by Amy Faye
Finally the outskirts opened up around her, allowing Deirdre a better view of the chaos that had overtaken the city. She let herself slow, turning back to see what was happening. She could hear fighting, very far away, but otherwise the city was oddly still. Those who had fought to flee the city and go back to their homes had been able to find plenty of time to do so; she was, after all, one of the last.
Those who lived in the city were likely now huddling in their homes, hoping that the Northmen and the guards both decided to leave them alone. She took a deep breath. Where could she go from here? She wanted to reconnect with Gunnar, but where would he go? She couldn't remain in the city, that much she knew.
She would have to search for him, but at the very least she knew that they wouldn't stay nearby either. She had to leave, and they were so much more wanted than she was. Deirdre turned back, pulled a cloak from her backpack, and pulled it across her shoulders. The chaos of the crowd and the fighting had warmed her up, but now as she calmed down the chill was beginning to get to her.
She started walking out, careful to keep herself calm and collected. To keep her red hair hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. She was just any person, walking through the streets. Trying to get back home. She wondered briefly where the blue mare had gotten to.
At the stable, still, she thought. But Deirdre knew nothing about horses. She should have just sold the girl. At least she might be kept properly if Deirdre never went back. Not that she could afford to go back into the city to get her. No, she needed to stay about as far away as she could. She would stay just long enough to get Gunnar.
Then she would be on the road back to Malbeck, back to the answers that Brigid owed her.
The mood had never been worse around the Danish camp. Always, someone had been drinking and telling stories in the middle of camp, away from the tents. People talking, getting ready for whatever was to come.
Now they seemed to all be deflated. No one particularly spoke, and certainly no one drank. They wouldn't have if they had anything worth drinking. It had been lost, and there was not going to be any effort to go and get more. Not until they'd recovered from the madness of the past days.
Where they had gotten away cleanly the first time, thanks to Gunnar and Valdemar slowing the English down, not everyone had made it cleanly out of the city this time. Some were cut badly, but thankfully few. Others had superficial wounds, bad bruising. A few bones that might have been broken.
And the excitement had them all tired out. The general atmosphere seemed to be one of everyone just wanting to go home as soon as the opportunity arose. Gunnar felt the weight on his chest again, the weight of leadership and of knowing what needed to be done. The weight of knowing that it wasn't what you wanted, but it was the right thing to choose.
They would have to go soon. He lay on his back, looking up at the stars that were starting to dominate the sky as the sun dropped below the horizon. This was the first time they hadn't had kit to sleep under. It was oddly nostalgic, reminding him of other expeditions. They hadn't been planned as well, and they hadn't turned out as badly as this one.
One in four of his men were dead, and they wouldn't get a proper send-off. The men who survived were exhausted, and they had lost all of their loot. They would be lucky to get back to the coast with their lives, and then it would be a long trip back to Denmark. A trip in which none of them would want to discuss exactly what had caused such a catastrophe.
Had it been his own failing as a leader? Had it been the mutiny? Was it because Valdemar gambled one too many times? There was no use in asking questions about whose fault it was. It was everyone's fault, and it was no one's.
The injured ones especially wouldn't be able to move. Not right away, and they certainly wouldn't be able to take a fighting retreat for miles. They needed time. A scant few days to recover their strength. Then they would be able to move, and he knew the right thing to do was head straight back home.
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 so
mehow. 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 t
he 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.
