She kept her gaze fixed on Sigmar, gratified the king had elevated him to a position slightly behind the throne. It was a high honor considering the gravity of the proceedings. His face gave away nothing of his bereavement. “He has found favor with the king,” she whispered in reply. “It wouldn’t be wise to challenge Canute’s decisions, especially now.”
Fingal grunted, then shouldered his way through the crowd to Torkild. That didn’t augur well. She wondered if the former head of the Jomsborg brotherhood worried about his standing in the king’s eyes. She likely wasn’t the only one surprised that Sigmar served as Canute’s counsellor this day.
One after another the English nobles came forward to pledge to Canute and the old code of laws established by King Edgar.
It was possible she would be assigned to lure some of these men to their deaths if their oaths proved false. Should Canute decide against using her skills, someone else would do the deed. She narrowed her eyes as a realization dawned. It would fall to Sigmar. He’d acted in such a capacity for the king before. It was written in the stern set of his jaw and his uncompromising eye. Had he been the one to dispatch Edmund Ironside?
The irony stuck in her throat. Two innocents from Jomsborg forced by circumstances beyond their control to become clandestine killers.
The crowd held its collective breath when Prince Eadwig Ætheling bent the knee before the throne. The dispossessed heir to the Kingdom of Wessex was richly garbed in an ankle length linen tunic, belted at the waist, over which he wore a heavy fur-lined mantle. Audra had seen many such cloaks in the east where the winter weather warranted such warmth, but she had never seen one with as many cords and tassels.
Numerous gold bracelets adorned his wrists and gold earrings dangled from pierced ears. He outshone the king who had donned his ringed mail shirt, but it was Canute who wore the crown Eadwig was heir to. The last surviving son of the dead Ethelred had been declared an outlaw, but rumor was rife he was to be pardoned and allowed to live in England. His presence seemed to confirm it. His high-pitched, nasally voice took many by surprise as he swore his allegiance to Canute and adherence to the laws of his grandfather.
Canute furrowed his brow, apparently unsure if Eadwig was mocking him. “What of your nephews?” the king enquired as the prince came to his feet with some difficulty thanks to the fur-lined cloak. “I don’t see Ironside’s sons with you today.”
Everyone present was aware Ironside’s children were babes in arms. Audra felt a pang of pity for the opulently-dressed young man standing beneath Canute’s critical eye. Like her, he’d lost most of his immediate family to the sword.
“Taken to Hungary, Sire,” Eadwig replied in the same peculiar voice.
Canute chuckled. “And your half-brothers, Edward and Alfred?”
“To Normandy, Sire.”
Canute stroked his beard, a strange glint in his eye. “Ah. Fled with their mother, Emma, no doubt.”
Audra had heard the rumors Canute intended to wed Ethelred’s widow, Emma, daughter of Richard, Duke of Normandy. She stood on tiptoe to get a better view of Elfgifu seated next to Canute. Her ashen pallor told Audra the rumors were true. The woman probably feared for the two infant sons she had borne the new king.
“Aye,” Eadwig replied, his whining voice deepening slightly.
Canute stared at him for long minutes then declared. “I accept your oath, Eadwig, and welcome you as a loyal subject.”
The Anglo-Saxon bowed and took his leave.
Chatter resumed among the crowd, most of it centered on Eadwig’s effeminate voice.
It was only a momentary twitching of Sigmar’s eyebrow that gave Audra pause. Prince Eadwig’s days were numbered.
*
The torches in the langhus had long since burned out, but the sickly sweetness of pine pitch hung in the air. The hearth fires provided the only light as the last of the Anglo-Saxon nobles made his sworn oath.
Most of the crowd had dispersed as the monotony wore on. At a signal from Canute, a handful of huscarls ushered the die-hards out into the night. Sigmar harbored a faint hope he might catch sight of Audra among them, though he’d sensed her departure hours ago.
He’d eaten nothing since his father’s death, glad now he’d refused most of the tankards of ale offered by those expressing condolences. Not that they were many in number. He wasn’t surprised to discover his father hadn’t been well-liked, or even respected.
