giggle. The low rustic throne obliged the tall prince to sit with legs wide apart, knees to his chest. He seemed to be having difficulty keeping his balance. Gone was the fine raiment he’d worn in Oxenaforda, replaced by battle armor. Behind him lay the ruins of a Roman temple.

  He stared at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Seems to me I’ve seen you before, little bitch,” he said slowly in her language. “Did the usurper send you to kill me?”

  Hesitant chuckles greeted this question, as if the witnesses were unsure whether Eadwig meant it to be amusing or not. Or mayhap they didn’t speak Norse.

  She wished the fog would clear from her brain so she could reply in a coherent manner. Her tumbling thoughts drifted to the flotilla of whales. “I am only one of thousands to come ashore,” she rasped before her knees buckled and she surrendered to oblivion.

  Dartmoor

  It was the unsteady gait of the horse that jolted Audra out of her stupor. She tried to recall how it had come to pass that she was lashed behind a burly, foul-smelling Anglo-Saxon warrior on what she now saw was a pony careening across bleak moorland. With all her heart she wished her head rested against Sigmar’s broad back. She longed for the chance to inhale just once more his clean, male scent. But madness lay in such longings. She was utterly alone.

  She remembered panicked shouting and running when she’d been brought before Eadwig, but after that—

  She risked a sideways glance, estimating there were probably a score of warriors in the group riding too fast across darkening moorland, as if in flight.

  Fleeing?

  It came to her that the king had warned Eadwig might try to flee to the safety of Cornwall. Dread churned in her belly. The fastest route from Exeter to the border at the river Tamar was across the dangerous expanse known as Dartmoor.

  Even in Kievan Rus Audra had heard tell of Dartmoor’s treacherous bogs, eerie standing stones, ancient tombs. None of those concerned her. The Steppes held similar perils.

  What struck terror in her heart were the stories of skeletal horsemen and black dogs as big as cows that hounded folk into madness, then disappeared into the mists.

  She breathed easier when her warrior slowed his pony. At least they wouldn’t ride heedless into a quagmire.

  Somewhere ahead, she recognized Prince Eadwig’s silly voice when he called a halt. She peered into the gathering darkness, discerning the outline of a circle of crude huts, timber structures with conical turf roofs. They looked like primitive dwellings but surely no one lived in these bleak hillocks?

  She fell from the pony when the rope binding her to the rider was suddenly cut, but managed to land on her feet.

  Shoved into one of the huts, she resolved to keep her wits about her. With everyone else drowned, she was the only member of The Dodeka left to fulfill the mission to assassinate the Anglo-Saxon prince. They had taken her dagger, evidently thinking to render her harmless. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. She’d been trained in at least—she counted in her head—ha! twelve ways to kill a man. Eadwig was doomed. She would watch for the right moment to murder him, even if she had to die in the attempt. It was the least she could do for Sigmar.

  *

  Sigmar and Fingal crept stealthily towards what appeared to be an ancient Roman baths in the center of Exeter, having sent Gertruda, Dagmar and Svein around the other side of the ruin.

  “It’s too quiet,” Fingal hissed.

  Sigmar reluctantly agreed the whole town seemed deserted. Though night had fallen, he’d expected some signs of life. Dagger drawn, he peered into the gloom of the ruins, slightly taken aback when Gertruda strolled out of the shadows holding an urchin by the scruff of the neck.

  The boy wriggled and cursed.

  “What’s this?” Fingal asked, gripping the lad’s chin and tilting his head to the meager light of the moon.

  Sigmar came close to laughing out loud when a well-aimed blob of spittle landed on Fingal’s cheek.

  Audra’s father sought to backhand the lad across the face, but Sigmar restrained him. “Wait. Perhaps he can tell us where everyone is.”

  Upon hearing his words, the boy ceased his struggles. “Vikings?” he asked in Norse.

  “Ja,” Sigmar replied.

  “My fader was a Viking,” the urchin said proudly, then he frowned. “I don’t remember him.”

