"Good," he said softly.
He let out a breath and Deirdre was reminded of how tired he must be, how long the past weeks must have been for him. While she was riding around, he was aware that his life was nearly over. It had been mere chance that her distraction had allowed them not to execute him on the spot when the Northmen made their ambush.
"I don't think they're in any condition to fight. They're worn out, on their last legs."
"I know. But I can't let that affect my decisions."
"How long do we stay here?"
"You're the expert, how soon can we leave?"
She turned back, scanned the group, and tried to think of what she had seen.
"They could be moving, albeit slowly, as soon as you need them to be. But be careful. They won't be moving quickly for some time. Days, weeks—I can't say."
"Then we'll have to get them moving sooner. The sooner they are back in their homes, the sooner that they can truly rest."
Deirdre nodded. The problem was, how would they manage it?
The march was hard on Gunnar's legs, and he was one of the strongest. It was not lost on him that he had pushed the march hard, and that the entire camp behind him was suffering for it.
But they couldn't afford to take the risk of pushing any less hard. They needed to be gone, and they needed to be out of this place yesterday. It was only a matter of time until the English managed to figure out which direction they had gone. The nights they had spent in the same place already were a big enough risk.
He knew what it looked like to them, as well. He demands they wait, then he shows up with his woman the next day and then it was time to get moving in a damn hurry. Well, he could take that criticism. He knew exactly what it looked like, and he couldn't find a better answer for them. Maybe that was exactly what it was.
If he were there for himself, then so what? His face hardened and he pushed himself a little harder. How hard could he keep going? For how long? It was easy to say that he could force the march as long as they had to, until they reached the sea, but he couldn't outrun the stragglers, and the men would be hurting.
But how long would it take to make the sea? Three days? A week? How long could they continue to push their luck in enemy territory, with half their men wounded?
Well, if he had to be the bad guy, then he would accept it. He'd pushed them hard for the past two days, and he would keep pushing them hard. Valdemar let him lead, and Gunnar was thankful for that, at least. Now if only he'd left the whole thing well enough alone, the men they had lost might still be fighting. They might not be in this mess.
He was so determined to keep pushing that when they came into view of the wide open sea, he kept walking for another minute before he realized what they had been looking at.
A coastal town sat a ways down the shore, far enough to look like dots on the shore, but now that they knew that they'd made it, Gunnar felt the weight on his legs lessening, the last days' march already forgotten by his tired muscles. Looking back on the men as he walked, the others seemed to feel similarly.
They had needed this, needed something to confirm that they weren't going the wrong direction entirely. Something concrete. Now they had it, and everyone felt greatly rejuvenated. An hour's march outside of town they settled down, the sun still more than visible over the horizon.
Leif and Eirik went off hunting, but no one had high expectations for them. It had been a day since they had anything to eat, and that had been a half-dozen hares for twice as many people. The return to Denmark couldn't come fast enough for any of them.
Since Valdemar's rise to power Magnus had gotten a good deal of work, and now was no exception. He was the smallest of them, and the easiest to pass off as English, so he would be the one that they sent to look around the city. Scout out their security, and the boats docked at the harbor, and come back.
Gunnar had tried to shield Deirdre from the hunger as best she could. Given her all of his portion, less a bite or two, and he could feel the effect it was having on his body. As if he were wasting away. It was only a matter of time until he had something to eat, and he could wait. As long as they didn't hit a calm on the sea, it was a short couple of days across the way. No stops.
He let out a breath, ignored the pain that had started to gnaw at his stomach. Unless they found something big—a stag, perhaps—then he would be better off not eating at all. It would only make it harder to cope with the pain.
Magnus, to the entire band's vague disapproval, was the first back. Still, they had to hear out his report. They had sent him out to find information, after all—not to come back after food hopefully had arrived. Information, they discovered, he had brought back.
They were small, with a few larger buildings
that might have been a meeting hall, a church, and what he guessed was a dining hall. A few dozen homes, but only one man patrolling the streets. Things were, by all accounts, quiet.
At the port, a gig sent out by a ship flying English colors with perhaps a crew of ten men, though he hadn't seen anyone on it. Most were likely on shore leave, with only one man on guard, and him not too attentive at that. Plenty of space for thirty, if they pressed in just a bit.
The words sparked a feeling that Gunnar hadn't expected, and he knew he wasn't the only one feeling it. It wasn't going to reimburse them for one-tenth of the things that they had lost. All the loot in the world wouldn't bring back their dead comrades.
But it was a chance at redemption, and more than that, a chance at food. He could feel himself salivating. Deirdre sat beside them cross-legged, and he could see from her face that she didn't understand, but she was doing her best to pretend that she had a place in the conversation.
Taking pity, he translated for her, her nodding her understanding as Valdemar said exactly what Gunnar had found himself thinking. Food and a little loot, easy enough. They'd be able to redeem themselves, bring something back to show for their deadly journey. It was basically a gift given to them straight from the Gods.