He longed to seek his bed, but the king would likely wish to hear his opinions.
Canute ordered the great doors closed and commanded the guard to wait outside, then nodded to the chair beside him vacated by Elfgifu. “Sit,” he said tersely.
Sigmar hesitated. It wasn’t his place to sit on the same level as a king. “It’s the Queen’s chair,” he said.
“Sit,” Canute repeated, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I am too weary to argue and you look ready to collapse. Besides, Elfgifu isn’t queen of the English.”
Sigmar obeyed, admittedly feeling better to be off his feet.
Canute yawned. “On the morrow we’ll talk at length and make a list. However, first on that list will be Prince Eadwig.”
This didn’t come as a surprise. “Yes, Sire.”
Canute stretched his arms over his head. “Then you too have heard that he already foments rebellion in the south west? Yet he kneels before me in princely raiment and swears his allegiance sounding more like a woman than a man.”
Sigmar nodded. “There have been rumblings, Sire.”
He stood quickly when the king came to his feet.
“My guards will escort me to my pavilion,” Canute said hoarsely. “You must seek your furs. You’ve had a difficult day. I thank you for your loyalty.”
Sigmar bowed. “And I thank you, Sire, for the funeral ceremony and…”
It came to him then he had no idea if Sophia still knelt in the mud by the river. He’d not given her any instructions to do otherwise.
Canute held up a hand. “It was the least we could do.”
Once he’d safely delivered the king to the guards, he kindled a fresh torch from the hearth and hurried to the river, relieved to see no sign of Sophia. But where was she? As he scanned the bank, a young thrall emerged from the shadows. He raised the torch to illuminate her face. “Lord Sigmar,” she said nervously, her eyes downcast, “I am Praxia. I have taken care of Sophia. She is safe in your tent.”
The girl looked familiar, but she spoke with a foreign accent and he was too tired for riddles. “On whose authority?” he asked with more belligerence than he intended.
“My lady Audra’s,” she replied.
He touched his hand to the hidden tattoo. It was risky, interfering in matters concerning another Viking’s slave, but Audra had sensed his turmoil at the river and done what little she could to ease his sorrow. “Convey my thanks to your mistress,” he rasped, wishing with all his heart he was abed with her, expressing his gratitude in a very intimate way.
Praxia bowed and disappeared into the night.
Sigmar stared into the black river. A few chunks of charred wood floated on the surface. “Goodbye, Fader,” he whispered. “Don’t cause trouble in Valhalla. Odin will be angry.”
A chill settled on his nape that had naught to do with the winter damp. Someone watched, likely Andreassen. Sigmar would keep his oath to Canute regarding vengeance, but unfortunate accidents happened in unsettled times. If the wretch insisted on following him…
But the prospect disturbed him. Andreassen was Audra’s father.
He made his way to his tent, relieved to find Sophia curled up on his father’s furs. He shucked off his boots, disrobed quickly, then settled into his own bed and fell into a deep sleep, oddly finding comfort in the thrall’s softly snoring presence.
Rune-Stone
Sigmar jolted awake and grabbed the hand shaking his shoulder. He sat up, dismayed to see it was Sophia who had wakened him. He’d been dreaming of Audra, but the pleasant morning erectio
n disappeared abruptly at the sight of the thrall’s face. The swelling was noticeably less, but her nose was definitely broken.
Sophia had been a faithful servant and bed companion to his father for many a year. All he’d left her with was a disfigurement. But then what had he left Sigmar?
“Come,” she urged excitedly, pulling on his arm.
He noticed she’d laid out his clothing, something she never did. Evidently she expected to be his thrall now. He supposed she was his responsibility, so long as she didn’t think to warm his bed.
She helped him don his leggings, shirt and jerkin. He’d dressed in front of her many times and never thought twice about it, but having her assist him with the garments seemed odd.
She went to work on his hair, fixing the braids that had loosened during the night. He winced as she pulled tight. “Slow down. What are you so excited about?” he complained.
