by Amy Faye
Them, and Gunnar, who deserved what he got the most of all.
She was already pulling on a coat and packing a bag before she knew what she was doing. Getting the saddle back on the horse was easy, the Blue was a gentle little sweetheart. Getting her going was just as easy, and leaving her home again… she chose not to think about it.
Gunnar felt Deirdre in his head like an itch he couldn't scratch. She had left him behind, that was sure. But that didn't mean he hadn't spent most of the last weeks thinking about her. It was as much a habit as it was something he had to do. Something that she drove him to do.
What was she doing right now? Was she happy? Was she still safe? Had she managed to make it back to her little cottage, the one she'd wanted to return to for so long? If she hadn't, what was he going to do about it locked up in here?
He took a deep breath and tried to move on, but the pool pulled him back. He couldn't sleep—his eyes ached, his head throbbed, and he wanted nothing more than to slip into comforting sleep, but he lay awake in spite of it. How could he get over this? Death, at this point, would be a relief because at least he wouldn't feel so damned tired any more.
He imagined the sight of her, surrounded by yellow flowers. Making sure that they stayed healthy, with her little tricks. She would have little tricks to keep her flowers alive, he knew. She seemed like the sort of person who had a talent for it. He couldn't help the smile that crossed his face.
Nor could he help imagining himself there, with her. Imagining their life together, the life they couldn't ever have. Not any more, not unless he escaped from this prison.
The plan was a good one. It relied on the big oaf of a prison guard, someone had called him Luke, doing what he naturally wanted to do anyway. Then Gunnar would do what he was good at. He wanted to imagine himself as being something worthy of Deirdre, but it wasn't to be.
He was a good killer, not a good husband. A plan that relied on him grabbing a man and killing him before he could raise an alarm? That was the sort of plan that he was best at. Not plans that relied on his help to raise a corn crop and keep the cattle in their pen.
Magnus was the right choice for the target, as well. He had kept himself isolated in the corner, not speaking much. He had always seemed quiet to Gunnar, though that quietness had meant little on the battlefield. In these quarters, though, it would be a signal to the guard that he wasn't well-liked and no one would work to protect him.
The quietness would also signal that he was weak. If he were brought out and beaten a little, what would he be able to do? The interpretation there was wrong. He was a wicked little thing, with a knife or a sword. They had taken their knives, though, and their swords, before they locked the Danes up.
So it fell to Gunnar to make sure that it happened right.
The plan would have been better, he supposed, if they were able to use someone else. Ulf was the perfect choice, of course. He was the size of two men and could have twisted the man out like a damp rag. That by itself was obvious, though. He had the least slack of all of them, and was chained to the far wall. He would have to pull himself clear of the wall to even hope to touch a single hair on guard Luke's head.
Perhaps, if he was lucky, Valdemar would listen at last to reason. They needed to go back home. The men were tired from being out in the field so long. Soul-tired. They wanted to get home to their families, if they had any.
Gunnar had tried to avoid it when they could, but some of the younger ones would still be useful in their parents' harvest come next summer. It would be a great shame to have to lead another tiny group back to tell everyone that their loved ones were gone.
It had been humiliating the first time, and he'd struggled to bear the shame. To have it happen a second time… even if word of the mutiny were to get out, he would never be able to live it down. He'd certainly never be able to lead another expedition with anyone but madmen and fools.
Gunnar drew a breath through his teeth and blew it back out. He tried not to imagine that night with Deirdre, but the thought just made him think of it more. His body was sensitive, every bit of him driving towards a realization that he didn't want to make.
He didn't care what she wanted, per se. If she wanted to be free of him, then she might be able to have that. But he didn't care that she wanted it, he wanted her. He would keep trying to find her, would chase her to the ends of the earth if he had to. Wherever she was.
But his thoughts turned quickly. That was, indeed, all she'd really wanted. He had taken her away—if he hadn't been so desperate for a witching woman to cure his immortality, then he would have left her alive. Would have saved the children, and the three women with her as well.
There was nothing wrong with raiding, he thought. No, the strong got what they took. But killing women had always felt wrong, and he never liked to have to do it. He'd opened that door himself, and left it open for others to step in and do what he couldn't. What he didn't want to do.
She had been clear from the first. She wanted to go home. To be free. She never wanted to be with him. She had given him what he wanted to get away.
He sighed and turned over. He needed to sleep. His eyes stung with tiredness. Leaving her be was the right answer this time. She deserved her freedom. She'd earned it, after all.
Thirty-One
Deirdre's hips ached from the days she'd already spent riding, and she still had more to go. It seemed as if she'd been on the horse since forever, with only the one brief stop in her cottage, and now she was back on the road again with only a few short hours to soothe her aching bottom.
She couldn't even rub them, since that would mean getting off the horse, and time was definitely at a premium. She needed to get to Norwich, and soon. Feeling better, it would take time. She barely had time to eat, even—it seemed like the minute that she let herself off the blue pony, she just had to lay down a second and she was waking up the next morning.