  Sigmar wondered how many such orphans were scattered across England, children sired by marauding Norsemen. At least this boy’s father hadn’t killed the woman he’d raped. He hunkered down beside him. “Did he return to Scandinavia?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

  The lad shrugged.

  “What’s your name?” Sigmar asked.

  The urchin wiped a tattered sleeve across his glistening nose. “Sandor.”

  Even in the darkness, Sigmar sensed the surprise of the others. “A good Viking name,” he declared.

  Sandor grinned. “It means Truth.”

  Fingal scoffed.

  “Tell me true, then,” Sigmar said, “where are the good people of Exeter?”

  “Fled.”

  “From whom?”

  “Prince Eadwig. They fear he’ll force the menfolk into his army.”

  A chill raced up Sigmar’s spine. “And where is Prince Eadwig now?”

  “Gone.”

  Fingal brandished a fist at the boy, but Sigmar waved him off.

  “Gone where?”

  “Dartmoor, I suppose. They took flight after the blonde woman told them of the invasion.”

  Sigmar had to stand up, afraid the light-headedness that swept over him might cause him to fall over. “Blonde woman?”

  “Ja,” Sandor replied, kicking at a pebble. “I listened. I know hiding places in the ruins. She told Prince Eadwig she was one of thousands to come ashore.”

  Hope and pride soared in Sigmar’s heart. Audra had survived and somehow convinced the Anglo-Saxons she was part of an invading army.

  But Fingal posed the question he dared not ask. “Where is this woman now?”

  Sigmar held his breath. It was likely Eadwig had killed Audra. He only hoped the boy knew where her body lay so he might give her a funeral befitting a brave Viking warrior.

  “They took her with them,” Sandor replied.

  It was only then Sigmar realized what the boy had said before. Audra was in enemy hands in the treacherous morass of Dartmoor.

  Shucks

  It was difficult to see in the darkness, and the old crone’s mass of tangled hair obscured her face, but Audra assumed the wretch who lived in the hut was a woman, given the lack of a beard.

  She was clad in raiment that looked like it had come straight from the backs of sheep.

  She showed no fear of the Anglo-Saxon warriors who suddenly invaded her hut. They showed her a healthy respect, though Audra supposed the stench alone was enough to keep them at a distance.

  The hut reeked of human waste and rancid food. The unmistakable odor of rodents hung in the smoky air. Dozens of animal pelts were strung on a rope stretched across the length of the cramped space, among them squirrels, rabbits, badger.

  A peat fire smoldered in a circular hearth in the middle of the hut’s dirt floor, the only pleasant aroma in the miserable hovel. A blackened pot hung above the fire, suspended from a three legged stand.

  Audra crouched against the wall where she’d been shoved, trying not to let her fear show when Eadwig loomed over her. “Sunngifu will provide food,” he said.

  She was tempted to sneer. The withered old woman was hardly a gift of the sun.

  “Despite appearances she is a good cook,” he piped, “but do not loo
k upon her as a means of escape.” He twirled his finger in the air then pointed to his temple. “She has lived too long in this godforsaken place.”

  Audra pondered his meaning, raking her gaze along the row of dangling skins, her belly churning with thoughts of what might be in the pot boiling over the fire. She flinched when Eadwig tucked a bony finger under her chin and raised her face to his gaze.

  “As you might suspect, this hovel lacks a bathtub,” he said shrilly, “so I’m obliged to wait until Tavistock Abbey to sample you.” He licked his lips. “I’ve never bedded a female warrior.” He wrinkled his nose like a child who has just captured a toad in a smelly pond. “However, I like my women clean.”

  Somewhat amazed that Eadwig seemed to be a male after all, she thanked the gods, and the whales, for the stink clinging to her salt-stiffened clothing, and decided on a plan. Anglo-Saxon men were likely as easy to toy with as Vikings and Russians when it came to their assumptions about women and their arrogant confidence in their maleness. “Forgive the state of my attire, Prince Eadwig,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes. “I look forward to a bath.”

