Tales of the Valkyries

by Asa Maria Bradley, Gina Conkle, Lisa Hendrix, Anna Markland, Emma Prince, Harper St. George

* * *

  Roswitha was afraid of horses. Indeed she’d never been near one. Thanks to her mother’s constant dire warnings, she feared men more. Where she’d dredged up the courage to confront the huge Viking, she’d never know. But there’d been no choice and her insistence had saved the day. Riding on the lap of a burly Viking was preferable to walking, and they were on the way to Worcester’s busy market.

  The horse had a smell to it, as did the man on whose thighs she perched, hesitant to look at the hard ground far below.

  She wrinkled her nose at the odor of the horse, but leaned back a little to savor the man’s pleasant, reassuring aroma. Leather and something else. She mused that mayhap all men smelled that way—although the one’s she knew stank like her step-father and poor Delwyn. But then he lived with sheep.

  “Your horse doesn’t smell like sheep,” she said, instantly regretting she’d uttered her thoughts out loud. He probably deemed her an ignorant peasant.

  He chuckled and shifted her to a different position. The warmth of his big hands penetrated her thin frock. “No. He’s not a sheep.”

  “But he does what ye tell him, like sheep do what Delwyn tells them.”

  “True. Not like a certain Roswitha I know.”

  It was pleasing that he remembered her name. “I cannot call ye by name for ye haven’t confided it to me.”

  For some reason the other Norseman who rode beside them kept chuckling, but her Viking didn’t seem amused.

  “I am Wulfram Sigmarsen, from Jomsborg.”

  Reassured by the kindness in his deep voice, she plucked up her courage. “Why did ye not want us to go to Worcester, Wulfram?”

  “Because the king has ordered the city be razed and all living things therein slaughtered.”

  WORCESTER

  Hours later, Wulfram emerged from the earl’s apartments in Worcester Priory feeling more optimistic than when he went in seeking an audience with Leofric.

  Sandor hailed him in the courtyard. “Well?”

  “We have some time. He and his Lady Godiva are in Coventry, endowing Saint Mary’s Priory with a necklace. The chamberlain mentioned at least fifty times it was worth more than 100 marks of silver.”

  Sandor scratched his head. “A necklace?”

  “Apparently to be hung on the figure of the Virgin Godiva gave them on a previous occasion.”

  “I’ve heard the earl and his lady are generous benefactors of the Church,” Sandor replied as he strode off towards the stables.

  Wulfram followed. “It would seem so, which augurs well for his response to the king’s order. He will have no choice but to destroy the city, but I wager he won’t have any objection if we do what we can to save his people.”

  Sandor glanced around. “You’re talking treason, brother.”

  Wulfram shook his head. “Harthacanute wants anyone found in the city to be killed. What if the city is empty? How to prove there is no one dead in the ruins?”

  Sandor shrugged. “I’m tired of this country anyway. If we have to flee home to Jomsborg, so be it. What’s the plan?”

  “I believe it was God’s will we met Roswitha.”

  Sandor laughed out loud as he led his gelding out of the stable. “God’s will, eh?”

  Wulfram ignored the taunt. “When I told her of the king’s plan, she spoke of an abbey close to where she lives that could provide sanctuary for hundreds. It’s a scant five miles from Worcester, but far enough for as many as we can persuade to go there.”

  As they mounted, Sandor expressed his reservations. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a mere girl.”

  Wulfram pondered his brother’s words. “It’s true, but I trust her. She’s brave.”

  Sandor winked. “And beautiful.”

  Wulfram saw an opportunity to get his own back. “You’re a married man who isn’t supposed to notice other women.”

  Sandor made a big show of cupping his privates. “My pik is content to wait until I reunite with Inga again. You’re in need of a wife, and you’re right that Roswitha is determined, and hardworking, as you’ve mentioned countless times. Besides what future does she have with a crippled step-father and tax collectors pursuing her? She’d be better off with you in Jomsborg.”

  As they made their way through the crowded streets of Worcester to the market, Wulfram wondered if he was pinning too much hope on Roswitha. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken of her so often, though she had been in his thoughts. Or mayhap Sandor was simply teasing him.