Eating meant forcing herself to find food, meant struggling to keep her eyes open in spite of how tired she was feeling. She'd have rather just slept, but she needed to keep her strength, or she might fall off the horse in a moment of tiredness, and then where would she be?
Nowhere near Gunnar, nowhere near Norwich, and nowhere near saving anyone. She'd be right back where she was, only saddle-sore and with seemingly endless exhaustion. It felt unnatural, even improper to be so tired, all the time. But she knew better than to pretend that she wasn't feeling it.
Her teachers words echoed in her head: Your body is your most useful tool, and it will tell you when something's wrong. Don't ignore it, you're not going to get another. Well, she'd like to ignore it now.
She was thankful for the clothes she'd brought. It drew a little less attention than being blood-covered and having her breasts practically hanging out, but for a little afternoon trying to help the locals, she hadn't needed to concern herself with suitability for the road. And of course she'd had all the buttons.
It was what let her slip off the horse, tie it up beside the others, and walk into a little restaurant. Deirdre didn't have much money. Didn't have much need for it. But she had enough to get by, and with the way she was feeling a hot soup would go a long way to helping her feel much better.
The woman who took her order was older, with looks that might have been attractive even as little as ten years ago, though she looked as if she had been in a downward spiral longer than that. She must have been a real beauty in her youth. The man behind the bar looked like her husband. He must have been proud to have such a pretty wife.
She looked around the restaurant as they left. It was still strange to be out and in public like this. Without having to worry about what people would think. The place seemed popular, over half the seats filled well past noontime, yet too early for supper.
Deirdre accepted the drink they brought and drank it down greedily. The water tasted foreign, and she had to admit that it was. Not the well-water she was used to, and not the canteen-water that she'd drank with the
Northmen's camp. She drank it down greedily.
The soup came out not long afterward, and she started to eat greedily, continuing to look around for anything that would signal some sort of change around her. Anything that meant she needed to leave in a hurry.
Deirdre heard the door opening behind her, turned to look and see who came in. There was something familiar about the woman, but before she could place the woman's face, she had already turned on her heel and walked right back out. Deirdre watched her walk past the plate windows and down the road. Towards the road out of town. Where Deirdre had just come from.
Brigid couldn't possibly be here. She'd been gone almost five years, she wouldn't suddenly be back with no explanation. Besides, it had been five years. It was probably just a woman who looked similar. But Deirdre couldn't shake the feeling that she knew exactly who the woman had been.
There had been a short time where Deirdre thought that Brigid might come back. That she wasn't just leaving her student behind entirely. But after a year, without a single word, she'd realized the truth. Or, what she thought the truth was.
She had left to go and die, or to find someplace else to live entirely. Seeing someone who looked very much like her teacher, five years older but still the same woman, and seeming to head towards their old home—it tore open old wounds that Deirdre didn't want to think about.
Why had she left in the first place? That was the real question. If there was no way of knowing, there was no reason to worry. But what if Deirdre thought wrong? What if there was very much a reason to worry? She couldn't let herself get distracted.
She needed to get to Norwich and see what she could do to help Gunnar. He had done so much for her, protected her so many times, that she couldn't just abandon him. Not even if it was what he'd asked her to do. She couldn't believe he was lying there on some battlefield.
But even if she hadn't cured his immortality, what happened to a man who healed his wounds quickly, if his head were separated from his body? The answer seemed obvious. No need to ask herself. She took a deep breath. This wasn't a time for worrying or a time for panic.
Did Brigid have some part to play in all of this? If so, why had she left? Why was she coming back now? And why had she left in such a hurry? The questions were too many, and the answers—there weren't any answers at all.
There was one person who knew the answers to all the questions she had, and she had just walked out the door. If it had all been a big mistake, and that woman was nobody at all, she wouldn't have left like she did. Nobody in the place looked dangerous. Rather, they all had a very stable air of people who came here all the time.
She was the only change, and though it was a bit of a leap to assume, she had to guess that she was the only reason someone would bolt out of the place.
She could follow after. Even on horseback, she could easily guess which way her teacher would have gone. After all, it seemed as if she were going straight back where Deirdre had just left. It would only be a little while, and then she'd be able to ask, straight to Brigid's face, what had happened. Why she'd left.
Deirdre dropped a shilling on the table, knowing she'd overpaid. Time was of the essence, after all. A second realization hit her as she walked out the door. She couldn't do both. She had to be in Norwich if she wanted to help Gunnar. Or she could head in the opposite direction and confront her teacher. Ask why she'd left her, why she had just abandoned her.
She frowned. There wasn't any choice to be made. One of them was more important. She stepped back up onto the horse, adjusted her skirts, and got the horse moving again.
The entire atmosphere was electric. Even the feet walking past seemed to have doubled, and the noise of hammering the scaffolding together wasn't going any more. Unless they were going to be released for good behavior—not likely—there wasn't much time left. Perhaps none at all. Perhaps they had waited too long.
But the guard had become more and more serious about his job as time went on. As the finish line approached and he started to show signs that he might actually have some sort of future. There had been debates about what to do when he managed to stay sober tonight.
