His Captive (Historical Viking Romance)

by Amy Faye

  She wanted to sleep. Wanted to slump over and just relax. As her breathing slowed, everything that had happened caught up with her. She marshaled her self-control and forced herself to stay upright. Gunnar reached down and plucked up the knife, rubbing the blood off on a dead Englishman's shirt, and then fitted it into a scabbard at his waist.

  Finally Deirdre found her voice as he stood back up. "I want to go home now."

  She sounded weak almost pathetic. She hated that she felt this way, but couldn't stop herself. She didn't have the energy for anything more. Her jaw trembled, her knees shook with the effort of standing.

  Gunnar nodded silently. His eyes still scanned, in sporadic bouts, and Deirdre turned her head to look, nearly stumbling. Across the field, men were winning. Then she noticed the archers. They waited at a distance, arrows ready but not drawn.

  In the time it would take to cross the span, it would be easy for them to draw and fire. Indeed, she could see the big body of a man who had already tried it.

  "Come," Gunnar said, a guiding hand on her arm. Then they were off and moving. Deirdre's legs struggled to keep up with the pace that he set, but as she pushed herself she found herself steadying. The purpose helped to re-light the fire.

  Gunnar stopped to deal a blow to an English soldier, caught up in fighting another Northman, and somehow, Deirdre thought, things were about to go very wrong.

  The day had already been long, and the fighting had gone on longer than he had hoped. In the stolen moments between threats he tried to catch his breath, but they were far from out of trouble. He turned the sword in his hand, tried to loosen his already-sore muscles, and Gunnar started moving.

  He told her it was time to leave, and it was the right decision. Any longer, and those archers were going to become a problem. Someone would need to deal with them, and he wasn't volunteering for it. He'd already made enough mistakes, he wasn't about to risk her life again for nothing.

  He kept his head moving, kept scanning. Which way would see them through with the least fighting? Which of the raiding party would let them slip through without trying to stop them? Gunnar caught a low-chopping sword on his blade, and hit. Once, twice, and the cut didn't miss its mark.

  He hadn't felt like this in years. Like a well-oiled machine, made for fighting. Around him, Gunnar could see the same happening in the others, as well. As the fight continued, as their muscles tired, they seemed only to be better at fighting. The way past Ulf and Leif would see them free to the west. The English had a tight knot of men, but the two of them cut a swath of death through on their own.

  He turned to head toward them, turning his sword to its deadly purpose. One after another. Mechanical, trained, and easy. He barely had to think about it. Even still, the more that he cut down the more seemed to appear, every one of them committed to making sure that neither of them were able to leave.

  He jerked his blade free of another English corpse, his head swiveling to keep an eye out. Magnus called out to someone for help, but the call came from too far. At the same time, an Englishman with a shiny brass signet called out orders from atop a horse, at a safe distance.

  The fight seemed as if it were going in their favor, but the way that things were going there was no way to win it. The realization was there, and he couldn't figure a way that it was wrong, but he couldn't make himself care, either. If he hadn't made the promise, he had to admit, he would never leave here.

  But he had to, and he couldn't afford anything else. The look of recognition on Ulf's face was followed by an instant of surprise. An Englishman took the chance to marshal an attack, but Ulf knocked it away before separating the man's head from his body. Trained, quick, and getting quicker by the minute.

  A voice from far away cried out, and Gunnar ignored it, like he ignored all of them. He had a job to do. It took him a minute to realize that it was his name being called. He turned, not stopping his retreat, barely pausing in the fight with the ambushing soldiers.

  Valdemar stood, a half-dozen or more English bodies almost in a heap at his feet. His shoulders heaved with the effort of breathing under the weight of his heavy ax.

  "Gunnar! Come back here and fight me!"

  Gunnar turned back, jerked his hand free, and turned to the next one.

  "Coward!"

  He ran the point through the man's gut until it showed on the other side, and then pried it free again. He had something to do. Had a job to perform. Deirdre didn't belong on a battlefield. It was too dangerous. They were all dead men, after all, if they stayed. He couldn't let Deirdre face that fate. Not after he'd sworn to protect her.

  He cut his way free. The word rang in his head. Coward. He had a duty to perform. This was a priority. Nobody would doubt his courage, nor his valor, simply because he protected a defenseless woman. Never trained in fighting, lighter than the pack he carried on his back.

  No, he had to go. He looked out. He'd made the edge of the fight, finally. It was a short run through the forest, and then they'd be on the other side of the ditch and free and clear. Who would follow them, with the battle still raging?

  They were free. The word rang out in his head. Coward.

  This was all he'd ever wanted. To strive and slay, and at the end, to be able to tell his stories forever in the feast-halls at Valhalla. And now he ran away, because—because what? Because he needed to nanny a woman grown?

  His hand went to the blade at his waist without thinking. He pulled the scabbard free entirely, and held it out to Deirdre.

  "Go."

  Her eyebrows furrowed. She looked pretty, Gunnar thought. "You're coming with me."

  "If we go together, they might follow. I can give you time to escape."

  "If you're with me, then you can protect me."

