Jilliand Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by River Grove Books

  Austin, TX

  www.rivergrovebooks.com

  Copyright ©2018 Clare Gutierrez

  All rights reserved.

  Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright law. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by River Grove Books

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group

  Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group

  ©iStockphoto.com/Aaltazar; TeusRenes; SergeyMikhaylov; Sylphe_7

  ©Elivagar; Canicula, 2018. Used under license from Shutterstock.com

  Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63299-171-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63299-172-1

  First Edition

  THIS NOVEL IS DEDICATED TO STEPHEN WHITTEMORE, my grandson. Thank you, Stephen, for asking me to tell another story, become a pirate, take trips on our “train,” and for generally reminding me to open my mind to the endless possibilities of one’s imagination. Our time …

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AS ALWAYS, I AM INDEBTED to my husband, Beto, for his unwavering support. He never complains about the hours I spend in research, reading, hauling my laptop everywhere, and begging off engagements so I can write (or type).

  I would also like to thank the team at Greenleaf Book Group. A special thank you to Sally Garland, Associate Editor; Elizabeth Chenette; Rachael Brandenburg, Graphic Designer; and everyone else who assisted in moving this project forward.

  HUSH, HUSH, SWEET PAIN,

  lest you shatter night’s fragile refuge.

  PROLOGUE

  TIMES WERE TURBULENT IN ENGLAND, Scotland, and Wales during the eighth and ninth centuries. England itself was a checkerboard of lands held by separate “kings” and lords who needed financial help from their subjects to field defensive armies. The people, struggling with poverty, high death rates, and illness were only able to provide meager funding—if at all. Few infants survived birth, and fewer still lived to reach adulthood. Viking raids made a miserable existence even worse. At the same time, Christianity was spreading steadily. Monasteries sprang up along the routes utilized by travelers, sometimes next to larger settlements and sometimes in rather isolated areas.

  Into the middle of the chaos and uncertainty of the times, one soul would step forward, struggling to survive. The odds were against that happening.

  The lady looked down into the face of the man. His eyes were locked onto hers. She knew his love for her was something he could never describe. “You will be safe,” he assured her.

  “I know,” she responded softly, wiping away the beads of perspiration from his brow.

  “I picked your guard myself,” the man added. “They are all good men.”

  “Yes, I feel protected with them,” she murmured. The atmosphere between them was quiet, soft, easy—the way of dear friends, companions, and lovers.

  He kissed her hand like he had done so many times before. “I’m sorry,” he began, and his voice dropped.

  “For?”

  “For leaving so soon.” He paused for an instant. “You must leave too—tonight. Else travel will not be safe.”

  “I am ready,” she assured him. He nodded, and his face relaxed. The rise and fall of his chest ceased. At last, she bent and tenderly kissed his lips. This was her final parting from her husband. She turned to the page standing near. “Tell his father the prince is dead. It is over.” She knew the king was acutely aware that she would not, could not, stay for the prince’s funeral. She must leave under the shield of night. Her husband was dead. His younger brother and his brother’s Spanish wife would take the crown. The dead prince’s wife would be an unwelcome problem. Unwelcome problems were removed.

  Moving into her own chambers, the lady stood for a moment and stared vacantly into the room. The impending trip felt as if she were losing her place in life, giving up all she had ever been, and yet, for her safety, there was no alternative.

  The lady spoke softly to the guard at her door. He motioned to several other soldiers, and the few belongings she had packed were loaded onto a cart waiting in the courtyard. A somber man, Captain Avila, assisted her into her carriage. The man had served the lady and the prince as the captain of their guard since she first came to this palace. He gladly agreed to remain captain of her guard and escort her and the company of soldiers to wherever she would be safe.

  The moon refused to show her face as the lady and her escort left the place she had called home all her married life. The time had come for her to return to her motherland, but her heart would be buried with her husband. I shall never love again, she thought. The men with her had been given only an initial destination. If she safely arrived at that first stop, they would be told the next destination, and so on. None but the captain and the lady knew where her final stop would be. Once she arrived there, everyone would be safe.

  CHAPTER 1

  AS THE AFTERNOON SUN BEGAN to fade, a tall man with a huge gut hanging over his belt coiled his whip and stomped away from the training corral, leaving a bleeding heap on the ground. The corral was near the stables and housing where his soldiers lived. He held the title of “lord,” though the honor of the title was sorely misplaced. His lips were set in a permanent sneer. A dirty, matted beard straggled across his face, and his cold pale-grey eyes looked out on the world without emotion. This scene had been repeated more times than could be tallied, but even so, he still had not controlled his cruelty. A path quickly opened for him as the soldiers and other men moved aside, unwilling to risk agitating him further.