They guessed that there would be a moment where their chains would be struck off, and in that moment they would make their escape. Instants before the executioner's ax fell. But it was not exactly the sort of contingency plan that anyone wanted to test. After all, it assumed that the English were fools.
They had done their best to marshal defenses up to this point, but nobody had the resources to fight back. These city soldiers, though, they had been led well, and they had planned well. There wasn't any hope that they might slip up at the last minute, because they hadn't slipped up before.
But the last moment is when everyone slips up, Gunnar thought. He looked over at the guard. He was alone, the thick doors barred shut. He led the scrawny teenage sneak-thief back into his cell. Or carried him, more like, since the boy seemed to be having trouble walking.
A blue bottle came out of the cabinet, and suddenly every eye was on him. He might be able to keep himself sober enough to be afraid. But the night before they were executed? He wasn't going to get another chance. They let themselves hope that tonight would be the night that he looked drunk and stupid enough to risk entering the den of lions for a little bit of his sadistic fun.
He took a drink, then another. Gunnar sneered. The man drank as if it were his job. No time to enjoy his liquor, nor revelry to join it. Just a man hurtling toward drunkenness. Tonight would be the night, whatever happened. He could already see it, and the others with him could see it as well.
Just a matter of time, waiting and choosing when the moment was right. He stood up, the bottle hanging loosely in his hand, and walked the wall, inspecting each cell. As if he were looking for something, but Gunnar knew from looking at him that he was trying to intimidate them.
Magnus seemed to recognize it, as well. No one signaled him to begin as far as Gunnar saw, but he began wailing out, a loud and particularly bawdy Danish drinking song. Magnus was no songbird, either. If he had to provoke the man's ire, that might be the right way to go about it. If Gunnar could get himself free, he might have put the beating on the boy himself.
The guard shouted, his words already a little slurred. "Shut yer yap!"
Magnus knew his game, though. No, he wouldn't begin to do that. Not until he'd gotten what he wanted.
The guard rose from his little stool, his eyes screwed up and squinty in a way that he must have thought was intimidating. "Why, if you don't stop that—"
He rapped the billy-club against the bars hard, as if to show what was going to happen to Magnus. That he didn't immediately start fumbling for his keys when he said it was a sign in itself that he felt something was off. That he realized deep down that he was out of his depth with these Nords.
But after draining the bottle, every man in the prison was ready to have Magnus put on a spike, and the sadistic streak that gave the guard what little motivation he had started to spark. Perhaps just a little beating, Gunnar whispered to him. Just for a moment. After all, they're all chained up.
He reached for the keys that hung at his belt and started flipping through them. His fingers fumbled a little with the slowed reactions of drunkenness, but it didn't take more than a few moments to find the key. It opened with a satisfying, well-oiled click, and the door swung open easily.
Gunnar turned his head to check. Valdemar's hand clutched the ring that held their shared chain to the wall, and he had as much slack as he would ever have. He reached out, and with a surge of adrenaline and elation, he wrapped his free arm around the man's neck and yanked him back away from the door.
"Turn him to me!" Valdemar was already reaching for the keys at the man's hips, before Gunnar could do anything more. He twisted the man roughly away to set him off-balance, and just as Gunnar had hoped he braced himself against it.
The rapid switch in the other direction caught him completely off-guard, but to Gunnar's disappoint
ment he stayed on his feet. A hard tug from Valdemar and the keys pulled free with a loud pop as the ring tore away.
The guard had started to fight back already, and Gunnar covered his mouth. It would only take a moment to kill the man. But he needed a grip on him, needed to catch him 'round the throat, and the way that he twisted to get free, with only one hand…
If he cried out, it would all be over. So he gripped with all his might on the man's mouth, using his chained arm as best he could. Valdemar tried keys desperately beside him, finally freeing himself and giving Gunnar use of his chained arm. He rapped the man on the head, hard. With a little luck, they'd be free and clear. If he hadn't hit hard enough, though, the man would be up and awake.
There was no time to be certain. Valdemar was going down the line, unlocking chains. The thought crossed his mind for a moment. What if Valdemar left without unlocking his chains? He would be the only one left behind, or perhaps Eirik, Leif, and Ulf as well. But they were already free and rubbing their wrists where the iron bracelets had chafed their skin raw.
Gunnar came last. He had been the linchpin of his plan. If they meant to betray him now—he steadied himself. No, he shouldn't assume. And with Ulf and Leif free, he would regret leaving Gunnar behind. The feel of the iron being removed was all the answer he needed. And then they were gone. Plenty of time to escape, he reasoned. Plenty of time.
They had barely cleared the wall when he heard the cry go up. A smart guard would have made sure that they checked outside the wall. The worst-case scenario. They weren't far enough out to be sure of their escape, and it meant that they were the furthest thing from safe.
Gunnar felt the weight on his shoulders. He had put these men in the position they were now in. It was his responsibility to see them safely home. He slowed his run. The others noticed and turned, still moving.
"I'll stay behind. Someone needs to slow them. You go. Go home, don't worry about me. I'll find my own way."
