by Amy Faye
She could feel his hips between her thighs, could feel him lining himself up with her entrance, and she quivered with anticipation at what was to come. Any moment now—and then he pressed against her, entering her with one smooth thrust that sent him hilt-deep into her.
He thrust into her, each thrust dimming her vision for a split-second, the force of his thrusts pushing her a half-inch each time. This was what she'd needed, she thought. This was what she'd wanted, what she needed, and he was giving it to her completely.
She had given herself to him just as much, and for the second time in her life, everything felt perfect as she felt him bucking against him, the instant before he spilled his seed inside.
Gunnar spent himself inside her and held himself there for a moment, enjoying how close he felt to her. Watching her face for any signs of distress, but Deirdre looked as contented as he'd ever seen her. He smiled for a moment and then moved off to the side, laying in the grass next to her and wrapping his arm around her.
He had tired himself out more than he should have, given that he still had a ways to go yet. This was, after all, not just a mission to go find her and come straight back, but with her there it felt as if he'd gotten everything he wanted.
He no longer needed to worry that she was off somewhere, being arrested or worse. She was, after all, right beside him. No longer needed to try to justify going out to look for her. And more than that, she might be able to attend to some of their wounded. He looked over at her, admiring the slope of her jaw, the roundness of her cheeks.
Perfect, he thought. She looked absolutely perfect, and nothing that happened could possibly take that away from her, no matter how badly the next few hours, the next few days, would go. They would at least be together, and she would keep being just as perfect as she was. He stood up, offering a hand to help Deirdre to her feet.
She seemed to suddenly recall that she was mostly-nude, as her dress fell down her hips to the ground, and her face went bright red to match her hair. Gunnar smiled, turning to watch the horizon. Nobody could challenge him now, or they would find themselves greeted by a very protective Dane.
He handed the knife back to her a third time. It was hers, after all, and he had no place to keep it besides. Deirdre looked surprised to see it, but thanked him just the same and pulled the sheath out of a little bag that she pulled from the ground and drove it home. Gunnar appreciated the irony, after what they'd just done, but perhaps it wasn't the time for those sort of jokes.
"Come with me," he said, and started to walk. When she didn't follow, he explained himself. "I'm supposed to be looking for English soldiers, but I found an English witch instead, you see. I was lucky."
She rolled her eyes and worked the buttons on her dress until she was satisfied with it, and then started after him. He took the backpack from her arms and threw it around his own shoulders. "After all," he justified, "I haven't got anything else to carry, have I?"
Deirdre kept quiet for most of the way, so he took the time to explain the plan to her.
They would make a beeline for the coast; she would join them, not as a prisoner, but as his lover, and anyone who had a problem with it would answer to him. No one would, he suspected, but he left the last part off.
Then, when they arrived, they'd go home. He didn't bother to explain where home was; after all, it was obvious, wasn't it? She seemed to agree and understand. If she could provide some help to their wounded, of which there were a few, that would be excellent.
"I'll need to gather medicinal herbs; I didn't bring any with me, but we can probably find something on the way," she reasoned. Already, she seemed to be lost in thought, though he couldn't venture a guess as to what had her so distracted. She was thinking about something and that was all he could say. All he would say.
Every hundred-odd paces she would see something and move over to pick it, flowers he didn't recognize, and some that he did, though he didn't know the names of them. She didn't offer him a botany lesson and he didn't ask for it, contented to watch her very shapely bottom as she leaned over to pluck what she needed—sometimes, just the flower, and other times using her body-weight to pull up the entire plant from the root.
It was fascinating just to watch her, to see how well she understood the craft that she was applying herself to. She seemed to know each plant intimately, seemed to have a plan that was already forming in her head and adapting it every time that she found something new, or didn't find something that she expected.
The last leg, routing back up to the camp, Gunnar remained silent. He had promised her that there would be no trouble, but that could have been a lie. Gunnar had no illusions that when he had kept her in his tent so many times before, it had been cause for conversation.
But at the same time, he had his doubts that they would fight him. Why would they, after all? He could have left, and every man in the party knew that. If he had chosen to go with her before, if he had chosen not to come back, then he wouldn't be there.
His loyalty was without question, and her obedience had been demonstrated several times over. What was the harm if he wanted to keep her around, especially with her medical knowledge?'
Surely, if Valdemar had thought her useful before he would find her useful now, and if the both of them had no objections to her presence, no one else would dare to speak up about it.
But even still, he wondered. What was going to happen when they got to the coast, when they found a ship to take back home? Would they object to the extra mouth to feed on the journey?
He entered the camp quietly, hoping not to draw any attention, but it was no more than a moment before Valdemar had seen them. Both of them. And as soon as he saw them, he was already moving toward them.
Thirty-Six
The return that she had to the Viking camp was not exactly the one that Deirdre had hoped for. Gunnar had immediately been met on his return by Valdemar, and the two of them had gone off to discuss what, only the Gods above knew.