  He felt frustration flaring up, fought to stifle it. "When I'm certain no one will follow, then I will join you. I'll be right behind. Go, hide. I will find you."

  She didn't like it, he could see it in her eyes. But she did what she was told. She took the knife, and then, as fast as her unsteady legs could carry her, she ran. Gunnar gripped the sword, turning it in his hand. Feeling it's weight.

  He was no coward.

  Twenty-Six

  She didn't want to stop. Didn't want to think at all about what was happening, other than to keep moving. She was away. Gunnar would follow. She had to believe him. If not, then she… Deirdre struggled to figure what she would do. She would have to figure something out.

  But for the first time in months, she was completely free. She enjoyed the feeling of the wind in her hair, enjoyed knowing that no matter what happened, no one would stop her. She let out a long breath and kept moving. She needed to keep moving, no matter what happened.

  Her bare feet ached and stung with each step as brambles and pricks jabbed her, but she kept moving. Her legs steadied themselves as she moved, as she got more and more used to the idea.

  The feeling of freedom was strange, and it mixed in with other feelings that she didn't want to have to confront right now. What had she done in that camp? She'd killed a man, and not a Viking. Not a man who she had any reason to hate. He'd called her 'whore' and threatened to kill her, so she'd killed him first.

  Was that what she was now? Someone who killed without a second thought? The thought made her double over and vomit.

  Keep moving, she told herself. Don't think about it.

  She looked back in the direction she'd come, still trying to move as fast as she could, and stumbled over a tree root. There was nothing the way she'd come. If she remembered, she was heading… east? Should be toward the sea.

  But the realization didn't help much. How was she going to get back home from the sea? It was far enough away from Malbeck, and from her little cottage, that she had never seen it. She just knew the general heading.

  What was happening? Had Gunnar gotten away? Had they won? A thousand questions burned in her head. None of them seemed to have any ready answers coming to her, so she just let herself wonder.
No need to panic when there was plenty of time for that to come.

  Now she needed to find a place to rest. One side of a large oak tree had receded, and made a comfortable-looking hidey-hole. She sat down and wasn't as surprised as she should have been that her eyes immediately felt heavy. She had better self-control than that. She could manage to stay awake, to wait for Gunnar.

  He was going to come, she knew. He'd promised, and it was that simple. He was just taking his time about it, which was frustrating. She tried to play through things in her mind. He really had come to save her.

  It was romantic, and gave her a feeling beyond the overwhelming fatigue. A little warmth right deep inside. She fought to keep her eyes open. But he'd better come soon. If he took too long he wouldn't be able to find her. She'd be asleep in this little hollow of an oak tree, and he'd walk right by without realizing.

  The thought helped her keep her eyes open. She needed to be awake. When he came, it wouldn't be long now, she needed to let him know where she was. That was her job. She had to stay safe and make sure he found her, when the time came. Then she could sleep, and he'd be there to make sure she was safe.

  She clutched the knife that he'd given back to her like a swaddling blanket. A blanket would have been nice, she thought to herself. The weather was still too cold for staying outside without heavier clothing.

  Deirdre caught her mind wandering and set herself straight. She had to be awake. When Gunnar came… if he came… she had to be there.

  But it had been an awfully long time. She looked up at the sun, most of its blinding brightness blocked by the tree branches. How long had she waited there? An hour? More? How long would it take for him to get away? How long could it take? She didn't like the answers that she was coming up with.

  That was a dangerous habit for a woman to get into. Her teacher would never have approved. But Brigid had never been perfect herself. She would have probably worried just as much, and probably would've tried to change things. That was how she had always been. That was why she'd left Deirdre, after all.

  She took a breath and started counting. One… two… three…

  It helped to keep her mind on something. To pass the time, to help stave off the tiredness that had threatened to overwhelm her from the very beginning. It wouldn't do for her to let herself go completely, but it was what she had to work with, so she would do what she had to do.

  She counted as high as a hundred, and then started cataloging the trees. Most were oaks, still-bare branches reaching up into the sky for sun that they couldn't get. A maple or two, she thought, but she wasn't going to get up. Another hour went by, slow as can be, but she didn't move except to fidget for a comfortable position.

  He was still coming, she told herself. But she couldn't convince herself that she was sure, not any more. He had wanted to fight, to have his glory, and if it meant that he took a few risks with her, then he'd do it. She could understand him if she tried, but that didn't mean that she approved. Why wasn't she more important than that?

  Her eyes were getting heavy, and it was making it hard to see how many birds she could see. She'd managed to make it to ten, but then the treetops were getting blurry and she couldn't make one out from another.

  She had to stay awake. If Gunnar came this way, then he would need her awake, to make sure he didn't miss the little hidey-hole that she'd made for herself. If he could even get this far. She'd tried to keep going in a straight line, but she might have gotten turned around. She'd heard of that happening.

  And then she was asleep.

  Gunnar's hands worked in sync with the rest of his body. Easy, controlled movements. Swinging hard, but only hard enough to do what he needed to do. No movements wasted. The English had started to tighten up around them, pressing the Northmen in together.

  Being corralled was no problem, fighting one-on-one like this. A single fat ball would have cut them in half, but they held themselves firm, just enough space to move. Valdemar would have to wait to get his answer. All of them were busy.

