It was fascinating just to watch her, to see how well she understood the craft that she was applying herself to. She seemed to know each plant intimately, seemed to have a plan that was already forming in her head and adapting it every time that she found something new, or didn't find something that she expected.
The last leg, routing back up to the camp, Gunnar remained silent. He had promised her that there would be no trouble, but that could have been a lie. Gunnar had no illusions that when he had kept her in his tent so many times before, it had been cause for conversation.
But at the same time, he had his doubts that they would fight him. Why would they, after all? He could have left, and every man in the party knew that. If he had chosen to go with her before, if he had chosen not to come back, then he wouldn't be there.
His loyalty was without question, and her obedience had been demonstrated several times over. What was the harm if he wanted to keep her around, especially with her medical knowledge?'
Surely, if Valdemar had thought her useful before he would find her useful now, and if the both of them had no objections to her presence, no one else would dare to speak up about it.
But even still, he wondered. What was going to happen when they got to the coast, when they found a ship to take back home? Would they object to the extra mouth to feed on the journey?
He entered the camp quietly, hoping not to draw any attention, but it was no more than a moment before Valdemar had seen them. Both of them. And as soon as he saw them, he was already moving toward them.
Thirty-Six
The return that she had to the Viking camp was not exactly the one that Deirdre had hoped for. Gunnar had immediately been met on his return by Valdemar, and the two of them had gone off to discuss what, only the Gods above knew.
She was left in a camp of men, most of whom looked as if they were on their last legs, with no particular instructions. She had been asked to have a look at them, so she would. Beyond that, though, she was intensely conscious of the fact that for most of them, she had been a prisoner only a short while ago, and now when she was back, what was she supposed to be?
The entire time that she walked around, making her first cursory examination of the men, Deirdre felt as if she were walking on eggshells. The first person whose ire she raised, even slightly, would go off and then she'd be in trouble. Gunnar said that he would step in, and if she didn't trust him to do it then she wouldn't have come here in the first place.
But she had assumed that it would feel less strange. More than that, though, even without speaking their language she could tell that the Northmen were having an internal debate about what was going to happen next. The lines were still drawn, it seemed, that she had noticed the night before she left. And that time, they had come to blows.
Could she afford to be here when it came to blows a second time? She didn't need to answer the question to herself—she already knew that if things got rough, she would be the one given short shrift. She was the only one, after all, who couldn't hold her own in a fight. Regardless how much blood stained her hands, regardless what she had done to protect herself and the man she'd given herself to, she was never going to be one of them.
She was always going to be English, and always going to be a medic first and a fighter, barely at all.
So what sort of future did she have with Gunnar? How long was he going to keep doing this, keep fighting and killing? Would it just be year after year of waiting for him to come home until one day, he didn't come back? How did she fit into that life? As someone to keep his bed warm until it was time to go killing again?
Her shoulders slumped for a moment as the energy and confidence that had managed to carry her this far started to seep out. She took in a deep breath, pushed her shoulders back, and forced herself to keep going.
There were four injured badly, and she should look at those first. Another few who required medical attention.
Every one of them, Gunnar included, looked rough. Worn-down. But she couldn't do anything for that affliction—they would need time and rest, and that was something that she couldn't administer. It did mean, though, that they needed to get out of England. She was beginning to see why Gunnar had planned to make a bee-line for the coast.
She knelt down beside one of them, a man who had taken a sword through the flank. From the look of things, she had to guess that it was not a fatal blow. If he were going to bleed to death, then he would have done it by now. It seemed as if it had missed any vital spots, but the risk of rot was too big to leave it be.
Poultices took time to make, but she had been learning how to work quickly this past month. Odd, she thought as her hands worked, that she had learned as much with these Vikings as her "teachers" as she had with Brigid, it seemed. In terms of practical ability, she had more experience now than she had ever dreamed of.
She wrapped his midsection up tight, noting how the man tried to suppress a groan as she tied it down, the knot pressing into the wound to hold the poultice tight against it. It must have hurt quite a bit, but he bore it almost silently, and she had no time for sympathy. She had patients to treat, and it might take the rest of the day for her to finish seeing to them all.
Deirdre wiped a thin layer of sweat from her forehead, more from the effort of concentration than the heat of the sun beating down on her back. She couldn't guarantee that the second would live. He'd taken a bad hit, into the gut, and she knew that it was more than likely his wound would go septic regardless. The damage was already done.
But what would happen if she told someone that? They might tell her to try again, or they might leave the man for dead. Perhaps they would think the sword a faster end to his pain than letting a wound go bad over days or weeks. Deirdre already knew that she couldn't accept that. So she worked, and as she worked she tried to think.
These men were in trouble. All of them, regardless of their wounds. Their time in prison had tired them all out tremendously, and the flight from Norwich had taken its toll. Some, even those without injuries, looked as if they could barely stand up straight, and as much of a show of stoicism as they put up, she could see it in their faces. A stiff wind might blow them off their feet.
She moved from body to body, mechanically. After two of them, she knew that Gunnar watched her, from a discreet distance. Whether he was watching her or them, she couldn't say. Nor was she certain what he watched for. But she knew that he was waiting for her to finish, so when she had finally seen to the last of the injured, she stood back up, wiped her brow, and made her way over to him.
His lips softly brushed hers. He was showing her the affection that he felt, but in another way he was every part the commander that she had first met. He was thinking as much or more about his men than about her, and she understood it, even if she didn't like it.
"What do you think?"
"As a healer?"
"As a healer, yes."
Deirdre nodded. Professional was not what she was used to, but she understood the need to be direct. "They will live, most of them. One or two might be close, but—"