by Faye, Amy
Exhausted mentally and physically, it would take a miracle to do any more raiding without the men being hurt or killed. Perhaps if they ran into a town where the men-folk had gone off to join this ambush party, but how would they know unless they risked it first?
Magnus stood over him, he saw now. Waiting, not speaking, for Gunnar to address him. Gunnar let out a grunt to indicate that he knew the boy was there.
"Valdemar says we need to speak about what comes next."
Gunnar pulled himself upright, groaning at the tightness in his entire body. How had he let this happen to him? He was becoming old before his very eyes. It hadn't been so long ago that he never hurt after a fight. A disgrace indeed. He pushed the thought away. After what they'd been through, a little soreness was allowed.
They picked their way through the camp, each man having set out a little space for himself in the open ground. They couldn't risk a fire, so in the failing light it was hard to be certain at more than a few paces that you might not be stepping into a place where there wouldn't be any convenient way through, but between the two of them, Gunnar and Magnus picked their way through.
Leif, Ulf, and Eirik were already seated in a rough semi-circle, with Arne and Valdemar across from them. Magnus took a seat on Valdemar's other side, leaving a space for Gunnar to sit.
"We need to talk, Gunnar." He hadn't had time to slip down to a seated position before Valdemar spoke.
"Do we, now?" Amusement colored his voice. They had a great deal to talk about it, and the time was passed for the majority of it. Did they need to talk when he'd been injured and Valdemar decided to take his raiding party from him? Did they need to talk when Valdemar had decided to ram headlong into an ambush, knowing full well what he was getting himself into?
He knew the answer. They certainly did have to talk, but they hadn't. It was what had gotten them into this entire mess. But it didn't help the sting to go away. Valdemar, for his part, ignored the jab.
"We need to talk about what we're going to do next. All of us."
"Why only the seven of us? Why not any of the others?"
"Look at them, Gunnar." He gestured with his eyes at the bodies spread around the grass, most of them already asleep, except for the injured, who writhed in pain. "They weren't recruited for their leadership abilities, were they? And now they're exhausted, and even their usefulness in a fight is… questionable."
"So you think we should leave them behind?"
"I never said that."
Leif spoke next. "The Gods aren't happy with our progress."
"Nor am I," Valdemar countered. "But there are other considerations. We can't ignore the toll that these two weeks have taken on them. That rescue of yours—I thank you for it, but it was dangerous. A big risk."
"It's amusing to hear you talking about risks that are too great, Valdemar."
The tension was thickening. Gunnar decided to step in. "We need to go home. The men are tired and if we stay any longer than we must, then there will only be more deaths."
"My thoughts exactly," Valdemar said. "We make our way to the coast. It should be that way."
He pointed in a direction that seemed right to Gunnar. "We can't go before the injured have time to recover a bit, though."
Valdemar shook his head. "Would you have us wait forever? Perhaps we could just walk back to the city tomorrow, and tell them we need a few weeks' rest?"
"I'm not asking for weeks. Two days. Give them two days. In that time, if there are any who can't walk themselves, we can find a way to carry them."
Valdemar looked at him hard, but nodded all the same. "Two days it is. Anyone disagree?"
No one spoke. "Then I think we're all in agreement here," he said. "You can all go to sleep. Everyone's had a long day, and we'll need it come morning, and definitely in two days' time."
Gunnar rose along with the rest of them, turned before anyone could say anything, and stalked back to the little claim he'd laid on the ground, and laid himself out.
Deirdre had been there. She'd been involved somehow. But if she had been brought there by the others, with Leif and Eirik, then they would have said something. They would have told him where she was, at least. The fact that nobody had mentioned her suggested that there was something else at work here.
He didn't know what it was, but he knew that he didn't like being unsure. If she was still alive, she might be looking for him. He had denied himself the opportunity to be with her once. He wasn't going to make that mistake again.
Thirty-Four
Deirdre had never slept so badly. After everything that had happened—she was just as wanted as any of them were. She'd killed another man, and this time she didn't have the excuse of self-defense to fall back on. There were matters of scale to be considered, sure. She hadn't killed dozens.
But how much of a high horse could she be on now? How could she claim that she was somehow better than the Danes? Because she had really meant it when she did it, and they were just 'selfish?' But wasn't she being selfish herself?
The questions had kept her up. She must have slept, she knew. The night wasn't nearly as long as it could have been. But if she didn't, it was fitful and she barely got any rest to speak of. Her head pounded and her eyes stung with exhaustion, but she couldn't risk being in one place too long, either. She was wanted, after all.
So she got up, wrapped her cloak back around her shoulders, put her pack on her back, and set out. The day couldn't possibly be any worse than the day before. If only she could brew herself a cup of tea, she might be able to salvage her mood, but she wasn't going to be afforded that sort of luxury.
