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.