  When the lord was out of sight, a timid old man named Silas slowly crossed the grounds. Silas limped with the ache of arthritis in his feet and knees. His hair, all white, was nearly gone. What little was left stuck out around his head. His eyesight was poor as was his hearing. His face, covered in wrinkles, softened as he approached the heap on the ground. He picked up the mass of rags, flesh, and bones with an infinitely gentle touch. His frail body struggled to carry the bundle past his wife, Myla, who stood in the shadows cast by a row of ramshackle huts that housed the lord’s subjects. Without speaking, Myla followed him into the meager hut they shared. Tucked into a corner of the high walls surrounding their burg, their hut, like all the others, was in need of repair. The lord had neither the money nor frame of mind to be bothered about caring for his people.

  Years long past, when the torture sessions first began, the lord had caught Silas rushing to care for his victim. He had descended upon Silas with fury, knocking him to the ground. “What permission do you have to interfere? Leave things be, or you will face the same!” he shouted, standing over him, whip in hand.

  Calmly, the old man had replied, “Because you are my lord, I will not permit anyone to speak wrongly of you. Others do not know everything about you.” After pondering the old man’s words, the lord had turned and walked away. From that time on, he had allowed the old couple to clean up the devastation he left behind.

  Myla began to murmur to the bleeding creature that her husband had carried and laid down gently upon his own small bed. “There, there, little one. Easy, now.” Myla shook her head sadly as she gently loosened the torn shirt and began to cleanse the wounds. The cleansing and the salve she applied caused nearly as much pain as the whip, and
small moans escaped from the victim’s lips. The old woman wrapped the wounds carefully, using much more padding, before tying the dressing on securely.

  Lately, the punishments were becoming more harsh and frequent. Myla spoke softly, “You must leave. He will kill you eventually, you know.”

  “Why should I wish to live?” came the bitter reply.

  “For your mother,” was Myla’s quick response. “Your blood runs royal. No one can take that away from you.”

  “My blood runs onto the dirt where it soaks in, fades, and disappears. Soon, there will be none left.” The weak voice was heavy with loathing. Fear had grown into hate. Each encounter with the lord ended the same way.

  “You cannot die,” the old woman shook her head again. “The time has come.” The couple had done all in their power to care for the only legacy of their lady. The lord had been obsessed with using his expectant wife’s child to fulfill his desire for money and stature. Those dreams died with the infant’s mother. No one really knew who the woman was, nor it seemed, who might care about the child. On her deathbed, the mother had exacted a promise from the old woman who delivered the newborn, “Protect my child.” At first, it was not difficult. The lord paid little attention to the child. Over time, he began trying to devise a way he could use the child to his advantage.

  On this night, Silas spoke out in agreement with Myla. “My wife is right. We are too old to keep you safe any longer. We have waited long enough, and your hour has come. You must leave this place tonight. Here,” he said, as he handed over a small blue silken bag. A fine rope of gold and silver threads closed the top. “This was your mother’s. We have kept it hidden for you all these years.”

  “Where do I go?” Uncertainty tinged the voice, making it waver.

  “Where he cannot come for you; leave his lands,” Silas replied. “You know where the sun rises and sets. Use your knowledge and travel north. You will find people to help you.” He added a warning, “Stay away from places the Vikings raid.”

  Once long ago, a man had come to the lord begging for help, saying Vikings had been sighted coming upriver, toward his village. The lord refused to help for several days. When he had finally arrived with his soldiers, the scene they came upon was beyond words. The smell of death was overwhelming. Even the soldiers covered their faces with rags. Dogs and other scavengers fed on carcasses. Millions of flies swarmed over the area, creating an audible buzz. The lord made certain his only child saw every detail, thereby killing any possible desire the child might have to run away.

  Those memories brought a shudder from the form now sitting up on the bed. “I have seen horrible deaths. Men, women, and children … all killed by Vikings.” Even though no Vikings had been seen by the child that day, the memories of what they had left filled a young heart with fear. “How? How can I leave? What about the Vikings?” The voice faded away.

  Firmly, the old man continued. “You go this night. If you stay, you will die. I would not allow you to leave if I could do anything at all to keep you safe. I cannot. Tonight we go to your room, as always. Find and use what I have hidden under your sleeping place.”

  Silas gently touched Myla’s hand, then took a deep breath, and continued. He understood the risk he and his wife were taking. God willing, the plan will be all we need. “While the soldiers eat, you must make your escape. Keep in the shadow close to the walls. On the far side, near the wall beyond the gate, water runs rapidly into the moat that carries away the waste. When everyone has eaten, and the slop is dumped, a spiked gate will be lowered beneath the wall into the water. You must be gone before then. Slip under the wall with the water.” He saw his wife’s anxious expression but continued. “It will be cold at night; you need dry clothes so take your clothes off before you are in the water. Carry them above you. Move quickly and stay near the bank closest to the wall.”

  He kissed the dirty hand. “Soon I will die. I can no longer help you. Your wit and God will keep you.” His wife wept, as she tenderly touched the face of the child she had cared for these long years. “’Tis the night,” the old man continued firmly. “’Tis the night.” For the last time, he picked up the bruised body and left his hut with it in his arms.