The doubt hit her again like a knife in the gut. What if she was wrong? She was a healer. She was just a healer, and she was barely trained at it, at that. She'd never been confident that she was done learning, but when her teacher left her behind, Deirdre had to accept that she wasn't about to learn anything more.
It didn't make her feel much better. Life was sacred, and protecting it was important to her. That she'd taken it, and given the opportunity for more of it still to be taken—that was a big decision, and one that shouldn't have been entered into lightly.
Instead, she'd let herself get caught up in emotions that she didn't even understand, and now she was an outlaw. Who knew how far her description would be circulated, perhaps she couldn't enter another town again. Perhaps she would always be on the run.
She tried to shake the thoughts free, but she was too tired to fight off the melancholy that was now threatening to overwhelm her. Too exhausted to do anything but force her feet to keep moving. She would either be punished for her sins, or she wouldn't, but there was no point in self-flagellation. That would come later.
She wanted someone to help. Wanted someone who would tell her that it would be okay. That no matter what happened, she would be safe. That was what had gotten her into trouble in the first place, and now that she'd put herself at risk, she just wanted him all that much more.
She turned a corner. Her hands were cold. She had tried to wash them the night before but she could still see, when she looked, the red stain on her hands. Could still feel it on her.
It was her fault those men were dead, and if someone were to see her hands in this state, it wouldn't take a genius to figure it out. She needed to get them washed. Needed to get them clean.
She rubbed them together, hoping to rub the redness off with her bare hands, but it was no hope. A faint glimmer, though—a trough in the pig-pen she'd spent the night in. She turned back. She would just have to try again.
She slipped over the fence, watching for anyone who could see, and brought a handful of the water to her mouth. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she had gotten here. The need for water seemed to pull her out of the distress that she was feeling, set her mind straight.
She rubbed the water into her skin, trying to get the little bit of redness out of her skin. She knew it was no use. Her skin was only getting redder, as she rubbed it. If she
was going to get her hands clean—she would have done it the night before. But something in her couldn't accept that answer.
She stood again, took another look around. A few men worked in a field, a ways away, but they hadn't taken any special interest in her. If they'd even noticed her, then she couldn't tell. That was good enough for her, she decided. As long as she didn't need to defend herself, as long as she didn't need to run, how much did it matter?
She took a breath and tried to straighten out her thoughts. What came next? She had to find Gunnar. That's right, she had to find him. He would protect her. He had promised to. She'd come all this way to try to find him again, and now that she had, hopefully, saved him from execution, she needed to find him.
Back over the fence. Back on the road. Her hands were cold from the wet and the early spring air. It was just a matter of time, but he wouldn't be this far into town. They'd be insane. The entire place would be searched eventually, and unlike Deirdre, thirty men couldn't hope to hide between a few hay bales for the night.
So she would have to go out into the countryside herself. She took a guess which way they would go. It was as good as anything, she thought. It wasn't as if she could go and ask someone. Not after what she'd done. That would be just as bad as asking to be arrested.
The houses were sparser. Fields less well-maintained, with fewer people working them. It was almost peaceful out this far. Almost like Malbeck had been, all that time ago. Before everything had gone crazy, before the Vikings had come. Deirdre found her mind wandering back to Brigid.
Now that she had a few days to think it over, could it have been possible that the woman she saw was her teacher? It seemed impossible. She must have misremembered. She just applied the woman's face to her teacher. Imagined that they had looked the same, when in reality they had been two very different people. That made sense. But it didn't make her feel any better.
And what if Gunnar wouldn't come back with her? Would she follow him, instead? She already knew the answer. She couldn't go back alone. Couldn't, wouldn't. It didn't matter if she never got her answers. She had believed for so long that there weren't any answers to find.
Her teacher was dead. She had to get over that, had to realize that whatever she was doing now was just something her mind was doing to deal with the stress that she'd been under and to help her deal with Brigid's death.
Something stopped Deirdre in her tracks. She heard a noise. It had been a while since she'd heard anything like someone else in the area. It seemed as if these fields were lying fallow for the season, so there shouldn't be anyone out at all. What would be the point?
And yet, as she slipped behind a large hay bale, she definitely heard it again.
A footstep.
Gunnar jerked awake hard, the dream he'd been having already forgotten, but the anxiety still fresh in his mind. He was alright. Everyone around him was alright. He pulled himself upright. If he was awake, then he was awake. No worrying about it now. The sun hadn't started to rise yet, which meant that he had plenty of time before the rest of the camp woke.
They were lucky, he thought, that they hadn't been caught. It couldn't have been too hard to find them if a competent tracker had been sent out, but with the madness of the crowd—perhaps that provided the perfect cover for them. How would they differentiate them from the hundreds or thousands of people who had fled that courtyard?
But even still, it was only a matter of time until they were found. He laid back, watching the sky. It all seemed so peaceful around. A stark contrast to the life he'd led up to this point. Moments like this were already rare enough, he had to cherish what he was able to find.