  He preened at her use of his royal title. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Audra,” she breathed, hoping Sigmar was watching over her from Valhalla and that he understood he was the only man she’d ever loved. She pondered which of her twelve deadly skills she would use to dispatch the foppish prince if she found herself alone with him in bed. Perhaps a swift chop to the windpipe. The notion brought comfort.

  He stepped back when Sunngifu thrust a steaming bowl of broth into her hands. “I leave you to your victuals. Get some sleep. On the morrow we continue across Dartmoor.”

  Having been offered no utensils, she sipped the surprisingly tasty broth, picking out tender chunks of meat with her fingers while Sunngifu served the men.

  Exhaustion overwhelmed her. She was dozing off when the crone took the empty bowl from her hands, grinned a toothless grin and whispered hoarse foreign words in her ear. Audra couldn’t be sure but she thought the woman said, “Don’t be afraid. Pixies will protect you.”

  She didn’t know how long she’d slept when it came.

  Distant baying.

  She’d heard the howling of wolves often enough in Kievan Rus. This was different. More like a pack of dogs. Getting closer. The men stirred, coming to their feet quickly when the flimsy hut started to shake. It was as if a hundred giant dogs were racing past at breakneck speed, their paws pounding the earth.

  Her heart beating too fast, Audra felt the men’s fear in the pitch black.

  “Only a few stray hounds,” Eadwig shrilled. “Sounds louder in the night.”

  “Shucks!” Sunngifu wailed.

  “No such thing as shucks,” Eadwig insisted. “You’re a superstitious old woman. The night watch will scare them off.”

  “Shucks!” Sunngifu screamed again. “Seen ’em.”

  The barking became an eerie howling.

  Audra clamped her hands over her ears when bloodcurdling screeches of terror drowned out even the howling.

  *

  Sigmar and his companions sat cross-legged, huddled in a circle around a blazing fire, the only light in the pitch blackness of Dartmoor. They edged closer together when the distant baying began.

  Sandor tucked himself into Sigmar’s side. “Shucks,” he murmured.

  Sigmar put his arm around the lad’s trembling shoulders. “Wolves. They won’t come near the fire.”

  “Shucks,” the boy insisted, shaking his head. “The hounds that roam the moor at night. They’re as big as cows.”

  Everyone shuffled closer to the flickering flames. Sigmar worried that even Gertruda looked gaunt. Or mayhap she was simply hungry, cold and exhausted, as they all were. Sandor had procured meager rations in Exeter, but that was hours ago. The salt from the dunking had stiffened their clothing. Sigmar’s boots were still wet and full of gritty sand, but he preferred to keep them on. They might have to move quickly, though the prospect of going anywhere in the dark and dangerous landscape filled him with misgivings.

  “It’s probably too late to prevent Eadwig’s escape into Cornwall,” Dagmar rasped, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  Sigmar no longer cared a whit about the Anglo-Saxon prince, except that he had Audra in his clutches, and for that the man had to die. If he’d defiled her…

  But he had no right to lead them into the perils of Dartmoor for personal reasons. “That may be so,” he replied. “You are free to return to Exeter when dawn breaks. You have the skills to get yourselves back to Lyme and thence to London. I will pursue Eadwig alone.”

  “Nej,” Fingal hissed. “I’ll not rest until we’ve rescued my daughter.”

  “You’ll not get far over the moor without my help,” Sandor whispered.

  Sigmar marveled at the lad’s courage. “You are indeed the son of a Viking,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “Ten and two,” Sandor replied.

  Twelve!

  “And how is it you know so much about the moor?”

  “Live here, don’t I. With my granny. Only ventured into Exeter to see what I could steal when Eadwig began assembling his army.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “A Viking indeed,” Svein said.

  “Where is your mother?” Sigmar asked.

  “Granny says she died giving birth to King Ethelred’s bastard. I don’t remember much of her.”

  Sigmar’s thoughts went back to his own ill-fated mother. At least he had the memory of her face, her loving touch. He glanced across at Fingal. When their gazes locked he knew Audra’s father was remembering his own wife, another dreadful casualty of the feud.

