by Amy Faye
Then again, there were a great deal of things that Brigid hadn't told her, it seemed. Like where she was going, or that she had kept correspondence all those years.
"Is Brigid here?"
"Oh, here?" The woman's voice had a sing-song tone that grated on Deirdre's already-worn nerves. "No, why of course she's not here."
Deirdre tried not to react to the news. The maid came back in, carrying a heavy bundle of blankets, which she handed to Amelia. Amelia, in turn, took Deirdre by the arm and guided her to a sofa, helped her put her feet up and tucked her in tight.
"The bath should be ready in just a few minutes, but my—you certainly look hungry! Barely skin and bones!"
The lady herself had a noticeably trim figure, cutting a fantastic silhouette. Could Deirdre have ever looked like that? She doubted it.
The sound of oil sizzling on the stove made her want to get up, to investigate the increasingly delicious smells coming from the kitchen, but she'd been put here for a reason, and though she scarcely wanted to admit it the heat was too comforting to pass up.
She laid her head back and closed her eyes, only for a moment. She would have plenty of time to rest after she ate, and after her bath. But the feeling under the blankets was so comforting, she had to admit, and it wouldn't hurt to just relax.
The smell of cinnamon and cooking pork belly wafted through. When Amelia came back, a platter between her hands, she found Deirdre asleep. She put the tray on the coffee table and watched for a moment. Such a pretty girl. She could see why Brigid had favored her.
Such a pretty girl would certainly be a good choice.
It didn't matter where he died, Gunnar thought. The Gods could see in England as well as they could in Denmark. As long as he fought bravely and accepted his death like a man, paying the price for his actions was the furthest thing from cowardice.
The truth was, he'd already done what was important. He'd saved the woman who he cared about. She would be back at her home, and safe, any time now. Perhaps she would find a new one, would find a new place in life. A more comfortable existence.
He liked that thought, liked imagining the thought of her running some little shop selling her smelling-herbs. Perhaps flowers. The way her wide hips swayed, carrying a little flower basket through town to advertise.
It was strange not to think of himself in that image, but he'd already been captured. Already he was chained to a wall, and it was only a matter of time until their captors figured out what to do with them. The order would be death, he was certain of that much. He could almost hear them building a platform for it outside. Or was he imagining it?
The thought didn't bother him. He'd been so unafraid of death for so many years it was pointless to start now.
Valdemar leaned into him, whispered something he didn't hear. Gunnar turned back and asked him to repeat it.
"We need to talk."
"What would you possibly need to talk to me about?"
Valdemar's expression wasn't pleased with that response. "We need to get out of here, right?"
Gunnar raised an eyebrow, then laid his head back. Did they have to get out? It was a lost cause. "I'm not afraid to die."
"Brothers in battle, brothers in chains, and here you call me a coward?"
The silence between them stretched on for minutes. Gunnar wanted to be left alone. Alone with his thoughts, alone with his speculations, and alone with his little view out the window opposite their cell, just small enough to show the ankles of people walking by. The tiny little window out into this unfathomable city.
"Are you going to listen to me or not?"
"No," Gunnar answered without turning back. There was more between them than a little grudge, he knew that much. It had been too much to just play as if they were old friends. As enemies, it was easy to be motivated against him, but as allies, and near death as it is, he had little reason to listen.
Valdemar was too clever by half, and with the way that things had been going between them there was no doubt that he could turn things in such a way that Gunnar wouldn't realize that he was the one duped until it was his head on the chopping block alone.
But in spite of that, the word 'escape' rang in his mind. Escape, survival, homecoming.
Was any of it possible?
They were inside a wall perhaps ten feet across. No, they couldn't break through the wall, so they would have to fight their way through guards who would certainly know where they were headed and block their retreat. On the advantages side, they were close to one exit. If they could have only a few minutes' lead time, then they might be able to get out of the wall without a problem.
It would be easier without the bars between them and the door. It had a heavy metal bolt that pulled to open. A few men had been brought in after them, thieves if he didn't miss his estimation.
Then, once they were out, they would have to hope that no one on a horse came after them, and they certainly would do so. No amount of running would matter if someone knew where they'd gone, because the mounted soldiers would ride them down in a matter of hours.
So they would need to have a way out of this room, a room with iron bars as thick as Gunnar's thumb, and then get through the wall without anyone seeing and realizing what had happened. Then they would need to get through town unnoticed, make camp somewhere they wouldn't be found, and then get out of the area. No, it wasn't going to work.
"You're thinking that it's impossible, aren't you?" Valdemar paused a moment. "You're thinking that you're a brave man indeed—you saved the woman, and she'll always carry a torch for you, right?"
Gunnar turned, ready to tear into him. Ready to fight. But what would be the point now? In these chains, it wouldn't be a good fight, and there wouldn't be much point in it regardless. They'd still be stuck right there next to each other. So instead he turned away again.
"Of course that's what you were thinking. You were thinking that it hardly mattered what happened to you now, because you're beyond help. Well, I'm sure that's what she thinks, too."
