His Captive (Historical Viking Romance)

by Amy Faye

  In fact, she could barely hide the tremble of fear and sadness in her voice.

  There was a long pause as Valdemar thought about what to do. Should she have left a long time ago? Deirdre wasn't sure, but the overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by men who could kill her with little more than a snap of their thick fingers made her feel startlingly like a hare, frozen by the sight of a predator.

  And then as soon as she had realized the fear and uncertainty, Valdemar called out. A boy came in, not one that Deirdre had seen before, and the Northman said something to him. He came up behind Deirdre and guided her with a hand on her back. She wanted to kick him, wanted to protest, but she knew that wouldn't do.

  She had to look like she was obediently serving Valdemar, or none of her little lie would work. She had to look absolutely terrified, and absolutely servile, and that meant that she let the seventeen-year-old act as if he owned her. Because Valdemar was watching, and he had told the boy to do it, which meant that it was as good as Valdemar doing it.

  She climbed back up into the wagon, Gunnar still sitting. He wore an unusually pensive expression and watched her sit, watched the boy tie her back. What was he looking at her like that for? As far as he knew, she hadn't done anything wrong. He had no reason to doubt her, no reason to believe that she'd done anything wrong, and for that matter she didn't have any reason to believe that she had either.

  She'd done what she had to do, and as long as Valdemar handled it properly by just kicking him out of camp there wouldn't be any problem.

  The men that started to pile up outside the wagon told her everything she needed to know. There wasn't going to be any sort of subtle handling here. No, she was as sold out as she could be. She couldn't see any of them reaching for blades, though, and that was a small blessing by itself.

  Gunnar didn't speak, but he looked as if he were getting set. Then the boy hit him hard and shoved him to the ground. They swarmed him before he could get back up and mount his response. He fought back as best he could, but five-to-one was bad odds for the best of fighters. When they finally separated, Gunnar wasn't moving.

  Gunnar wasn't surprised to feel the ache that seemed to fill every part of his body, but that didn't mean that he liked it, either. No, the pain was beginning to become a constant companion, since he had taken the stab in the chest. He was only thankful that he hadn't tried to take another to fool them.

  The first problem was the ropes that bound his arms, which had now been tied 'round his ankles in a hog-tie. If they'd intended him not to get out, they should have used better ropes. It took a long time to get free, laying there in the dark, but by working his arms one way, then the other, he was able to find his way free of them.

  For a moment he considered leaving them, tied in a pile, but then he changed his mind. Rope could be useful, even if it were worn and stretched. He coiled it quickly and hung it over a thick shoulder. They hadn't left him with any supplies. It meant that he'd be running hungry, and he would be sleeping under the open stars.

  But it also meant that he was traveling light, and he could go further in a day than the band he followed.

  The second concern was to catch back up. He had two debts to repay now, and he couldn't begin to deal with them while he was separated from the rest of the Danes. A quick look around told him that he'd been unconscious or sleeping for the better part of the night, and now as dawn was beginning to break over the easterly hills, he was out in the cold and very, very alone.

  A short climb took him to the top of a hill that let him look out for a mile or more, and no signs told him that they might be within an hour's walk. No, the entire camp must have packed up and left him nearly as soon as he'd been dropped off the wagon.

  He wondered how Eirik had taken it. He might not have raised a hand, Gunnar thought. He took things in stride, and though they counted themselves friends, he wouldn't have gone against what the Gods told him.

  More likely Ulf would have fought it, but Leif would contain him if the need arose. He closed his eyes and tried to get his bearings, looked for signs. With thirty men marching and at least three wagons now, they left a trail that wasn't too hard to pick up.

  But that didn't mean it was going to be easy, by any means. No, he would have his work cut out for him trying to catch them. They were full and fat on food, no doubt. They took plenty with each raid, never even needing to stop to hunt. If Gunnar could catch them in a day, perhaps it would be fine to continue without finding something to eat.

  But he wasn't going to. Eight hours or more, he guessed, was what would separate them. That would take more than a day to make up unless he went through the dark, and then he had as good a chance of losing their trail in the dark.

  His body hurt to move, and it only got worse as he continued. It didn't take long to figure out what had happened, but Gunnar refused to believe it. Leif had been gone for minutes before the men had come to take him away. He could have revealed Gunnar's condition.

  Anyone could have heard them speaking, as well, but he had little doubt. This was Deirdre's doing. He'd seen it in her face, moments before it happened. He'd seen the doubt and regret.

  It wasn't hard to guess why, either. Part of Gunnar wanted to forgive her for it, straight away. She needed to do what she had to, in order to survive. She was surrounded by danger, by men would likely had exactly one thing on their minds.

  But she had done what she had to do at his expense. He could have reclaimed the band. Could have beaten Valdemar in a fair duel, no question. She had taken that away from him by trying to play her woman's tricks.

  He tried not to feel hurt by it. He might have done the same thing in her situation. The world that he lived in was a cruel one. Men did what they had to do to survive. But he had promised her protection, had thought that he felt something between them. Something that went past the brotherly trust he held for Eirik or Ulf.

