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.