His Captive (Historical Viking Romance)

by Amy Faye

  The rant seemed to ride through the men in waves, as those who spoke no English had it translated for them, and then made their various reactions. Some agreed, he could see it right on their faces.

  Others wanted to roll the dice one more time. This early, they could be in and out before it was too dark to fight, and then out to the ship. They'd have a fight to take it, but it would be mostly-painless. They would be able, if nothing else, to find a use for their weapons.

  "And if you attack now, you risk using up your energy for taking the ship when night falls."

  Thirty-Seven

  She could feel her heart beating at a million miles a minute. She didn't know how in the world she was supposed to convince them. After all, they were stronger than her, Valdemar at least as smart, and each and every one of them valued their glory much higher than they viewed human life.

  She wasn't sure how they would feel about their own men, but she had hoped that if she tried to appeal to their sense of danger, that they might be putting themselves at risk, it would tip the balance in her favor. Slowly, scratching their beards and thinking over her words, the men circled around nodded.

  Deirdre knew she shouldn't have been there. Knew more than that, she shouldn't have spoke. She should have kept her mouth shut. She wasn't a fighter, and she certainly was no man.

  But the feeling in her gut told her that it was too big a risk to the lives of the men and women in this little fishing village to let the Northmen attack it. Now that she had the opportunity to stop them, she had to take it. How could she live with herself if she didn't?

  The sight of everyone seeming to agree with her let her take her first breath in what felt like an hour. The time had stretched so thin that the space between the seconds felt like an eternity as she had waited to see if her little argument had worked, and by the Gods she'd succeeded.

  They were still speaking their Northern tongue, and she was still left out of it, but it didn't seem as if they were discussing their attack plans any more. Rather, they were working on the logistics of taking the ship. If she looked hard in the failing light, she could almost make it out, anchored off the shore. How they would get to it seemed to be the subject of some debate.

  But for Deirdre, the realization was sudden and striking. She'd never been more than hip-deep in water in her life. Outside of bathing, she hadn't ever been up to her neck in water, and there was no way that she would be able to reach the bottom all the way out.

  If they took the boat, then she might be able to make it out, if they forced it. She tried to remind herself that it didn't matter. Still, she realized, of course it did. She'd spent so long letting things go by because they were unlikely, or because they didn't work with what she wanted. Well, she had learned her lesson with that.

  She would have to figure it out when the time came. That was the only answer. Even as they closed in on the boat that would take the Vikings back home, she reminded herself, there was still time for Gunnar to change his mind. To go back with her. She wasn't sure what he intended, but she had plenty of room to hope.

  As they spoke, she turned. No reason to keep her attention too closely on the conversation, not when they seemed to be calmly discussing. The blood lust was gone from their eyes. Now it was cool discussion about what to do next, and she wasn't a part of that conversation.

  That might have been why she was the first to notice as Eirik and Leif came up. They moved jerkily, and she knew they were dragging something. A small deer, she saw. Luck was on their side after all, and it seemed that when it rained, it poured. They would eat tonight, and they would eat well.

  The rest of the camp saw them a moment later, and then it was a rush to go and help them carry, to skin and clean it, and then when the fire got going, things were in full swing. Deirdre had never preferred venison, but after the past few days she had been through, it tasted like nothing she'd ever eaten. The best meat she'd had in years.

  Gunnar leaned into her, eating his own fill. He hadn't been eating much, she knew, but he had insisted. She was glad to see him eating again. At least he would be alright. One last feast before they left for Denmark, and they would bring with them nearly enough food for a four-day boat ride.

  Deirdre smiled. Good for them. They'd left the town alone, and now it had payed off for them almost immediately. Sometimes it paid to be good, and sometimes it payed well.

  Something sat in the back of her mind. A contradiction in terms. Where did she fit into all this? Gunnar had joined into the strategy talk just as much as any of them, and she'd let him. It was what he was good at, what he had always been preparing for his whole life, far as she could tell. He was a leader, and he was a soldier, and she knew that.

  Whatever their life together would look like in the future, he was who he was, and she couldn't bring herself to take that from him. Still, she thought, did that mean that he had planned on being there himself, to lead those men into the fight? How would that work?

  "A few days, darling," he said softly. The meat in his stomach seemed to have left him feeling satisfied, and he spoke like a man who wasn't too worried about what would come next. Not that she thought he should worry, but it set Deirdre at east. "Then we'll be able to start our lives together."

  She leaned into him, her head resting comfortably on his muscled shoulder. That sounded wonderful. She imagined her little cottage, seeing him living there. It was a little silly to imagine. He would dwarf the place, she thought, and the idea brought a smile to her lips.

  She couldn't understand them, but the men, circled around the fire and chatting, were clearly telling stories, their bodies animated as they acted out different parts. It was easy to laugh at their jokes, even not knowing what they were. Not laughing because she thought they were funny, but laughing because it felt good to laugh with them.

