Something stopped her. She looked down at her clothing. She could imagine how she looked, though she hadn't seen a looking-glass for a month. Like she'd been raised by wolves, no doubt. Especially after having slept on the hard ground the night before.
And she knew how the people in towns had always treated her before. No, going back was not exactly an experience she wanted to repeat. But at the same time, could she afford not to?
She was already feeling the needs of hunger, and as she padded her way through the grass and feeling started to return to her feet, so did the pain. If this was how she felt after only two days of walking, how was she going to make it all the way back home? And how could she even know that she was headed the right direction?
Deirdre took a deep breath, clenched her teeth. The decision was made, and now all she had to do was follow through with it. The bridge was narrow, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, the cool wood worn smooth over years of use.
As she stepped off the bridge, a huddled mass of children, perhaps five or six of them no older than ten, turned to regard her. Apparently a newcomer was more interesting than whatever it was they had found. She didn't mind it. She'd expected people to find her unusual, particularly with her clothes as ruined as they were.
A girl and her mother walked down the street. Deirdre didn't need intense powers of observation to see the girl's shoes looked brand new, and the cobbler's shop gave hints as well.
The place seemed to be not much larger than Malbeck; she guessed that, like as not, they had only a few dozen households in town, another couple dozen in scattered farms nearby. It was big enough, though. At least she'd be able to find some work, for a little while, if the need arose.
If she was lucky, then they'd heard something about the Vikings in the area. She could convince them that she'd been a prisoner and barely escaped. It would be easy and painless.
When she came back to her senses, though, Deirdre couldn't help noticing the girl had stopped in her tracks, turning to stare at her. A pretty girl, Deirdre thought. Dark hair fell in loose curls around her face, and her eyes were a light brown that immediately drew Deirdre in.
What didn't draw her in was the out-and-out concern on her face. Fear, even. The girl's mother didn't notice at first that she had stopped, until her arm pulled tight a step or two later. She turned to tell the girl to keep moving, but when she saw Deirdre she stopped herself.
There had been a long time for Deirdre to deal with town-folk who didn't approve of her. Long enough that she couldn't just lie to herself. That wasn't an expression of concern or worry. She needed to leave here before things went all sorts of wrong.
Deirdre picked up her pace. She had to find someplace to be, and she had to make damned sure that she wasn't there when the woman got back with the constable.
The rope was tight, and it was strong. He found his muscles flexing involuntarily, testing the bonds, and no matter how he tried Gunnar couldn't get them to budge a hair's width. There wasn't much hope of escaping, and if he hoped to get away with any of his comrades, the chances were lower still.
They were tied together in a long chain, connected at the wrists with their arms bound behind their backs. Their legs, on the other hand, were free. It was a matter of convenience rather than a lax attitude, because it saved the English the effort of having to transport them somehow. Instead, they marched single-file, flanked on both sides by horsemen whose horses seemed to be enjoying the rest that they were getting.
Gunnar had lost the least of all of them, in a sense. He had already lost control of the only thing he really thought of as his, and Deirdre was free. She would be home in a week or two, and then he would never see her again.
But if she was safe, that was what really mattered. He ignored the sting of loneliness and longing. He had already made his decision; this was just the fallout of what he had already decided. There was no use in worrying himself over what couldn't be changed.
They'd already left the forest behind, and had walked for another day through an open, rolling field. In the distance, he could see a hill, and it seemed to be covered almost completely with buildings.
Yet, it wasn't until he started to get closer that Gunnar realized the full scope of what he was looking at. From a distance, there could be no doubt that some lived here, but as he grew closer it became more and more obvious that the hill itself loomed high over them, and the buildings near the top seemed to stretch all the way into the sky.
This was where Val
demar had been leading them. Gunnar didn't doubt it for a moment. The place was like nothing he had ever seen before, not even in Denmark, and being able to lay siege to it would have been the greatest glory of all.
They had a military to match their magnificence, though, and that was where he had been foolish. Dangerous, even. They would need more men than they had brought if they were going to raid here, unless it was to be a long, drawn-out affair.
The second thing that he noticed as he closed in was how open these buildings were. Not farms, but still they had no walls, not even the short stone walls that had laced so many of the towns they had raided, or wooden walls that took too long to hack down when you were attacking.
He barely saw any barricades. They would have been routed, with a military force this size—but they would have gotten fat on the villagers that weren't protected, first. The cogs in Gunnar's mind turned and turned on it. Easy pickings indeed. Too easy; no one would have such a large city with no defenses, certainly.
Before he could divine a solution they passed into the streets. The English folk lined the sides of the street, two or three deep in some places, speaking in hushed tones among themselves.
Their gaze was equally split between the cavaliers in their bright-polished uniforms and the Vikings they escorted, though Gunnar could not hear what they said. He could guess well enough from their faces. They were afraid, but at the same time seeing them all subdued gave the townsfolk a measure of courage that they'd not have had otherwise.
He turned back forward. There was nothing here but distraction. Gunnar had a job to do, and he couldn't let himself get distracted from it. This entire surrender had been a distraction. He had to get back to Deirdre, had to make sure that she would be safe.
There was no room for regret, now that he was already here, but he realized dimly that he should never have stayed. He should have gone with her. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd chosen to stand and fight, and though he'd made his mark on the English troops they fought, the cost he'd paid was far too high.
Something red streaked through the sky, slapping into the side of Arne's head. He stumbled a step, yanking Gunnar's hands. As he stood back up, he had what little remained of a tomato dripping, and he stunk to heaven.
A brown muck that he hoped was mud smacked into another of them, and then the entire crowd had gone mad throwing things, cursing at the Danes as they walked. The mounted soldiers let it continue for a moment before the one at the head turned and gave a signal.
Two of them peeled off from the group and rode up the sides. "Order, order!" they cried, using their height advantage and sheer radiance to convince the peasants that it wouldn't be wise to argue, and aside from a scant few more mud-pies they stopped. Gunnar took a deep breath and kept his back straight, kept his eyes forward.