  Then it dawned on him what Sandor had said. “Ethelred was Eadwig’s father.”

  “That’s why Sunngifu hates him,” the lad replied.

  “Sunngifu?” Gertruda asked.

  Sandor turned to look into the blackness. “My granny. She has a hut over yonder. We’ll reach it on the morrow.”

  Sigmar’s heart raced when the boy nodded in the direction of the distant baying. Audra was there, listening to the same terrifying sounds. Of that he had no doubt.

  Pixies’ Thimbles

  The first grey streaks of dawn poked into the hovel, waking Audra just as Sunngifu knelt with difficulty at her side. “Don’t be afraid,” the old woman whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

  The hut was empty. Distant shouts drifted to her ears.

  “Guards have disappeared,” the crone chuckled, handing her a heel of stale bread.

  Unsure of her next meal, Audra chewed the food quickly then followed Sunngifu to the door, wondering what the woman meant.

  When the flimsy planked door was dragged open, Audra’s heart stopped. The bleak moorland of the previous night had been transformed into a meadow of dew-laden blue.

  “Bluebells,” she gasped, gazing in disbelief at the swaths of wildflowers, elated by the certainty creeping into her heart that Sigmar still lived.

  Sunngifu gave her a gentle push out the door. “Pixie thimbles,” she said in Norse.

  Audra turned to look at her. “You speak my language.”

  “My son-by-marriage was a Viking,” the woman replied haltingly. “Father of my grandchild. We learned from him, before Ethelred killed him and defiled my daughter.”

  Audra looked out to the moor. “Ethelred, Eadwig’s father?”

  Sunngifu nodded. “I knew one day vengeance would be mine.”

  A spark of hope kindled in Audra’s breast. Did she dare trust this woman or had living on the isolated moor stolen her wits as Eadwig claimed?

  “I was sent to make an end of the prince,” she whispered.

  “No need,” Sunngifu replied. “The dark forces of Dartmoor will accomplish that.”

  Audra looked to the hills from where Eadwig and some of his men were emerging. They gathered outside the huts, strangely silent.

  The Prince of Wessex looked pale and shaken. �
��They’ve deserted,” he whined, his voice even more annoying than usual. “There’s no other explanation for the disappearance of three men and all the ponies.”

  “But the dogs—” one soldier began.

  Eadwig glared. “That’s superstitious nonsense.”

  Sunngifu nudged Audra with her elbow. “Do you hear the doubt in his words?” she whispered.

  Audra had heard the barking and howling and the terrified screams. The earth had trembled. There was little doubt in her mind the three missing men had been attacked by dogs of some sort. She shuddered, fear marching up her spine. She’d never heard of dogs carrying off ponies.

  “Gather your belongings and prepare to leave,” Eadwig ordered. “Sunngifu will guide us, since one of the deserters was our scout.”

  The old woman winked at Audra. “As you wish, my prince,” she replied.

  *

  Sigmar stared at the swath of blue marching into the hills beyond the deserted hut, knowing in his heart Audra had taken courage from the sight.

  Fingal stood at his side. “My daughter loves bluebells,” he said. “Never understood why. Mayhap it’s a memory of her mother.”

  Sigmar was confident Fingal now acknowledged that he and Audra were destined to be together, but he was loath to share the secret of the wildflowers.

  Sandor came to his rescue. “They must have taken my grandmother as their guide and I’d say they left on foot no more than an hour ago. The embers in the hearth are still warm.”

  That augured well. The tracks they’d followed into Dartmoor indicated the Anglo-Saxons were mounted. Sigmar had despaired of catching up. “I wonder what happened to the ponies.”

  Sandor shrugged. “Looks like they were tethered outside the huts, but their hoof-prints just disappear.”

  A chill stole across Sigmar’s nape when he remembered the baying and howling they’d heard. “Mayhap the wolves frightened the ponies into bolting,” he said.

  “Mayhap,” Gertruda agreed, emerging from the hut. “It’s my sense Audra was here. I don’t know why. I just feel it in my bones.”