  Still, what she wouldn't have given for a few minutes alone with Gunnar. A few minutes to talk to him about what was going to happen. To ask him all the questions that were burning a hole in her chest. She couldn't do it, she realized. She couldn't ask him, because she couldn't deal with either answer. If she asked, and he had planned on her coming with him, she knew that he would change his mind.

  She would be able to have whatever she wanted. She could see it in him. He didn't have the will to fight her. But at the same time, was that what she wanted? Did she want to hurt him? At the same time, she couldn't bring herself to ruin the image she had in her own mind. To give up the life that she had envisioned for so many days now. The fantasy world that felt so real she could taste it.

  So she snuggled her head into the crook of his neck, smelling the scent that was so deeply Gunnar, and enjoyed the storytelling and the jokes that she couldn’t understand. Because it wouldn't be long until they were past the last minute, and the decisions were made.

  The feeling of Deirdre's head on his shoulder was a comfort, but it wasn't enough. No, that wasn't right. He couldn't let it be enough, not yet. He wasn't out of the water yet. They still had a fight on their hands, even if he hoped that it could be as painless as possible.

  They needed to take the ship. It was too early, still, and with their fire they would do well to wait a little longer. Let anyone who had seen it think that whatever the situation, they were asleep now. Wait until the moon was high and they could start to navigate by the light of the moon and the stars.

  He wrapped one arm around her shoulder, pulled her tight against him. They were going to be fine. An easy trip up the shore, late in the night, and then they hop on the gig, take it up to the English ship, and kill anyone they couldn't capture quietly. Easy. He repeated the word to himself again, trying to quiet the doubt inside him. Easy.

  The men were starting to quiet down from their revelry. The word had gone out long before Leif and Eirik returned. They were going tonight. With luck, they'd be back in Denmark by the full moon. Less than a week now. The idea that they were so close had set them all on edge, nobody quite sure of how to approach any of it, except
that they needed to be careful. The last moment was the easiest time to take risks that they couldn't handle.

  Gunnar sucked in a breath, kissed Deirdre on the forehead, and stood up. His legs protested, already tightened up from inactivity after the long days that they had marched before. He couldn't afford to pay attention to that. It was too much of a risk.

  The rest of the men followed suit, and he reached a hand down to help Deirdre to her feet as well. He strapped the blade to his waist as they kicked dirt onto the fire, putting out the last embers. It was time to go. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. Now that they were close, he let his pace slow. There was no need to hurry, and every unnecessary risk could put the men in danger.

  He couldn't—wouldn't—let another one die, not when they were so close to safety. Gunnar turned, looking over their faces, barely visible in the oppressive dark. They were behind, and they all had the stone-faced expression of men marching to do whatever needed doing.

  Good, Gunnar thought. They would need that determination. Unless they were very lucky, there was no chance that the little boat they had taken in to port carried more than a dozen, and that meant not one nor two, but three trips. That meant that whoever was left on the third had to fend for themselves, if they were caught. A fighting retreat was the last thing that they wanted, but it was a very real possibility.

  As they closed in, Gunnar let his mind drift. He preferred focus, but as they approached the fight he couldn't deny that without the blood-lust, without the gnawing hunger, it was harder to keep himself as focused as he would like.

  When he got off that boat, when they settled back into the little farm that he had won for himself all those years ago, what would they do then? He could barely remember what it looked like. He had looked over the property once, five years ago, right after he received it. After his first big raid. Then he'd gone back to the Jarl, and lived with him. Always ready to fight.

  Fighting had been most of his life since he had realized his… peculiar gift. Now that he had other things on his mind, other hopes, what would that mean for him? Who was he without fighting? Would the Jarl allow him to retire, for that matter?

  The farm, if he recalled, had a small house on the property. Built small, with a main room. A stove and a table, a pair of bedrooms. Enough for a small family, but if they expanded it, then he would need to build onto it for more than a few children. They'd be able to turn the fields into something, that much was sure. Deirdre's knowledge of plants, combined with his body to make it happen. They'd work together to build a life.

  Still, the old question remained. What would happen to him, if he gave up the life he'd had for so long? Constantly waiting to hear where he would go next, seemingly on a longship as long as he was on land. Certainly out of Denmark as much as he was in it.

  He told himself that he would give it up. He didn't want to continue that life. More than that, he was tired of it, and now it seemed as if he had a good excuse to get away. He turned, saw Deirdre in the dim light beside him. She glanced at him when she noticed him looking, but she was watching the town. She was lost in thoughts of her own.

  He already knew the answer, of course. Jarl Torstein was a man who knew what he wanted, and he wanted gold. Gold and slaves. He frowned. It was an issue to fight with. Still, he hadn't been raiding for years. The man was soft, and if he put up a fight it would be no great task to see that it was dealt with. Eirik and Ulf would see him through, he knew. As sure as anything. Leif—Gunnar couldn't begin to say.

  He was tired of fighting, he thought. Tired of trying to figure out who would come next to kill him, tired of having to be constantly on guard. With Deirdre, he felt relaxed.