What did he know? Gunnar's eyes never left the window, watching the feet of everyone walking by. It was surprising how different they could be, just from that. How he could make out what sort of life a person lived by the quality of their shoes. The thought was a good enough distraction.
"She certainly left in a hurry, didn't she? Imagine, though. Imagine whether or not Hilde would have left you, in the same situation. She'd have stayed. She'd have fought, same as you. Or she'd have taken you across her shoulders."
"Don't you dare speak to me about my mother," Gunnar growled. His mother's stories were still told in the mead-halls. Stories to be lived up to. She had been a strong woman. He had to be strong to follow behind her.
But the thought was insidious, wormed its way into Gunnar's head. Had she left him behind because he made her? Or had she because it didn't much matter? He tried to think. Did she look back for even a moment?
His eyes left the window, flicked toward Valdemar. But he managed to keep himself in line, didn't turn his head at the very least. Couldn't give him the satisfaction of having gotten under Gunnar's skin.
He was wrong about Deirdre. She was afraid, but she would do what she had to do. It was her belief in him that had let her go, not that she didn't particularly care. But it rubbed like a burr in his mind. What if he was wrong, though? He wasn't as clever as Valdemar, and not near as clever as Deirdre.
It would be easy to play him for a fool, for a woman like that. If she'd wanted him to be her pawn, then could he have stopped her?
He struggled not to think it any further. It wasn't proper, not at all. But the idea was insidious. He couldn't get it out of his head, regardless what he wanted to think.
He had to find a way to prove, once and for all, that he hadn't been made a fool of. That he'd done the right thing. His pride hurt as he turned back, frowning.
"Tell me about your plan, and we'll talk."
Twenty-Nine
The first thing that
Deirdre noticed when she woke up was that she didn't hurt any more. Her body felt surprisingly alright. The second thing she noticed was the smell of food, still hot, set on a plate beside her.
Not the bacon that she'd been preparing to eat before she fell asleep, either. A sweet roll and a thick cut of beef, far too nice for anyone she had only met the night before to give her. Deirdre made a mental note to thank Amelia when she saw her next.
The scent of poppy was fainter, and she didn't notice it until she had already started to dig into the food that had been presented, along with a little note to her to enjoy the food. Very tasteful and surprisingly thoughtful. Had this woman really known her teacher? It seemed strange to think that Brigid had known anyone with a lick of manners.
She was a shrewd woman, and more capable than Deirdre could express—but the very furthest thing from having any manners. Which begged the question where her hostess was. The question raised a second one. Who else lived in this place? She had seen a maid, her plain-looking features hazy in Deirdre's memory.
Did the lady have a husband paying for her things, or had she made all the money that she so obviously had by selling her potions? If this was the sort of money that might be made selling little remedies, what was she doing in the middle of the forest?
Deirdre swallowed a bite. Lord, she hadn't realized just how hungry she was until she'd started eating. She had felt hungry, but the sensation had faded away as if her body realized that she wasn't going to be eating any time soon. Now that food, real sugar even, touched her lips her stomach had remembered its emptiness and was begging for any food she could put in it.
It was a struggle, but she set her fork and knife aside and stood up from the couch, then immediately fell back into the cushioned protection from the floor. Her feet were raw and blistered. It hurt to walk. She'd need to ask her hostess about some sort of shoes if she were going to be staying here.
The food left an odd taste in her mouth, though it did little to put off her appetite. It was enough to make her wonder, though. What was she tasting?
As she started trying to guess little things—garlic, no. Onion, no. What, then? She started to think harder, racking her brain. None of them were right. It tasted strangely like…
Rose? The taste was fading in her mouth and her memory must have been mistaken. No one would put rose in food. Yet another mouth-watering bite of the sweet roll confirmed it. The tiniest hint, but it lingered in the mouth. Honey and rose.
Her eyes narrowed. She'd heard that before somewhere. Some concoction that had slipped her mind. Something she would never have needed, so it wasn't worth memorizing. But Brigid had insisted that she be able to recite every recipe in her little book, so she'd learned it despite her reservations.
She'd already rose again, ignoring the pain in her feet. It felt as if she were hobbling around like an old woman, at first. As she walked, she felt the pain fading, felt herself returning to looking more-or-less normal. What on earth was she forgetting? Roses and honey. A strange combination. Roses were more suited to perfume than eating.
Where had her hostess gotten herself off to? Deirdre stepped through the door into the kitchen. It was large, a wall full of spices and dried herbs in small glass bottles. Each of them was clearly labeled with what they included, and most were only half-full.
A pair of skillets hung from hooks on the wall, and the entire place smelled very much of food, reminding her of what she'd left behind. But Brigid had always been very fond of saying that you shouldn't eat anything if you don't know what's in it. That went double when you knew that it wasn't merely for flavor…
There were stairs up in the front room, but she ignored them. An exterior door in the kitchen led out the back. Then there was the room in the rear, where the maid had ducked. That was an idea.