  The sort of thing that would make it hard for someone to betray the other person, and that was what he knew it was. A betrayal. He pushed his muscles to move harder. He would recover, or he would die, but he needed to make up quite a bit of distance.

  Recovering was secondary. Eating was secondary, the pain in his ligaments was secondary. The only thing that mattered right now was repaying his debts. Valdemar had taken the band away from him. Had stolen it by attacking him when he was at his most vulnerable.

  Deirdre had compounded on that, giving his rival the warning that he would need to get rid of him before he could do anything.

  Yet, suddenly the question occurred. What would have happened if he had already challenged the duel? It would have been cowardice to attack him right before a duel, and he couldn't have run away from a man who he'd beaten while obviously injured. How would the Gods have looked at that?

  He would have done it. Would have gone. But Deirdre was not alone in stopping him. Gods above, what if Leif had been involved as well?

  As he moved through the hills, double time, more and more questions arose. How deep did this go? Who could he trust if he couldn't trust either of them?

  He pushed on. There would be time to figure out what would come next. Right now he had to close the distance between them, and to do that he had to keep moving. Trying to figure out what to do next, that would only slow him down.

  Right now he needed to push his body. He closed off the thoughts of who to blame. The only person he needed to blame right now was Valdemar. That was enough to stoke the fire in his belly, and anything more risked breaking his concentration.

  Valdemar had been trying to show him up since the outset of the expedition. He'd been the one pushing, constantly, to take control. When a chance had arisen, he had taken it. Then when Gunnar had been so close to reclaiming what was his, Valdemar had taken it away again.

  Gunnar wasn't about to allow that to continue, no. He would repay his debts with advantages.

  Valdemar wouldn't make it out of England alive.

  Sixteen

  She wasn't
sure why she was so surprised that Valdemar immediately packed camp back up, even before they finished hog-tying Gunnar's unconscious body in the dirt. They were moving again before the sun had even finished dipping below the horizon, and they kept moving through the night.

  It was dangerous, continuing the way they were, and it was a stupid risk, but staying would have been a bigger one, so she should have seen it coming. Still, it was easier for her, there in the cart, to lie back and doze as they moved. She could only imagine how the men were grumbling.

  She was greeted by three familiar faces looking into the back of her little protected area, though she couldn't assign names to them. They had spoken more than once to Gunnar in front of her, and he'd seemed to regard them closely.

  "Get up, girl," said one. The bald one.

  She did as she was told and waited to hear more, but for a long time they just looked her over. It was a very different look than she was used to. Either she expected people to be afraid of her, or to notice the rapidly deteriorating neckline of her dress, but they seemed to be measuring her.

  Finally he spoke again. "What have you done?"

  She didn't answer him at first, but it wasn't hard to believe that they knew what she'd done. Who else could have warned Valdemar? The dark-haired man had passed by the tent; it wasn't hard to believe that he could have sent the message, but he stood right before her.

  "I didn't do anything," she said.

  "With Gunnar gone, Valdemar's going to be in command for a good while, now." Deirdre didn't answer again, waiting for more before she tried to figure out what she was supposed to say.

  The dark-haired one spoke, finally. "He'll think we're planning something, so we can't keep an eye on him. You'll have to do it."

  "Are you?"

  "Up to something?" His face didn't betray any particular emotion, nor any response. It certainly wasn't a refusal.

  "Why are you talking to me?"

  "We think he trusts you. You've given him what he wanted, after all."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You gave Gunnar his damnable 'cure,' and that let him have control. With this, you've cemented it." The raven-hair again. "Well, you have a choice to make. Report to us, and we'll protect you. Or don't, and we'll see if Valdemar will offer the same."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Exactly what it sounds like," he said. The same hard, non-expressive face.

  "What am I supposed to call you, even?"

  The bald one spoke first, touching a fist to his chest. "Eirik."

  The Dark-haired one next. "Leif," he said, then he gestured toward the third. "Ulf."

  The giant of a man nodded, but said nothing. She wondered for a moment if he spoke English at all, and when he said something in their Northern tongue she considered it all-but confirmed.

  "You have to make your decision. We'll be back tonight, after dark, to hear what you've decided. Gods be good if you choose wrong again."

  Gunnar woke up without realizing he'd fallen asleep. The exhaustion had just overtaken him as he ran, so he stopped to sit against a tree, and then he'd opened his eyes again and the sun was already up.

  He could hear birds chirping, and the light stung, but only for a moment. Then it was time to go again. Always following the tracks. They had gotten better at hiding their trail as time passed, after their night of running, but now he had the scent, so to speak. Being closer meant being able to move faster, to run longer, to push harder.

  But it also meant that he needed to be more careful, now. There was always the risk, ever-present, that he would show some sign of following, and they'd see him coming. Worse, he might be spotted by Englishmen following behind. He might be able to appeal to the band, even to Valdemar, but it would be a difficult thing to convince the English soldiers to just let him go by.

  No, the odds of that happening weren't great. So he was limited in his movements by the constant knowledge that he could be attacked at any time. He shrugged it off. No reason to be bothered by it, it was just something else he had to factor in.

