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She leaned back again, into the cranny where she had hidden her things. Then she looked harder, he could tell.
"Someone has been stealing my things."
"Is the knife still there?"
She nodded without having to check. More questions, still fewer answers. That wasn't at all what he'd wanted to hear. He frowned. The next question was the one with the finest point on it.
"Deirdre," he said, his voice low and hard. "What happened the night I… how did you put it? 'Left'?"
He watched her face tighten, her lips purse. Then he saw her lip trembling. "I'm so sorry."
"What did you do, Deirdre?"
"I had to," she said softly, her voice wavering.
"That's not good enough, Deirdre. What did you do?"
"I can't stay here, Gunnar. I'm not like you." She took a deep breath. "If I stay here through this craziness, I'll die. I want to go home."
She broke down in tears, but he said nothing. His eyes burned holes straight through her, waiting, so the two of them sat in silence, he watching her cry. He wanted to reach out to her. He could feel the tendrils of sympathy and doubt wrapping around his heart.
He pushed them out, kept himself focused. Kept the edge that she dulled in him. He needed to remember who he was, what he was capable of. Needed to be strong, whatever her role in the future would be.
As she picked her head back up, staring out the back of the wagon at nothing and wiped her eye with the pad of her thumb, he finally spoke.
"I was going to take control again. Take Valdemar out of power, kill him if needs be. Then you would have been free to leave. I told you this. You gave me to him, why? Is my word not worth something?"
The anger burned hotter and hotter as each word spilled from his lips, as she sank deeper into herself.
"I can't go back alone. I'd, I'd die. I can't."
"So you thought I would bring you back?"
She looked at him, hurt and upset. The sound of a voice crying out in the darkness broke the moment for both of them. So it was beginning, after all. He took a deep breath and put his hand on the hilt of the sword he had stolen from the soldier. Time to go to work, then. Time to make sure that he was doing what needed to be done.
He raised himself up, as full a height as he could and readied himself. He had no shield, but in the dark, he could take a few of them by surprise. It wouldn't be hard to take a shield from a dead man, if he had to.
If he couldn't, he was good enough with a sword to make it out alive. No, he was going to be completely fine. But no matter how many men, his own words echoed in his head. Can't be sure of victory.
Anything unexpected could shift the balance, and if it happened at just the right moment then the effect was multiplied that much. He smiled grimly. Any unexpected change, indeed.
The feeling of Deirdre's hand on his stopped him, made his shoulders relax before he knew he was doing it.
"Take me away. In the chaos, we can get away. Nobody would see us." He looked at her for a long moment, thinking about it. "We could be together, just the two of us. We would be safe, back home. Back where I used to live."
"It's just a burned-out town."
"I had a hut, hidden in the forest. I came straight from there to the town. I don't think it's gone. It'll still have all of my things, everything we need to make a life for ourselves. If not—we can find something. We can rebuild. Please, Gunnar. Take me away from here. Protect me."
His hand tightened on the pommel of the English sword.
"No."
Twenty-One
The words hit Deirdre like a slap. He'd barely even spoken, just growled the word out, his voice low enough that she could only barely hear him over the noise around them.
He started to step out and she took a firmer grasp on his arm, pulling him back. What was he thinking, leaving her here? She could get killed in all this craziness. He could get killed, for all she knew!