  They rode past many families on their way to market, men and women laden with everything from bundles of firewood to pots and pans to candles. Children dashed out of the way of their horses, mothers scolded them for it, blithely unaware of impending doom.

  Wulfram knew in his heart he had to try to save them, but they wouldn’t listen to him. Roswitha was the key.

  * * *

  An adder writhed in Roswitha’s belly. Sales of her father’s cloth were brisk and she was glad of Delwyn’s solid presence beside her. One glimpse of his beefy frame would discourage any ne’er-do-well who might think to rob her of the purse slung across her body. She was confident she already had enough coin to ransom her step-father.

  But she had an urge to blurt out to anyone who came to her stall that they shouldn’t linger to buy goods that would be of no use to the dead.

  Run, hide your children, save yourselves, she wanted to shout.

  But she was afraid. The earl’s men patrolled the busy market. They might haul her off to the dungeon for causing a disturbance. She’d be accused of lunacy, or worse.

  She feared too for Wulfram, the kindly Dane who wasn’t like other Danes. He’d tried to explain he was different and she hadn’t understood. One thing she knew, however, was that the warrior had stirred the interest of her female parts and roused feelings of longing she’d never known before. She wished she was sitting in his lap atop his enormous horse riding off to a better life.

  Would Leofric condemn him for the message he brought?

  Relief surged when she caught sight of him making his way on foot towards her through the crowd. He’d left his horse somewhere, probably with the other man.

  Her heart filled with pride. He didn’t push or shove, but folk stepped aside anyway, evidently impressed by his size and kindly demeanor, though the clench of his jaw betrayed his inner turmoil to anyone who knew he brought death and destruction.

  She’d never had the urge to touch a man before, but she reached for his hand, wanting him to know she understood his dilemma and admired his compassion. Her heart nigh on stopped beating when he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a warm kiss on her knuckles, as if she was a noble lady. “How goes it?” he asked. “Are sales good?”

  It occurred to her that most men would flee back to Westminster after delivering such a dire message, yet Wulfram was enquiring about the progress of her enterprise. She assumed it meant the earl’s soldiers wouldn’t be rushing into the market with swords drawn any time soon. “It goes well, but what of the fate of Worcester?”

  Still holding her hand in his gentle grip, he bent to whisper in her ear. “The earl and his lady are away in Coventry. It gives us a few days grace. We must warn people. Tell them to walk to your abbey without making a fuss of it. Can you do that?”

  The warmth and determination in his brown eyes gave her courage. “Yes, but who will take care of my stall?”

  “I will,” he said with a wink. “With Delwyn’s help.”

  GODRIC

  The first person Roswitha sought out was Godric the Cooper. He was well respected, not to mention feared. If she could convince him, others would follow. At first he refused her request to accompany him to her stall to meet with Wulfram, but agreed when she pointed out the burly Viking tending her wares at the far end of the market. She had a feeling his curiosity had got the better of him.

  She trailed along as he shouldered his way through the crowd and stood beside him when he reached the stall. Anything she might say would
be deemed unnecessary female interference, so she kept silent.

  Godric braced his beefy legs and tucked his thumbs into his broad belt. “Ye’ve summat to tell folk?” he asked Wulfram.

  “Not here. Somewhere private.”

  Godric hesitated but then cocked his head in the direction of the market cross. Wulfram smiled at her as he followed the cooper.

  She turned her attention to Delwyn, who grinned and jiggled the purse that seemed much fuller than when she’d left a scant ten minutes before. “Keep it out of sight,” she hissed, casting an eye on the few remaining pieces of nettle-cloth.

  “Sold a lot,” Delwyn declared, still grinning.

  She went up on her toes, trying to get a glimpse of Wulfram and Godric. They stood near the cross, heads close together. The cooper didn’t look happy, but then he never did.

  * * *

  Wulfram was reluctant to draw out the parchment from his gambeson, but realized it was the only way to convince the cooper. He held the missive close to his chest hoping only Godric could see the royal seal. “You understand why I cannot break the seal and show you the contents, but I am confident you’ve heard of the murder of the tax collectors in your town. The king wants revenge.”