She bowed low in the thrall’s posture of repentance, her swollen nose almost touching the dirt floor. He regretted his impatience. “I’m not going to beat you, Sophia, but it isn’t dawn yet and…”
“Rune-stone,” she murmured, resuming her task.
Having spent the night dreaming alternately of making love with Audra, picking bluebells, and chopping off Eadwig’s head, all the while struggling to stay afloat in a burning river, his sleep-deprived wits failed him. “What?”
Humming, she finished her plaiting and reached for his boots. He took them from her and pulled them on his feet. May as well make it plain from the start she wasn’t to be his personal slave.
She pouted, but came to her feet and opened the tent flap. He made his way to the latrines where she waited at a discreet distance while he saw to his needs. Already irritated by her evident determination to dog his steps, he clenched his jaw when she beckoned him towards the river. “Come,” she insisted.
Whatever it was she wanted him to see, he decided to get it over with, then he would break his fast in the langhus and begin preparations for the voyage down the Tamesis to London. It came to him as he walked that several men were heading in the same direction. One slapped him on the back. “A great honor,” he said deferentially.
Sigmar had no idea what the fellow was talking about until he encountered a hushed crowd. A path opened up as if by a miracle and he found himself staring at a large rune-stone sitting solidly on top of his father’s grave.
In a daze he walked up to the waist high marker, running his gaze over the runes.
Alvar Haraldsen died here
A proud Jomsviking
Huscarl to King Canute
Slain by a golden sword
Conflicting thoughts swirled in his brain. It was true his father had never forgotten his roots in Jomsborg, and might even take a perverse pleasure in the mention of the golden sword. The other irony was that Sophia, a Pomeranian who wasn’t a Viking, knelt beside him, her bruised face aglow with immense pride at the unexpected honor Canute had bestowed on his misbegotten father.
But for the first time the reality Alvar Haraldsen was dead hit him squarely in the gut.
Heart thudding in his ears, he traced a fingertip over the runes. A mason must have worked through the night to craft the marker.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, looking out at the river, one hand atop the rune-stone. The respectfully silent crowd drifted away, but the prickle on his nape told him someone still kept watch.
When he turned, he wasn’t surprised to see Audra. He knew in the moment their eyes met that she was somehow responsible for the marker.
“Would he approve?” she asked softly.
Honor demanded he shun this woman, but she held his heart. And he’d been right. Her eyes were brown, dark and deep. He returned her smile. “Ja. He would approve.”
*
Audra had pondered long and hard on how to approach the king about a rune-stone without her father knowing of it. He would object fiercely to any notion of honoring his enemy, but she believed the marker was Sigmar’s due. Haraldsen had destroyed her life, but he had sired a proud warrior, a credit to Jomsborg and all it stood for. He’d also been a faithful huscarl to the Dane.
Finally, it struck her as obvious that the way for a woman to get a message to the king was through another woman. It was a bittersweet notion for someone who’d spent her life dressing and behaving as a man, but she was granted an audience in Elfgifu’s private pavilion almost too readily.
Canute’s concubine at first seemed reluctant to approach the king, until Audra told her the story of Jomsborg and the feud.
“You love him,” Elfgifu whispered when the sorry tale was done.
“Ja,” she rasped in reply, knowing in her heart it was true, “but we can never be together. A river of blood lies between us.”
“But you have much in common, and if Sigmar Alvarsen is tasked with forming a special company of assassins, you should be part of it. I will speak to the king.”
Audra didn’t wish to argue with a woman who for the moment held sway as a queen, and her own advancement hadn’t been the reason for coming. But at least now she knew the purpose of the new company.
Elfgifu looked her in the eye. “Do you not wish to be selected?”
Audra was surprised to discover she thirsted for the prestige. Selection would be a vindication of her undeserved banishment from Jomsborg and a recognition of her value as a warrior. It would also mean staying in England, with Sigmar. Just to be close to him might be enough. She had dreaded a return to Kievan Rus. “I do, my lady.”
“Good,” Elfgifu replied smugly. “It shall be done.”