She was left in a camp of men, most of whom looked as if they were on their last legs, with no particular instructions. She had been asked to have a look at them, so she would. Beyond that, though, she was intensely conscious of the fact that for most of them, she had been a prisoner only a short while ago, and now when she was back, what was she supposed to be?
The entire time that she walked around, making her first cursory examination of the men, Deirdre felt as if she were walking on eggshells. The first person whose ire she raised, even slightly, would go off and then she'd be in trouble. Gunnar said that he would step in, and if she didn't trust him to do it then she wouldn't have come here in the first place.
But she had assumed that it would feel less strange. More than that, though, even without speaking their language she could tell that the Northmen were having an internal debate about what was going to happen next. The lines were still drawn, it seemed, that she had noticed the night before she left. And that time, they had come to blows.
Could she afford to be here when it came to blows a second time? She didn't need to answer the question to herself—she already knew that if things got rough, she would be the one given short shrift. She was the only one, after all, who couldn't hold her own in a fight. Regardless how much blood stained her hands, regardless what she had done to protect herself and the man she'd given herself to, she was never going to be one of them.
She was always going to be English, and always going to be a medic first and a fighter, barely at all.
So what sort of future did she have with Gunnar? How long was he going to keep doing this, keep fighting and killing? Would it just be year after year of waiting for him to come home until one day, he didn't come back? How did she fit into that life? As someone to keep his bed warm until it was time to go killing again?
Her shoulders slumped for a moment as the energy and confidence that had managed to carry her this far started to seep out. She took in a deep breath, pushed her shoulders back, and forced herself to keep going.
There were four injured badly, and she should look at those first. Another few who required medical attention.
Every one of them, Gunnar included, looked rough. Worn-down. But she couldn't do anything for that affliction—they would need time and rest, and that was something that she couldn't administer. It did mean, though, that they needed to get out of England. She was beginning to see why Gunnar had planned to make a bee-line for the coast.
She knelt down beside one of them, a man who had taken a sword through the flank. From the look of things, she had to guess that it was not a fatal blow. If he were going to bleed to death, then he would have done it by now. It seemed as if it had missed any vital spots, but the risk of rot was too big to leave it be.
Poultices took time to make, but she had been learning how to work quickly this past month. Odd, she thought as her hands worked, that she had learned as much with these Vikings as her "teachers" as she had with Brigid, it seemed. In terms of practical ability, she had more experience now than she had ever dreamed of.
She wrapped his midsection up tight, noting how the man tried to suppress a groan as she tied it down, the knot pressing into the wound to hold the poultice tight against it. It must have hurt quite a bit, but he bore it almost silently, and she had no time for sympathy. She had patients to treat, and it might take the rest of the day for her to finish seeing to them all.
Deirdre wiped a thin layer of sweat from her forehead, more from the effort of concentration than the heat of the sun beating down on her back. She couldn't guarantee that the second would live. He'd taken a bad hit, into the gut, and she knew that it was more than likely his wound would go septic regardless. The damage was already done.
But what would happen if she told someone that? They might tell her to try again, or they might leave the man for dead. Perhaps they would think the sword a faster end to his pain than letting a wound go bad over days or weeks. Deirdre already knew that she couldn't accept that. So she worked, and as she worked she tried to think.
These men were in trouble. All of them, regardless of their wounds. Their time in prison had tired them all out tremendously, and the flight from Norwich had taken its toll. Some, even those without injuries, looked as if they could barely stand up straight, and as much of a show of stoicism as they put up, she could see it in their faces. A stiff wind might blow them off their feet.
She moved from body to body, mechanically. After two of them, she knew that Gunnar watched her, from a discreet distance. Whether he was watching her or them, she couldn't say. Nor was she certain what he watched for. But she knew that he was waiting for her to finish, so when she had finally seen to the last of the injured, she stood back up, wiped her brow, and made her way over to him.
His lips softly brushed hers. He was showing her the affection that he felt, but in another way he was every part the commander that she had first met. He was thinking as much or more about his men than about her, and she understood it, even if she didn't like it.
"What do you think?"
"As a healer?"
"As a healer, yes."
Deirdre nodded. Professional was not what she was used to, but she understood the need to be direct. "They will live, most of them. One or two might be close, but—"
"Good," he said softly.
He let out a breath and Deirdre was reminded of how tired he must be, how long the past weeks must have been for him. While she was riding around, he was aware that his life was nearly over. It had been mere chance that her distraction had allowed them not to execute him on the spot when the Northmen made their ambush.
"I don't think they're in any condition to fight. They're worn out, on their last legs."
"I know. But I can't let that affect my decisions."
"How long do we stay here?"
"You're the expert, how soon can we leave?"
She turned back, scanned the group, and tried to think of what she had seen.
"They could be moving, albeit slowly, as soon as you need them to be. But be careful. They won't be moving quickly for some time. Days, weeks—I can't say."