  Godric closed one eye and arched the other brow. “An’ he means to slaughter all o’ we?”

  Wulfram nodded.

  “An’ burn the town? Nay, our earl won’t allow it.”

  “He’ll have no choice if he values his and his family’s lives. But we must hope he will be glad to find the city empty when he sets about the destruction.”

  Godric raked filthy nails through his bushy red beard for so long Wulfram feared the grating sound might drive him mad. Finally he adjusted the ties of his leather apron. “I’ll get folk together to spread the word. Fulbert the Fletcher, mayhap and Judith the Alewife…”

  “We must avoid panic. Get an orderly exodus going to Pershore without alerting the authorities.”

  “Aye,” Godric agreed. “Leave it to me.” He strode away a few paces but then turned and came back. “I thank ye fer yer bravery. And yon lass, too.”

  I ONLY WISH

  Two days later, Wulfram delivered Roswitha, a full purse and an empty cart to her dwelling in Pershore, dismayed to discover she dwelt in a hovel that wouldn’t be considered fit for his family’s thralls back home.

  He’d enjoyed her company on the journey from Worcester and was glad she seemed to have lost some of her nervousness, even leaning back against him on the horse.

  He’d bought a salve for her sore hands from an apothecary and the pleasant minty aroma filled his nostrils.

  He dismounted and lifted her down, reluctant to leave her. She gripped his shoulders and he’d a notion to press her to his body when her feet touched the dirt, but her step-father’s growl and Sandor’s grin dissuaded him. The expectation in her green eyes turned to disappointment.

  Her step-father didn’t rise from the stone on which he sat. It was worrisome that they exchanged no words of affection. The old cripple merely nestled the bulging purse at his groin, then grunted and spat when Roswitha explained who they were, his attention more on the scores of folk trudging by on their way to the abbey.

  “Your daughter has helped save hundreds of lives,” Wulfram told him. “You should be proud.”

  The old man scowled at Roswitha as if he didn’t know her, then squinted up at Wulfram. “Ye be a Dane.”

  He didn’t have time or inclination to explain once again that he was from Jomsborg so he got to the heart of the matter. “These folk are from Worcester. They seek sanctuary at Pershore Abbey from King Harthacanute’s wrath.”

  “Said there’d be trouble on ’count o’ the killin’. They bin traipsin’ by all day,” was the response.

  Roswitha touched Wulfram’s arm and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “He sometimes drinks too much ale when the pain in his legs is bad.”

  He drew her away and held her hands. “I am loath to leave you here, Roswitha. Yet I fear once the king learns of my treachery I will be banished.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “Ye will leave England?”

  He brushed away the teardrop with his thumb. “Don’t weep for me. I shall be glad to return home to Jomsborg. I only wish…”

  * * *

  Roswitha wished with all her heart she could go with Wulfram to the homeland he loved so dearly and had talked about almost without surcease. He’d hinted he needed a wife, but that didn’t mean…

  She’d never wanted to be anyone’s wife, having witnessed her mother’s suffering, though she doubted Wulfram would ever use his fists on a woman.

  But her duty lay here, in Pershore, helping her step-father. “I wish ye Godspeed then, Wulfram,” she croaked, avoiding his gaze.

  Her heart careened around her ribcage when he folded her in his massive arms, and lifted her to his hard body. “Come with me, Roswitha. I want you for wife.”

  His mouth was so close to hers, she could almost kiss him. She’d dreamt of his lips on hers since he’d kissed her hand. But such was a foolish notion. She shook her head. “Ye barely know me.”

  “I know enough. My heart and my body tell me you are the one.”

  Her step-father brandished a crutch. “Leave her be, Viking, and be gone.”

  She pushed against his chest. “Best ye put me down or he’ll be angry.”

  He obeyed, his jaw clenched. “Is he ever not angry?”

  She was torn. “He has suffered a lot. Ye cannot blame him.” She spoke the truth, though she’d never admit Kennald’s goading of the tax collectors had incensed them to brutality.

  Wulfram’s brother whistled.

  “Ye are needed,” she said. “See them safely to the abbey.”