That was more true now than ever, with him thinking more and more about what it would be like to leave fighting behind. He had been fighting for so long, and for what? A few golden coins and the approval of his Jarl? What did that account for? How did that help him to put food on his table?
Where was the Jarl when it came time to put crops in the ground? When it came time to find a wife, and put his roots into the ground? No, he was only useful at the helm of a longship, during the raiding season. No one had any illusions about that, not even Gunnar, but when was it going to be enough?
The sun had started to peek over the horizon, and with it the rest of the party had started to stir. It was time to get to work, then. They couldn't move until the end of the next day, and that gave the English plenty of time to stumble onto their little hideaway.
It didn't take a genius to figure out what would happen then, with half their party wounded and the other half exhausted and mostly-starved. Someone had to make sure that nobody got too close. He was tired, to be sure, but it didn't account for nearly so much of a problem as it must have for some others.
"Valdemar," he called out, already strapping the stolen sword-belt back around his waist. "Someone needs to go keep an eye out for English soldiers. I'll take the first round."
Valdemar didn't argue. In fact, he didn't much respond. He turned at the suggestion, and then nodded, turning back to the man before him. One of the ones with a bad cut, one that looked to have crippled his arm. Hopefully for everyone, it wasn't going to be a permanent affliction.
He would need food, he knew. A long day out, in the sun, and he'd have to move quickly and carefully. He would be tired before noontime, and he had no guarantee that he could be back by then. The layout of the countryside was as unfamiliar as it ever had been, but roaming too close to the camp would risk giving away its location.
Water for the day, which he noted no one had. They would need to find a supply of fresh water, and quickly, or those men would have a good deal of trouble healing from their wounds. Regardless, he added to himself, if he found someone who could heal them.
He tried not to think of who that person might be. It would only distract him from the range of possibilities. But he couldn't deny that the idea of finding Deirdre had entered into the equation. If he went out and there were no English patrols ranging out towards their camp, then that would be enough.
If they were, then he would deal with them. He put his hand on the handle of the stolen sword as if to reinforce the point, if only to himself. He started out. North, then looping around toward the city, then back and coming into camp from the south. It would give him plenty of time to see if there were anyone, and time to think.
If he didn't run into her, then it wouldn't be a problem. He was doing this for the group, because it was the right decision to make. If he happened to come across her, then that would be perfectly fine. But he wasn't going to force anything, and he wouldn't divert himself to find her.
There was nothing to see the first mile. He started to arc west, the city looming large on the horizon. It was only a few short miles. He could make it if he ran. Even closer, he could see haystacks dotting the landscape. Clearly there were farms, though how far out they ranged he couldn't say to a certainty. Still, he didn't run. Just kept walking, right hand resting on the round pommel of the blade at his hip.
Another mile, and he turned again. A line of fences, loosely held together to contain pigs. He could hear men, from a great distance, but they were no particular threat. Gunnar stayed out of their way and stayed out of their line of vision. A much closer noise drew his attention. It was faint, but unmistakable. Someone was here, and they were hiding from him.
He drew the sword, holding it down but ready to jump into action at any moment. As soon as danger arose, his hand would move. He stood still, taking in the surroundings. The fences were too small to hide behind, obscured nothing. He was behind a small stone wall, and across the road, beaten smooth by thousands of feet, was a short, squat shack made from wood.
Too small for a house, he reasoned, so it wasn't a resident. Someone was there, and he had to investigate. Particularly if it was someone who was sneaking, same as he was. They were afraid of what might happen if they were caught, and he was the only one who might catch anyone who would hide.
Careful to remain sil
ent, he lifted himself one leg at a time over the wall and then moved quickly across the road. Whoever had been here, they hadn't moved. He had been listening as carefully as he had ever listened, and not one tiny rustle of straw on grass had met his ears. He turned before he went 'round the corner, his blade still out and at the ready.
Gunnar's hands automatically started it moving, preparing to deal the killing blow to whoever he found there. A bright shock of red hair stopped him.
"Deirdre?"
She looked up at him, confused for a moment, until realization dawned on her face who had found her. She looked tired, and looked as panicked as he could imagine that she must have been. Even as he stopped himself, lowering the weapon and turning to make sure no one was watching, he felt himself worrying about what had happened to her.
"Gunnar," she said softly. He turned to see what she wanted to say, and then she dove headlong into him, sending him to the ground and sending the sword clattering uselessly beside them.
Thirty-Five
Deirdre didn't feel them hit the ground. The relief had been so palpable that she'd thrown herself straight into his arms without a second thought, without even considering that he might not have expected it, and when they'd fallen to the ground it didn't matter because she was finally with him again.
Her lips found his, the feeling of their bodies pressed together only driving her on further, her body moving almost on its own.
After a moment he seemed to realize what was happening and started to kiss back, his hands lacing through her hair and pulling her in close, hoping to continue their kissing and lush it further. Her lips spread to allow his invading tongue, and she allowed herself to enjoy his kisses for a moment before coming up for air.