Gertruda awaited Audra outside the pavilion. As they made their way back to their tent, her Second asked, “Did she agree to speak to Canute about the rune-stone?”
It came to her she didn’t know the answer. She could only hope the stone would be in place before Canute’s court left for London.
The night of uncertainty worrying on the matter had been worth it when she saw Sigmar’s obvious surprise and pride upon first espying the rune-stone. The mason had done a fine job, though she wondered about the wording, relieved when Sigmar assured her with a half smile his father would have approved.
Sigmar would never know who had prompted the creation of the marker. She was certain Canute would claim it was his idea. As a typical Viking he probably thought it was.
The only thing she had to concern herself with now was Sigmar’s reaction if he was commanded to include her in the new company. She knew what his feelings were towards Fingal, but had no way of knowing his opinion of her.
Abingdon
More than one hundred longboats set out on the return journey to London. Audra and her comrades travelled with her father, as they had on the voyage upriver to Oxenaforda.
Like their colorful marquee tents, the Russian style boat always attracted curious admiring glances. Staring into the dark water while the elegant craft glided along, she recalled their departure from Kievan Rus. They set off as soon as Fingal heard the news of Canute’s successes in his campaign to regain the English crown. They sailed down the Slavuta to the Dark Sea and on to Constantinople where her father engaged a weapon-smith to gild several of his swords and daggers. The talk in the bazaars and markets was of Canute’s intention to welcome men of great wealth into the ranks of his huscarls.
The increased value of their cargo necessitated hiring more mercenaries. Hired men tended to be big and heavy, slaves were not, and many were sold off in the market. Audra insisted on keeping Praxia, and no one dared suggest her father give up Seslav. Despite the fewer numbers on board she often feared the still overloaded boat might capsize on the perilous journey across the Inland Sea.
At first some of the new men thought to take advantage of the women; Gertruda quickly solved the problem by slitting the throats of two would be rapists with one stroke of her dagger—a simple back and forth movement neither man saw or heard coming. After that they were left alone. Fingal sulked over the loss of two men, placate
d only when Gertruda handed him the purse of gold he’d already paid each of them.
In Qádis word came of Edmund Ironside’s death. “See,” Fingal chortled as they prepared to face the unpredictable waters of the Cantabrian Sea, “did I not tell you I foresaw these happenings. Canute evidently has a company like yours in his army. He has dispatched his rival efficiently and will be ruler of all of England, and we will find a place in the ranks of his huscarls.”
This had been his ambition since the death of King Vladimir and the disintegration of Kievan Rus, torn apart by treacherous strife over the succession. Audra had watched her father weary of the betrayals. He was a warrior who would fight to the death, but he needed to know which side men were on.
She too had longed for a different life in a place that felt more like home than the Steppes.
Her father drove the crew hard, determined to reach London in time for Canute’s Christmas coronation, but they arrived a few days late. When he learned of the king’s intention to journey to Oxenaforda, he sought and obtained permission to accompany the royal procession.
Now, sailing the few miles down the Tamesis to Abingdon on the first leg of the return journey, she was heartily glad her father had ignored her protestations that the men were weary after more than a month at sea. Had they not gone to Oxenaforda, she might never have been reunited with Sigmar.
Fingal’s vessel was far back in the convoy. Sigmar travelled with the king in his longboat; pride swelled in her heart that Canute valued her childhood friend.
Her father had forbidden further contact with him, convinced Sigmar would seek revenge for Alvar’s death. Not even Canute’s assurances had changed his thinking.
*
Less than an hour after leaving Oxenaforda, Sigmar stepped out of Canute’s longboat as it nudged the rickety dock at Abingdon Abbey. He braced his legs and offered his hand to Abbot Ethelsige, who had travelled in the royal boat.
The rotund cleric beamed his gratitude for the assistance. “I’m always thankful for the monks who long ago labored to dig this waterway from the river to the abbey,” he enthused to no one in particular, grasping Sigmar’s hand firmly with both of his as he sought to manoeuvre his cumbersome body out of the bobbing craft.
Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection Page 11
