But the realization didn't help much. How was she going to get back home from the sea? It was far enough away from Malbeck, and from her little cottage, that she had never seen it. She just knew the general heading.
What was happening? Had Gunnar gotten away? Had they won? A thousand questions burned in her head. None of them seemed to have any ready answers coming to her, so she just let herself wonder.
No need to panic when there was plenty of time for that to come.
Now she needed to find a place to rest. One side of a large oak tree had receded, and made a comfortable-looking hidey-hole. She sat down and wasn't as surprised as she should have been that her eyes immediately felt heavy. She had better self-control than that. She could manage to stay awake, to wait for Gunnar.
He was going to come, she knew. He'd promised, and it was that simple. He was just taking his time about it, which was frustrating. She tried to play through things in her mind. He really had come to save her.
It was romantic, and gave her a feeling beyond the overwhelming fatigue. A little warmth right deep inside. She fought to keep her eyes open. But he'd better come soon. If he took too long he wouldn't be able to find her. She'd be asleep in this little hollow of an oak tree, and he'd walk right by without realizing.
The thought helped her keep her eyes open. She needed to be awake. When he came, it wouldn't be long now, she needed to let him know where she was. That was her job. She had to stay safe and make sure he found her, when the time came. Then she could sleep, and he'd be there to make sure she was safe.
She clutched the knife that he'd given back to her like a swaddling blanket. A blanket would have been nice, she thought to herself. The weather was still too cold for staying outside without heavier clothing.
Deirdre caught her mind wandering and set herself straight. She had to be awake. When Gunnar came… if he came… she had to be there.
But it had been an awfully long time. She looked up at the sun, most of its blinding brightness blocked by the tree branches. How long had she waited there? An hour? More? How long would it take for him to get away? How long could it take? She didn't like the answers that she was coming up with.
That was a dangerous habit for a woman to get into. Her teacher would never have approved. But Brigid had never been perfect herself. She would have probably worried just as much, and probably would've tried to change things. That was how she had always been. That was why she'd left Deirdre, after all.
She took a breath and started counting. One… two… three…
It helped to keep her mind on something. To pass the time, to help stave off the tiredness that had threatened to overwhelm her from the very beginning. It wouldn't do for her to let herself go completely, but it was what she had to work with, so she would do what she had to do.
She counted as high as a hundred, and then started cataloging the trees. Most were oaks, still-bare branches reaching up into the sky for sun that they couldn't get. A maple or two, she thought, but she wasn't going to get up. Another hour went by, slow as can be, but she didn't move except to fidget for a comfortable position.
He was still coming, she told herself. But she couldn't convince herself that she was sure, not any more. He had wanted to fight, to have his glory, and if it meant that he took a few risks with her, then he'd do it. She could understand him if she tried, but that didn't mean that she approved. Why wasn't she more important than that?
Her eyes were getting heavy, and it was making it hard to see how many birds she could see. She'd managed to make it to ten, but then the treetops were getting blurry and she couldn't make one out from another.
She had to stay awake. If Gunnar came this way, then he would need her awake, to make sure he didn't miss the little hidey-hole that she'd made for herself. If he could even get this far. She'd tried to keep going in a straight line, but she might have gotten turned around. She'd heard of that happening.
And then she was asleep.
Gunnar's hands worked in sync with the rest of his body. Easy, controlled movements. Swinging hard, but only hard enough to do what he needed to do. No movements wasted. The English had started to tighten up around them, pressing the Northmen in together.
Being corralled was no problem, fighting one-on-one like this. A single fat ball would have cut them in half, but they held themselves firm, just enough space to move. Valdemar would have to wait to get his answer. All of them were busy.
Gunnar tried to look and watch the direction Deirdre had escaped, but he couldn't see her any more. In the stolen moments, he'd been able to see her fading, further, then further still. At first it was upsetting, watching her run off. The idea that he was never going to see her again.
Arne, the same man that he'd seen Ulf choking the life out of only the night before, ducked under an English attack and Gunnar brought the English blade he carried 'round to catch the Englishman under the armpit, taking the arm most of the way off with it.
Gunnar turned away a weapon aimed at himself and pushed the Englishman away with his foot, but the man's place was taken quickly by another who saw an opening that wasn't there and paid for it.
Things were certainly not ideal, and they shouldn't have been there. Too many men had already died for this fight to have been worthwhile, but they would recover. If things kept the way they had been going, Gunnar dared to hope, then they'd all be alright.
But as he started to relax, a gap opened in the ring of English just wide enough to see, over a young soldier's shoulder, that there were more coming. The rest of the troop, that had seemingly separated from the main camp after Gunnar had nearly ridden straight through them, had heard the battle-horns blowing and were coming in.
How much longer could they hold out? Their only avenues of retreat seemed to have already been closed. If he could get them moving, they might be able to escape, but it meant leaving their dead and wounded behind for whatever treatment the English saw fit to give them.
Gunnar let his body take over from his mind, the mechanical movements making it easier to ignore the very real threat that the men would tire out before they could stop the enemy. His blade moved in a whirlwind of blood and death, and the men he had chosen for the journey were keeping with him each step of the way.
Gunnar had chosen them, each and every one, because they would be able to stand up to a challenge. He hadn't anticipated this. No one could have, not sitting in a drinking hall in Denmark. But he had tried to anticipate every possibility, and then plan for worse than that, and this was certainly worse.
Gunnar kept moving as the English pressed in closer. Their bodies packed in so tight now that he could strike a mortal blow no matter where he swung his sword, but at the same time he could feel them tightening. That movement was harder to finish, and it would cost him more in the instant it took him to turn his blade back to defense.
The others would be feeling the pressure, as well. He couldn't turn to watch any but the two men directly beside him, both of them younger and less experienced than he would have preferred. Both of them made up for it with their courage and strength. Now was a time for all three, and any less, he feared, would leave them dead.