Deirdre peeked her head around, looking around while trying to stay casual. It was important to make sure that she wouldn't draw any attention. She was just looking around, after all. The question kept coming into her mind. Roses and honey. Think. Think!
She opened a door that turned out to be exterior as well, spied the paddock, and shut the door again when it hit her.
Roses and honey—a love potion? She tried to recall the book, but it had been so long. Roses, honey, a bit of wine, and silver. The effects were not nearly so promising as some hoped, but to soften someone up, to make them think you're swell—it worked well.
Yet, every sign had pointed to Amelia as both a friend and a lady of substance. There was no reason for her to doubt the woman… but that didn't change anything. Deirdre shut her eyes and tried to think. That would explain how a woman who seemingly had no family would have made such a fine living for herself.
How hard would it be to convince people that you were a-ok, and that your little potions were effective, than to force them to like you? And whatever she wanted from Deirdre, the girl didn't want to know. She walked out to the stable, her head on a swivel. She needed to make sure no one found her until it was too late. That would be the only way she could manage.
She slipped in the front, and a young man sat with his hat pulled low over his eyes. He was slumped back and Deirdre had a strong suspicion that he'd been sleeping when she came in. He jerked awake and pushed the hat back.
"Can I help you, miss?"
"Mrs. Amelia, she said I could take one of the ponies for a ride around the yard. I've never been on a horse before, and I thought it sounded very exciting."
He chewed on that for a moment before standing up. "Take a seat, I'll get the blue ready for you."
"Thank you very much," she said, letting herself settle in.
He went off, fussing with a saddle and so on. She hadn't exactly lied—she didn't know a whole lot about horses, but she had to hope Amelia didn't catch on before she could get out of here. Once she was on the horse…
After a few minutes, the boy came around with a steel-gray horse that stood nearly as tall at the shoulder as she did. "This is Blue—she's a sweet heart. Shouldn't be much trouble. Let me help you up."
He stood beside the horse and held his hand out. Such a nice boy, she thought. He helped her up. As Deirdre settled her weight into the saddle a woman's voice called out. "Mark, have you seen my guest?"
"She's right out here," he called back, then turned back, already starting a spiel about how to work the reins. But Deirdre had already taken off, and as the pretty blonde lady watched, she set the horse straight out of town.
Valdemar was wrong. That much was obvious. Deirdre had been nothing but sincere with him. He'd seen her, seen how panicked she was. How mad she was to get away from that place. Well, he'd gotten her away, sure enough.
But he'd done it on his own terms. He'd done it after forcing her to wait twice, which he certainly felt bad about—but he couldn't exactly turn back on it now. What's done was done.
The real question, the question that bothered him most of all, was who left the trail. It seemed obvious now that it wasn't necessarily for him, but for some English reinforcements. But if the English had a scout trailing behind, then why hadn't Gunnar rode straight into him?
No, it couldn't have been that easy. It was someone in the camp, he knew that. Likely someone sitting in this very room, because if they were going to work with the English they'd do it for a reason. Not simply to be killed in the next fight. He blinked, tried to think.
Unless it was her, but… that made no sense at all. Why would she run away, why would she kill an English soldier, if they were there to pick her up? She hadn't known he was watching. Couldn't have, unless he assumed that her powers of clairvoyance were that much more impressive than she had pretended them to be.
He turned to face the circle of men, each and every one of them a trusted adviser of his or Valdemar's. There was no need to speak quietly; after all, they were in English territory. One man in a million might speak their tongue, and certainly not the oaf that guarded them.
He had a soft body, the sort of body that a man get
s when he sits on a stool every day and watches petty thieves sit. There was hardness in him, a cruelty that might have been hammered out into discipline with time and effort. No one had put that discipline in him, so instead he delighted in meting out "discipline" of his own, to anyone unlucky enough to make it into his prison.
There was always some provocation, but they were so particular and so hard to predict that there was little reason to assume that they might be avoided. Rather, they were just meted out in a timely manner, to suffer each and every one of his charges before they left, and if they were repeat customers, perhaps twice.
The only ones saved from his ire, of course, were the Danes themselves. He seemed to feel in their case that discretion was the better part of valor, and that it was better not to let them loose for an instant, for fear they might snap their chains like they were only spider's silk, and crush his head.
Well, they wouldn't be able to do that much—but killing him would have been possible, if necessary. It wasn't useful to consider, however, until the time was right. So Gunnar ignored him as he rapped his billy-club against the bars and shouted to "stop talkin' gibberish in there!"
"It will be soon. Has to be."
"They're already building the gallows. You can see it, if you try. Across the way, there, in the distance. They mean to parade us like thralls through the street, so that their people can see how defeated we all are. Pfah!"
Lokir and Valdemar remained silent, their heads both bowed. Gunnar didn't have to wonder too much what they were thinking about, but the conclusions they came to were theirs alone.
Gunnar spoke up, finally. "Well, we'll need to get out of this box first and foremost."
The others nodded in agreement for a moment. "But the bars are too thick to bend easily. Surely, if we had time and we all worked together—but it wouldn't mean much, because they'd stop us right away."
