by Faye, Amy
"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!
But that wasn't going to cut it, and she knew it. Whether they accepted that excuse or not, she realized, she wasn't happy with it herself. She wasn't happy with the idea that she was being relegated to the back, hoping for mercy from two sides who didn't trust her.
So when a messenger came calling for her, the same boy who had brought her back to the cart the first time, she could feel the weight lifting off her shoulders. It was better than anything she could have hoped for, because at least now things were moving again. She could figure out what was going on.
He had set up his table and his chairs again. He must have gotten them out quickly, perhaps the second or third thing that was done in the camp. The tents weren't all erected yet, but Valdemar looked completely settled.
He was facing away from the entrance as she came in, but he didn't waste a moment in turning to regard her, gesturing toward the seat before her. She took the seat and tried to look around, to get as much detail as possible from her surroundings.
Would they raid tomorrow? It seemed as if they didn't set up quite so completely when they were just going to move on in the morning, but this was completely arrayed out.
What sort of information was she supposed to get from this, that would please Leif and Eirik? The third, Ulf, scared her the most of all. Silent most of the time, but even larger than Gunnar. He looked every bit the large, powerful Northman that had served as a boogeyman from her childhood. And every bit as terrifying.
She blinked when she heard him speak, finally. She hadn't been listening. "What?"
"The injured. How are my men doing?"
She tried to decide how she should answer. They clearly wanted to pretend to be out for the count, out until things settled down in camp. That could be days, or it could be weeks. The tension could keep building until they left her on her tiny rock, and went back to wherever they came from.
But if she lied, what were the odds that he would know? She tried to decide, but… it was too great a risk.
"They're healing," she said softly. "I would say—"
A voice from outside called in, speaking their foreign tongue. Valdemar called back, and she turned to see a barrel-chested man that she didn't especially recognize. They spoke for a moment, then the second man left and she turned back to Valdemar.
"I would say a week, perhaps, before they can walk. More before they're fully healed."
The guess was conservative, but it was as accurate as she could make it, she thought. So why was she so afraid of retribution? Was she a miracle-worker, capable of healing the sick with a touch of her hands?
Well—aside from the one. She had to fight to keep the smile off her face, but then the memory of what she'd done came back and chased the humor away. That ship had already sailed, for her. Now she had to deal with the fallout, come what may.
Valdemar thought about that for a long time. "I hear that you had a visit from some of my men."
What was that supposed to mean? She decided not to answer, nor to ask him what he meant. He would tell her, or he wouldn't.
"It would be a terrible pity if they were thinking that they might be able to stage some sort of rebellion. A man might get hurt, thinking ideas like that. I would hate to think that you got involved with the wrong side. You've made so many good decisions in the past."
She shuddered at the thought. She'd done anything but, and the more time that passed the more sure she was. The edge was leading the knife, now, and if anything there would be much, much more bloodshed.
How could she say that, though? She couldn't, that much was obvious. So she kept the thought to herself.
"Did you have any other questions for me?"
"Just one," he answered. "What will you tell your friends, when they come back to talk to you again?"
Whatever they want to hear, she thought, but she didn't say it aloud. "Nothing."
"Good," Valdemar said, carefully putting his knife on the table and loosening his coat just a bit, to let out the heat. "You be sure you do that."
He called out and the boy came back in, and Deirdre was guided back to the medical wagon. She wasn't safe here. That much was abundantly clear, but how could she get around it? She closed her eyes and tried to think clearly.
She had only so many tools at her disposal, and so many of them were gone. She'd had someone she could lean on for protection. He hadn't been reliable, so she took a gamble. Gambled that with him out of the camp, he would see things from a different perspective, and he'd come back seeing things the way she saw them.
But she was becoming increasingly convinced by the day that she'd gambled wrong. Things were only becoming more dangerous here, and out there, who knows what he was thinking about her, except that it was almost certainly not good.
Deirdre looked at her supplies. They were running low, but she could at least make them last for these two, at least another few days. If she made them stretch, then she could get them to the point where their wounds were more-or-less closed up.
But then there were the herbs that she couldn't use. The ones that had nothing at all to do with the healing she had been doing. They were important to her work, but not to her patients.
She needed answers. That much was clear. If she was ever going to use what little remained of her focusing scents, she needed it now.
Getting a spark was the hardest part, but she pulled out the knife that she'd hidden, and used a bit of flint, and with some effort she managed to get them burning. Then she hid the knife again, careful as she could, and she waved the bundle around the wagon, taking deep breaths.
The smell was horrible. It always had been, and now was no different, but it was one that she was used to. That very smell was an important one in her work, because it was what helped her to see more, to feel more, to do more.
Then, silently, she watched the sky. Felt the air on her skin, and let herself drift away. Of all the divining, she hated weather-watching the most. It moved slowly, and she had trouble finding specific interpretations.
With the sky clear, and the air cold, what was the difference from one day to the next? It didn't matter that she couldn't figure it out, though. She had to try, or else she was useless, and flying blind.
She looked up again, letting herself look. She saw Gunnar. She was sure it was him, practically saw his face writ large.
What was that? How was she supposed to interpret it? She was probably adding too much of herself. Deirdre took another deep breath, inhaling the powerful smell, and then looked up again.
He was still there, perhaps even clearer than before. That was the only clue she was going to get, it seemed, which might as well have not been a clue at all.
Then she gasped out loud and cursed herself for a fool that she hadn't thought of it sooner.
Gunnar's legs gripped the horse's flanks and he kept his body low. Why so many so-loved these infernal beasts, he would never know. But then, he was going much faster, even as the horse moved nowhere near its fastest. He had no idea what the animal's abilities were, and particularly no desire to test them.
What good would a dead horse do him, after all? No good at all. So he kept his body pressed low in against the horse's neck and struck a quick trot
. It might have been two days more, or longer, before.
Now he would have to rest the horse, so he couldn't go through the night, but the distance he would make up with the animal's unfailing speed more than made up the difference. He would have to time his rejoining.
At night, they would have guards, but he knew as well as anyone how to get around them. But if he arrived during the day, there would be precious little time to make plans or discuss. No amount of cunning was going to get him through the camp in the middle of broad daylight without being seen.
And as soon as he was seen, he would be in for a fight. He mentally checked that he felt the weight of the sword belt tugging on his hip. Yes, he'd remembered it. Good. The sword itself was unfamiliar and strange, but it would make all the difference in a fight.
A flash of red caught his eye. Halfway up a tree. He pulled back on the bit and got the horse to stop. It stood there, mostly-calm, as he walked the twenty-odd feet back. That was interesting, he thought.
He had been following the tracks, but it slowed him down. A bright-red flower was tied 'round a tree branch.
He remembered seeing Deirdre pull them when he'd gone through the forest with her, the day of the first ambush. Now here it was around a tree branch, it didn't leave much to the imagination.
He got back on the horse, mindful now to look for a second. Nobody would have left a flower tied like that for no reason, nor would they have tied only one. It was a sign, and if he didn't miss his mark…
The second confirmed it, and the third confirmed it again. These flowers seemed to follow the trail very exactly, spaced every mile give or take. Perhaps once every half-hour's march, he guessed. Interesting.
The only person who would have had a supply of them, though, was Deirdre. If she'd wanted him left for dead, why would she signal like this? How would she get free long enough to do it? Often enough?