  He tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I want to kiss you goodbye, Roswitha, but I am hesitant to bring his wrath down on your head.” He reached into his gambeson and drew out something that he pressed into her hand. “Take this instead as a remembrance of me.”

  As he strode away and mounted his horse, she uncurled her fingers. He’d gifted her a drop of amber with a tiny blue flower blooming forever at its center. She clutched it to her breast. “I will treasure it always,” she whispered tearfully.

  INEXPLICABLE FORCES

  Wulfram had thought never to part with the talisman his mother had given him. Audra had a special place in her heart for the bluebells she liked to call Pixies’ Thimbles.

  It was fitting he’d gifted it to Roswitha as a token of his love, for he admitted the feelings swelling in his heart and loins were proof he loved her. And she likely needed luck more than he did.

  That notion was cast into doubt when he and Sandor espied a group of mounted men amid the excited throngs gathered in the abbey grounds.

  “Trouble,” Sandor said.

  They rode ahead until they were challenged by a soldier. “What business have ye with the earl?”

  “Earl Leofric is here?” Wulfram asked, taking the missive from his gambeson. “I have a message for him from the king.”

  The soldier eyed him sceptically and he was relieved when Godric the Cooper pushed his way out of the crowd. “He speaks true. ’Tis as I bin tryin’ to esplain to the earl.”

  The aforesaid earl chose that moment to ride up, his lady not far behind.

  Wulfram dismounted and went down on one knee, bowed his head and held the parchment high. “I am Wulfram Sigmarsen, my lord, and I carry a message from King Harthacanute.”

  Leofric dismounted, took the scroll and tapped it against his thigh. “I was on my way home from Coventry and I found all these people here who have fled Worcester. Then Godric tells me the king wants me to destroy my own town and slaughter my own people.”

  Wulfram risked looking up. “He speaks true. The king seeks vengeance for the murder of his tax collectors.”

  Leofric glanced back at his ashen-faced wife, then turned his attention back to Wulfram. “And I assume it was you who told Godric of the cont
ents of this private letter?”

  Wulfram swallowed hard, wishing he had the talisman. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You are a Dane, yet you betray your Danish king to an English earl.”

  Wulfram decided this wasn’t the time to explain his roots, but he had to make his motives clear. “We are all interested in the well-being of these English people, my lord. I took the liberty of assuming you would be obliged to carry out the destruction of Worcester, but it would weigh heavily if you had to kill your own people.”

  Lady Godiva urged her horse forward. Wulfram couldn’t recall ever seeing tresses so long nor a face so fair. “This man knows you well, Leofric,” she said softly, “though he has never met you before.”

  Leofric smiled grimly and ripped open the parchment. He scanned the contents quickly then stuffed it into his gambeson, signalling for Wulfram to rise. “Indeed, you are right that I must lay waste to a town I have striven to make prosper, but I thank you for relieving me of the burden of the slaughter of innocents.”

  He remounted and declared loudly. “My wife will remain here with our people while I attend to my duty as a loyal subject of the king.”

  People cheered, though it was clear they were dismayed at the fate that had befallen their earl and their town. They slowly trooped into the abbey, shepherded by the monks.

  Leofric leaned down to speak to Wulfram. “My advice to you is to flee England and find a place where Harthacanute will never think of looking. The man is dying anyway so you won’t have to hide for long.”

  Wulfram smiled. “I know just the place.”

  * * *

  Roswitha hurried along the path to the Abbey, the amber clutched tightly in her hand, praying that all would be well and she would arrive in time. She wore her only other prized possession—her mother’s shawl.

  She feared for Wulfram. If Leofric sentenced him to death, she had to speak for him, even if it meant putting her own life in jeopardy.

  If the earl sanctioned his plan he might expect Wulfram to ride with him to destroy Worcester. This notion was quickly dispelled when a man she recognised as the earl galloped by at the head of a large troop of soldiers. She scrambled out of the bushes into which she’d launched herself upon hearing the thud of horses’ hooves, thankful Wulfram wasn’t among them, but she was heartsick for the folk in Worcester who hadn’t listened.