  Gunnar tried to look and watch the direction Deirdre had escaped, but he couldn't see her any more. In the stolen moments, he'd been able to see her fading, further, then further still. At first it was upsetting, watching her run off. The idea that he was never going to see her again.

  Arne, the same man that he'd seen Ulf choking the life out of only the night before, ducked under an English attack and Gunnar brought the English blade he carried 'round to catch the Englishman under the armpit, taking the arm most of the way off with it.

  Gunnar turned away a weapon aimed at himself and pushed the Englishman away with his foot, but the man's place was taken quickly by another who saw an opening that wasn't there and paid for it.

  Things were certainly not ideal, and they shouldn't have been there. Too many men had already died for this fight to have been worthwhile, but they would recover. If things kept the way they had been going, Gunnar dared to hope, then they'd all be alright.

  But as he started to relax, a gap opened in the ring of English just wide enough to see, over a young soldier's shoulder, that there were more coming. The rest of the troop, that had seemingly separated from the main camp after Gunnar had nearly ridden straight through them, had heard the battle-horns blowing and were coming in.

  How much longer could they hold out? Their only avenues of retreat seemed to have already been closed. If he could get them moving, they might be able to escape, but it meant leaving their dead and wounded behind for whatever treatment the English saw fit to give them.

  Gunnar let his body take over from his mind, the mechanical movements making it easier to ignore the very real threat that the men would tire out before they could stop the enemy. His blade moved in a whirlwind of blood and death, and the men he had chosen for the journey were keeping with him each step of the way.

  Gunnar had chosen them, each and every one, because they would be able to stand up to a challenge. He hadn't anticipated this. No one could have, not sitting in a drinking hall in Denmark. But he had tried to anticipate every possibility, and then plan for worse than that, and this was certainly worse.

  Gunnar kept moving as the English pressed in closer. Their bodies packed in so tight now that he could strike a mortal blow no matter where he swung his sword, but at the same time he could feel them tightening. That movement was harder to finish, and it would cost him more in the instant it took him to turn his blade back to defense.

  The others would be feeling the pressure, as well. He couldn't turn to watch any but the two men directly beside him, both of them younger and less experienced than he would have preferred. Both of them made up for it with their courage and strength. Now was a time for all three, and any less, he feared, would leave them dead.

  But to his surprise they weren't being pressed in tighter. The English pushed, and the Danes were pushing back. The fighting was intense, and close, but the English bodies continued to pile up. The Vikings, on the other hand, continued to suffer only minor wounds. A cut to the face, a slash into the ribs. Nothing lethal.

  With adrenaline as high as it was, with the threat of death looming, it felt as if they could continue this forever. An hour, a day, a week if they had to. Until each and every English soldier had fallen or run. Gunnar didn't realize he was smiling until his mouth ached with the feeling, adding to the list of aches that seemed to go on forever.

  At the same time they seemed not to matter. He could ignore them. Could ignore the way that his hip pulled wrong when he twisted to turn a backhanded cut. Could ignore the pain in his side when he turned his torso to let an English blade fly harmlessly by.

  Colors were brighter. The green of the grass, the blue-gray of the sky. The wet redness on the blades of his men, spraying up onto his skin. The feeling was as strange and foreign as it could be. As if for the first time he was truly alive. As if this was what life was supposed to be.

  He grit his teeth and swung his blade hard, catching an English in the skull-cap and scrambli
ng his brains. It felt as if his reflexes would carry him through even if he were to take a wound that killed him.

  Then, somehow, things got worse. A horn blew. It took Gunnar a moment to realize what was happening. The ground felt as if it were shaking, and a low rumble came from the south. From behind. He turned out of the way of an incoming cut and allowed himself a moment to look back.

  He couldn't count them in the single glance before his attention pulled back to the man in front of him. But there wasn't much question of what was happening. A dozen men or more on horseback. They had heavy lances and swords, and they looked ready to use them. The English took little time in pulling back.

  There were two Danes to every horseman, but Gunnar knew better than to think of the odds that way. The horses could ride them down and have the English gone before any of them had a chance to retaliate. Their only hope would be to catch them on the way in, and with the war lances they carried, they had the advantage in reach.

  The Danes kept themselves in the tight knot they'd already formed. If they needed to disperse, it wouldn't take more than a moment for each of them to go running, but until that happened they were better together than spread thin—especially against so many.

  Gunnar scanned around and made an informal count. He stopped when he hit a hundred men still standing. One of the horsemen called out to them.

  "Throw down your arms, and no harm will come to you."

  He could hear the comment being passed around and translated, and he listened to the answers they gave. There seemed to be some debate as to whether or not they could survive.

  Gunnar had no need to debate it. He knew the answer. It burned, but he stepped forward, holding his sword aloft to show he had it…

  And then he threw it on the ground in front of him. Their time would come, but if they made the wrong move, then those horsemen would ride them down without a second thought.

  He was surprised to see Valdemar join him. Before long, a pile of weapons lay on the ground, and Gunnar was trying to hold back the shame he'd brought down on himself.