  At that hour, the occupants of the old blockhouse were settling down, anticipating the darkness that would soon cover the land. The lord’s house staff joined the soldiers, while groups of men were wandering across the grounds to join others gathering at a large hall set for their evening meal. The courtyard was slowly emptying for the night. Just as he had done for years, the old man carried his bundle past soldiers and guards to a cell that had been built near one side of the compound. The floor space only allowed room for a single makeshift bed and a small area in which to move about. The ceiling was twenty feet above, with open windows near the top on two sides. Silas pushed the cell door open and stepped inside. Once in the cell, the old man carefully deposited his burden on a raised board that served as a bed in an otherwise bare room. The old man’s eyes filled with tears. Gently, he patted the thin shoulders and kissed the bruised and bloody face one last time. Into the hand clutching the pouch, he pressed a large glass vial with a stopper. “Spread this when you leave. Use it all—on the bed, floor, and wall, close enough to show it came from one person. It will protect you. God bless you and keep you, dear child.” He left the cell, pulling the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER 2

  A FULL MOON ROLLED SLOWLY above the blockhouse, spreading its light. In the small cell, a figure moved unsteadily and struggled to rise from the wooden pallet. Remnants of the torn and bloodied shirt and breeches had been carefully removed. Wincing with the pain that any movement caused, this skeletal form—a young woman named Jilliand—glanced at the closed door with fear. She loosened her hair, and the long red matted knots tumbled out, framing her face and spilling down her back. The only child of the lord stood naked in the middle of the cell where her father kept her imprisoned.

  Jilliand crawled beneath the board that served as her bed to retrieve the package Silas had promised. Tied together were trousers, worn boots, woolen leggings, and a heavy shirt. She dressed and tried unsuccessfully to smooth her hair down, biting her lip to keep from moaning. For the moment, the salve kept the wounds from drying and cracking. Those conditions would come later. She stood—thin and beaten—but straight. Despite the grime, Jilliand made a striking picture in the moonlight that came flooding onto the floor from a large high window. Not visible in the moonlight, her emerald eyes flashed with hatred—and fear.

  Jilliand quickly surveyed the tiny cell. She wished she had a weapon, but there was nothing she could use as one. Remembering the vial the old man had given her, she removed the stopper: It was filled with blood. She poured some of the liquid over the wooden slab where it slowly spread. She splattered more on the floor and threw the remainder against one wall. “God, please watch over Silas and Myla. If not for their care, I would be dead.” As an afterthought, Jilliand picked up the old clothes she had worn and wrapped them around the vial. “’Tis little enough, but I’ll not leave anything behind.” Holding her breath, she gently pulled on the door. Unlatched, it opened freely. As usual, no one was at her cell door yet. In the distance, she caught the sounds of the guards, joking and talking, settling in for another night of eating and drinking.

  I must find the waterway. She crept out and then carefully pulled the door closed behind her. Flattened against the outside of the building that housed her cell, she slid away, fading into the shadows. Jilliand knew the old woman was right. If Jilliand stayed one more night, she would die. It ends tonight, she promised herself. One way or another, it ends tonight.

  Over the years, guards and soldiers had grown lax. The one post they all hoped for was standing watch over the lord’s daughter. Once on duty, the men assigned to her could drink, talk, joke, and sleep. This evening after they finished eating, two guards, already a little drunk, stumbled toward the closed door of the now vacant cell. They slouched against the wa
ll and were soon asleep. The younger one woke himself up snoring. He stood and stretched, kicking the foot of his partner to wake him. “One day soon, I will help myself to the vixen. The lord will never know. She is afraid of him, and she would never tell.” He wiped his nose on his arm and eyed the cell door, a hungry glint in his eye.

  “I think not. Some of the men among us carry sympathy for her. Best to visit the willing whores at the inn,” responded his partner-at-guard. Pulling at the door to be certain it was secure, he leaned against the wall again. In truth, he sympathized with the lass. Yet, what could I do for her? he asked himself. I’m just one man. I have my own problems. It was a weak excuse, he knew. He shook his head to clear it, remembering well the girl’s beautiful mother. This child, Jilliand, resembled her. Pity.

  Men talk when their bellies are filled with food and wine, and in the silence of night, voices carry. Jilliand was due to wed soon. With this match, her father stood to make a small fortune. Her betrothed was a dying old man. Rumor suggested the old man would die the day after the wedding with a little help. Talk late at night indicated Jilliand would not be allowed to live after the wedding either.

  Talk like that had meant little to Jilliand. She hated her existence. Death felt not so fearsome. Her entire remembered life—every night and most days—had been spent in that small guarded cell. Jilliand’s only visitors were the teachers her father sent in and the older couple. The teachers her father chose had traveled widely, going throughout the land educating the Christian children. They were well aware their continued employment depended upon discretion. Not one word was spoken about Jilliand’s plight to anyone beyond the burg walls. However, whenever they were with Jilliand, they treated her with every kindness. Such was the sympathy the teachers felt for Jilliand that they had continued her education beyond what most girls not of noble birth would receive.