  But there was one more fight to come. He took in a deep breath. They would be there soon. If they were lucky, then they could make their first trip with the less-wounded and take the ship easily. Then two more boat trips to bring the rest of the men. No trouble at all.

  He gripped the sword at his side, ran his thumb around the pommel. He couldn't plan on lucky. Once more, if only once, he would need to rely on the thing he was best at.

  Thirty-Eight

  Gunnar led the way, Deirdre only followed. But that didn't mean that she was sure what she was doing. In fact, she was anything but certain of what she was doing. It was terrifying and at the same time she couldn't deny that the feeling of her heart beating out of her chest was wildly exhilarating. She was loving this more than she was ready to admit.

  They kept to the shadows, and kept to the water. It was cold, but who would go into ankle-deep water to walk into a little town like this? Well, she reasoned. They would.

  But, if they were lucky, then no one had thought much was amiss when the boy went into town. It wasn't anyone scouting his way to see what could be taken from the city. No way.

  She smiled when she saw no one patrolling near the docks. They were making a mistake, of course, but there wasn't much to protect. Nor much to patrol. Even in a town as small as this, she knew that there would be a local thief, perhaps two. When something went missing, it wouldn't take the Sheriff long to figure out who did it and make sure it got back, most of the time.

  But even with that in mind, there was only the little row-boat, only nine or ten feet front to back. No one watching, and no one waiting. That could be very good news, or it could be something to worry about, but she wasn't going to push herself on it.

  Gunnar turned and silently pointed to nine men, and he joined them in the row boat. He wasn't healing like he used to, she knew, but he was less injured than he could have been. As long as he took care, the little cuts that peppered his body would be all he would need to worry about.

  Deirdre watched them go. It took several minutes for the boat to approach the ship, which was still small, that far out in the water. She looked over her shoulder, up the main street where anyone who wanted to could see them coming from a mile away. Nothing yet.

  She watched the outlines of the Vikings crawl up the side of the ship silently. Watched them jump the side-rail. The man on watch didn't see it coming for an instant, and he slumped down without a sound. Then the men dipped below decks, and a long silence passed.

  Deirdre knew that there would be men on board. Knew that they would likely be asleep, so at least their passing would be painless. She tried to keep that in mind. At best they would be barely aware of what happened. A knife in the night. Practically a mercy compared to what so many others had suffered.

  A single sharp scream, shrill and afraid, broke through her thoughts. Deirdre shivered and tried to forget. This was better than what they usually did, and better than what they had been planning.

  She had to repeat it three times before she saw someone back on the top deck, and then they slipped down the side of the boat and into the gig. Deirdre checked again to make sure no one was looking at them. Thankfully, she couldn't see anyone.

  When she looked back out into the sea, she saw the boat had rowed closer. A few short minutes' rowing. She tried to still the beating of her heart. If they were caught now, it would be an easy thing for the men that she was surrounded by to fight off any attack. Even for their injuries.

  She couldn't bear the thought. As few people should die as possible. She watched the men left on the ship, coming up to the top deck. She tried not to think about what they threw overboard. It was better that way, if she didn't think about it. In her heart, though, she had already realized what was thrown over their shoulders, and they weren't potato sacks.

  Gunnar's outline was becoming visible. He was the one rowing. He pulled the little boat up, tied it off to the dock, and said something to the others before turning to Deirdre. "I'll be back for you, wait a little more."

  The most injured among them loaded up. He wouldn't leave the most vulnerable to fend for themselves. It was the right decision, she thought. But it wasn't how she wanted to think about it. Violent and bloody-minded, she couldn't stand it. Why couldn't they stop fighting, why couldn't they stop killing? Sh
e took a deep breath of air. This was their lives.

  They were soldiers. No different from English soldiers. Or at least, no different in the ways that counted.

  She shivered, waiting for the boat. She kept her eyes on the street. No one coming. They would need five minutes, perhaps, going out. No more need to worry about making noise as they closed in on the ship, but the distance was still measurable, and it still provided opportunity for them to be noticed.

  Ten minute round trip. Too long, too many minutes. If someone saw them, then there was a good chance he'd see six big, burly men huddled on the dock, and call for help. But for the love of God, Deirdre hoped they didn't. One or ten—these soft country folks, it didn't make a difference. Their wives would be waiting a long time for them to come back bed.

  She didn't turn when she heard the merciful noise of the boat coming back up. Something else drew her attention, the one thing that she had been desperate not to happen. A shape. Someone moving through the night. The lamps that lined the street illuminated his face, which showed someone who definitely saw them.

  "Raiders! Vikings!" The hysteria had spread a good bit, she thought. But at least this time, he was right. The remaining men turned on their heels, caught between the need to leave, and the ingrained desire to stop the man's screams.

  Deirdre, desperate to stop the violence, turned to Gunnar as he pulled up. "Make them stop! Get them on the boat!"

  He said something that made them turn back, climbing on.

  The man had pulled something out of his waistband, and he was advancing on the dock. Slowly, but it was only a matter of time. Deirdre stood rooted to the spot. If she got on the boat, then she knew that meant that she was going to Denmark.