"Then we'll have to get them moving sooner. The sooner they are back in their homes, the sooner that they can truly rest."
Deirdre nodded. The problem was, how would they manage it?
The march was hard on Gunnar's legs, and he was one of the strongest. It was not lost on him that he had pushed the march hard, and that the entire camp behind him was suffering for it.
But they couldn't afford to take the risk of pushing any less hard. They needed to be gone, and they needed to be out of this place yesterday. It was only a matter of time until the English managed to figure out which direction they had gone. The nights they had spent in the same place already were a big enough risk.
He knew what it looked like to them, as well. He demands they wait, then he shows up with his woman the next day and then it was time to get moving in a damn hurry. Well, he could take that criticism. He knew exactly what it looked like, and he couldn't find a better answer for them. Maybe that was exactly what it was.
If he were there for himself, then so what? His face hardened and he pushed himself a little harder. How hard could he keep going? For how long? It was easy to say that he could force the march as long as they had to, until they reached the sea, but he couldn't outrun the stragglers, and the men would be hurting.
But how long would it take to make the sea? Three days? A week? How long could they continue to push their luck in enemy territory, with half their men wounded?
Well, if he had to be the bad guy, then he would accept it. He'd pushed them hard for the past two days, and he would keep pushing them hard. Valdemar let him lead, and Gunnar was thankful for that, at least. Now if only he'd left the whole thing well enough alone, the men they had lost might still be fighting. They might not be in this mess.
He was so determined to keep pushing that when they came into view of the wide open sea, he kept walking for another minute before he realized what they had been looking at.
A coastal town sat a ways down the shore, far enough to look like dots on the shore, but now that they knew that they'd made it, Gunnar felt the weight on his legs lessening, the last days' march already forgotten by his tired muscles. Looking back on the men as he walked, the others seemed to feel similarly.
They had needed this, needed something to confirm that they weren't going the wrong direction entirely. Something concrete. Now they had it, and everyone felt greatly rejuvenated. An hour's march outside of town they settled down, the sun still more than visible over the horizon.
Leif and Eirik went off hunting, but no one had high expectations for them. It had been a day since they had anything to eat, and that had been a half-dozen hares for twice as many people. The return to Denmark couldn't come fast enough for any of them.
Since Valdemar's rise to power Magnus had gotten a good deal of work, and now was no exception. He was the smallest of them, and the easiest to pass off as English, so he would be the one that they sent to look around the city. Scout out their security, and the boats docked at the harbor, and come back.
Gunnar had tried to shield Deirdre from the hunger as best she could. Given her all of his portion, less a bite or two, and he could feel the effect it was having on his body. As if he were wasting away. It was only a matter of time until he had something to eat, and he could wait. As long as they didn't hit a calm on the sea, it was a short couple of days across the way. No stops.
He let out a breath, ignored the pain that had started to gnaw at his stomach. Unless they found something big—a stag, perhaps—then he would be better off not eating at all. It would only make it harder to cope with the pain.
Magnus, to the entire band's vague disapproval, was the first back. Still, they had to hear out his report. They had sent him out to find information, after all—not to come back after food hopefully had arrived. Information, they discovered, he had brought back.
They were small, with a few larger buildings
that might have been a meeting hall, a church, and what he guessed was a dining hall. A few dozen homes, but only one man patrolling the streets. Things were, by all accounts, quiet.
At the port, a gig sent out by a ship flying English colors with perhaps a crew of ten men, though he hadn't seen anyone on it. Most were likely on shore leave, with only one man on guard, and him not too attentive at that. Plenty of space for thirty, if they pressed in just a bit.
The words sparked a feeling that Gunnar hadn't expected, and he knew he wasn't the only one feeling it. It wasn't going to reimburse them for one-tenth of the things that they had lost. All the loot in the world wouldn't bring back their dead comrades.
But it was a chance at redemption, and more than that, a chance at food. He could feel himself salivating. Deirdre sat beside them cross-legged, and he could see from her face that she didn't understand, but she was doing her best to pretend that she had a place in the conversation.
Taking pity, he translated for her, her nodding her understanding as Valdemar said exactly what Gunnar had found himself thinking. Food and a little loot, easy enough. They'd be able to redeem themselves, bring something back to show for their deadly journey. It was basically a gift given to them straight from the Gods.
Gunnar could see how well the idea was sitting with Deirdre—or rather, how well it wasn't. She struggled for a moment to decide whether or not she had a right to speak, and then seemed to decide that she did. Whether she was right or not, they were both about to find out.
"How many have to die? What if you succeed? Does that mean you get to try again? You get to carve another path across the countryside, until you get stopped again? When does it end?"
Her voice was irritable and sharp, but Gunnar had to admit that the point was more salient than any of them would have liked to admit. Valdemar rubbed his beard thoughtfully. As good a sign as it could have been, Gunnar thought. The outburst could have easily led to a fight, but thankfully it hadn't, and that was about all that he could as for.