  He kept his shoulders low, swiveled his head left and right, making sure that he was running light on his feet. Every crack of a twig, every noise of the lightly-wooded path that he followed them down seemed to be a possible assault.

  He knew the pace that the men would be going. They couldn't continue at double-time forever, not with the packs on their backs and the carts to keep in order. Not while they tried to march in line, not while they tried to avoid leaving signs of their passage.

  He, on the other hand, barely had enough supplies to hunt a pig. It meant that he'd gone a bit lean even over the two days that he'd been following, but it also meant that he could move faster and easier, with more flexibility in his route.

  In other words, catching them was just a matter of time.

  A noise made him stop, still. A crack, then another. One after the other, and another, long after he'd stopped. Something else was ahead of him, no more than a few hundred yards, and headed this way. It took only a moment to duck into a ditch, and then he waited.

  There was no reason to assume it was anything dangerous, particularly if they were heading away from Valdemar's group. If he were lucky, it was a farmer. Maybe he would be old, and his son asleep in the back of the cart. That would be an easy mark, he could get away cleanly with their things. But he didn't lean on that assumption.

  He had to assume that they were soldiers, or else when he guessed wrong he was a dead man—or at least he was arrested.

  Two horses, he decided as he listened to them ride past. No more. He tried to listen harder, tried to hear the sound of footsteps. He wasn't sure if he heard them or not over the sound of the horses, the wooden creaking of a cart that they pulled, probably between them.

  As they passed him and went down the road he dared a glance back. A coach. There were a couple of men, standing from handholds on the back, but they wouldn't be much to stop him.

  He started to move, his bruised legs protesting at the effort, but he ignored them. Stuck close to the edge of the road, where he could keep ducked into the ditch and avoid their eyes until the last moment. The horses weren't moving particularly quickly, which is what allowed him to catch them. That, combined with his efforts to remain concealed.

  With a dive he caught one of the footmen and pulled him free of the coach, throwing him to the ground and taking his position. The other shouted and made a grab for a weapon. At the same time, a whip-crack hurried the horses until it was nearly all that Gunnar or the footman could do to stay hanging on.

  He settled his weight down low, hanging from the hand-hold and crouching. There was more to win here than a simple fight, now. He watched the road disappearing. In barely a minute, he'd lost ten minutes walk. He had to recoup that loss as best he could.

  How to get around, though? He considered for only a moment, then had to duck around the side of the coach as he saw a small crossbow coming up in the guard's hands. That would have been bad.

  His foot found a hold and he fussed with a door until it came open. Inside were two, perhaps a man and his daughter. Or wife, or lover, Gunnar couldn't have said. The man was wearing too-fine clothing and had a gut, and he looked as if he were regretting the trip now.

  The woman was dressed the same, and for a moment he regretted having come in. Where on earth could he go from here? A window to the seat, though, answered the question. Gunnar took one thick, powerful arm through the window, wrapped it around the driver's waist, and pulled hard until he was lodged, folded over, in the window that he would never have been able to get through.

  Then he pushed the door back open and swung himself up. The driver still struggled to pull himself free, looking up and realizing his mistake just in time to see Gunnar's fist come down on his cheekbone. Then his body went limp and Gunnar pulled him free from the window and dumped him to the ground.

  How on earth did he stop the horses, though? That question had seemed so secondary, but
now he had no idea. He pulled on the reins, slowing them and sending the team of horses into a wide loop through the open plains. He pulled again, trying to keep the reins straight, and finally they slowed to a canter, and then a stop.

  That left one more to deal with, though, and as the horses slowed to a halt Gunnar could feel the cart lightening in the rear as the footman stepped off. He peered around the edge just long enough to see the blade coming free of it scabbard.

  The thought of Deirdre's face was an unwelcome distraction from what he had to do. She could have healed any wounds he took. And perhaps she could have soothed him, once that was taken care of, as well. He shook the thoughts out of his head.

  He had to fight, now. That was the most important thing. He clambered up over the top of the coach, carefully stepping down into the very same foothold that the man had just stepped down from. Then he peered around the side.

  He'd have to take this carefully, because wounds seemed to like him now, and bare-handed against a sword were not odds that he was hopeful about.

  But that didn't mean he could afford to give up now.

  Seventeen

  She didn't need to get out of the wagon to know what was happening. The feeling around the camp was palpable, bad enough that the boys on the floor had taken to pretending to be more injured than they were.

  The days had passed quickly, and checking their wounds had quickly revealed that they were coming along better than she had hoped. They might be alright and moving again in a week, and they could probably have been sitting up.

  It didn't take more than a couple of people talking too close to the wagon, close enough that they could hear, that they started to act as if they were in unbelievable, unbearable pain again. That had been enough to tell her that whatever the Northmen had said, it wasn't something that she wanted to get involved in.

  But things were so much worse than that, after all, because she was in the middle of them. Valdemar hadn't called her again, and she was thankful for that. If those three came back, then she could claim, completely honestly, that she hadn't seen anything at all. They couldn't be upset, couldn't blame her. After all, she hadn't done anything wrong!