Jilliand Page 19

  The raiders were Vikings, but their yells to each other were in a language Jilliand had never heard. Jilliand’s own village now looked like the ones she had seen burned those many months earlier. Jilliand watched, stunned, while the men below crowded along the shore, climbing into boats that now waited at the cove—boats she knew had not been there earlier. When the last ship had sailed away, Jilliand stumbled out of the forest edge and made her way across the remaining distance to the houses. Seeing the massacred women and children—women and children she knew—lying about sickened her. She moved from body to body sobbing, barely able to walk. No one was left alive. Great plumes of black smoke rose to hover under the cloud mantle.

  She ran to Olga’s house, where she found the old woman alive but pinned under the rubble from the roof with a fire edging toward her. Struggling, Jilliand was finally able to help Olga crawl from the path of the flames.

  She was dazed but did not appear to be badly injured. The two women left the hut and moved slowly around the settlement hoping to find other survivors, but the sound of more riders echoed through the clearing. “This way,” Olga urged Jilliand. Well hidden behind the brush and evergreens, the women watched more raiders searching every pile of rubble and looking over every body. Twice the invaders dug through the remains of Rurik’s home.

  “For what do they search, Olga?” Jilliand whispered.

  “For you, Jilliand. They search for the wife of Rurik.” Olga reached for Jilliand’s hand. “And his child.” Hand in hand, the two watched the search. The old woman continued, her voice so low that Jilliand leaned closer to hear. “Many years ago, before Rurik found you, he was visiting the village of his older cousin. That village was set upon by Vikings from another land. Because they believed the men of the settlement were still in English waters, the raiders did not expect to meet any resistance. Instead, they met Rurik, his men, and the men of the settlement who had just returned from raiding in England. Most of the invaders were slain, but I am sure one lived. Several years ago, a man came to us in winter. He was not one of ours, but Rurik honored our laws and made him welcome. This man stayed. In my dreams, I saw he was brother to the sea king who led the raid and who was killed on that day. I spoke with Rurik of my dream. He listened but allowed the man to stay. Perhaps the better to watch him. The man, called Gouldon, did not return with Rurik when he brought you home.” Jilliand felt the air rush into her lungs with the story.

  “I killed that man,” Jilliand whispered. The memory of his attack was still vivid.

  “I know,” Olga replied.

  “This raid is because of me?” Jilliand’s heart was in her throat.

  “No, Jilliand.” Olga turned back to her. “Because of the killing of the invading sea king. To find you now would only add to their victory, it would not change its purpose.” Olga pulled Jilliand closer. They huddled motionless and hidden. A cold, heartless silence descended on the smoldering remains of what had been Jilliand’s home.

  They watched as the men abandoned their search and boarded a lone vessel, which moved quickly toward the open seas. The same seas Rurik had sailed when he left. Jilliand sank to the ground, and tears filled her eyes and ran down her face. In what seemed like an instant, everyone was gone. The houses and corrals were torched. The home she shared with Rurik was burned to the ground. The children were dead. The animals were dead or had run away. Nothing remained alive.

  Struggling to see through her tears, Jilliand and Olga stepped out into the open. Olga’s face filled with deep sorrow, but she did not cry. Jilliand did, again and again. “Can we not go to Asger’s place,” Jilliand begged. “I must protect Rurik’s son.”

  “That is not a place for us now, Jilliand. Those men went there first. It exists no longer, I’m certain.” Slowly and painfully, the older woman limped along. “Come, we must leave and find shelter. First, we will try to find blankets, cloaks, anything to protect us from the cold.” Turning back to the ashes of their village, the two began to search for anything they could use.

  Finding a cooking pot, Olga put some smoldering debris inside. She gathered anything that might burn, and she and Jilliand bundled it together. Jilliand found several blankets and heavy cloaks. They found flint and a blade. With a knife, the women cut strips of beef off the dead cattle. Loaded with all they could carry, they moved farther into the forest cover. Travel was difficult for Jilliand’s small body. She knew she would not be able to go far.

  “This child causes you much pain, Jilliand?” Olga asked. Jilliand, concentrating on putting one foot before another, only nodded.

  When they stopped to rest, the old woman placed a hand on Jilliand’s belly. “The child comes soon,” she worried aloud.

  “No … not for at least two more months.” Jilliand refused to think about how or where a birth could take place. Her son. Rurik’s son. She placed a tender hand on her belly.

  “Jilliand, the child comes soon,” the old woman insisted. “We will stay here. The child will need our help.” Not waiting for Jilliand to agree, she began preparations. Jilliand had no idea what to do. She tried to help, but Olga stopped her. “No, you must stay still. Keep the child in you as long as possible.” Jilliand sat down and leaned back against a tree. She let the woman take over. Olga went about making a larger fire, creating a place for Jilliand to lie down, and tearing one of the smaller blankets into strips. Olga found branches she could pull to shield them against a wind sure to come.

  For several hours, it seemed Olga was possessed. The forest was riddled with waterways, and the old woman found a stream. She had water boiling in the pot and stacked the strips of the blanket nearby. She set pieces of meat near the fire to cook, and hauled as much wood as she could close to the fire. Jilliand had no choice but to let Olga do what she wanted.

  When the first pain struck, water gushed from between her legs. Gasping, she struggled to stand. “This is too early. The child comes too early,” Jilliand cried. With Olga’s help, she moved near the place the old woman had prepared for her. Clinging to the trunk of a tree, Jilliand squatted. Wave after wave of agony rolled over her. The pain was intense, and the contractions came nearly one upon another. Jilliand’s total concentration was on each contraction and what must be coming. The pain grew stronger, and still the baby did not move. Time dragged on, hour after hour.

  Jilliand was wearing down. At last she felt the urge to push. The child would not come. Again and again, Jilliand pushed. When it seemed she would die with the child still inside, the child turned and was born. Hours of labor were finally over. Exhausted, she fell against the tree, struggling to see her child—the son of Rurik. “More, Jilliand! You must push more. Everything has to come out.” With the last bit of strength left in her, Jilliand clung to the tree again and pushed. When it all ended, she crawled onto the blankets, reaching for her child.

  Wordlessly, and ever so gently, Olga lay the dusky, lifeless, little girl in Jilliand’s arms. Jilliand could not cry. No sound came from her. She looked up at Olga, a confused expression on her face. Olga shook her head. She laid a soft hand on Jilliand’s face. Jilliand began to shake her head, “No, no … please no.” Tenderly, Jilliand traced the small face with her finger, held the tiny hand, and kissed the bloody head and cheek. For many minutes, she held the child to her heart. At last, still holding her tiny daughter to her chest, she clawed at the tree for support and stood. Staggering a short distance, she lay the infant down and, kneeling, tried to dig a grave. Even with Olga’s help, they were unable to dig into the frozen earth. Jilliand didn’t know what else to do. She was cold, inside and out. She sat back, clutching the babe.

  “We must burn the child’s body,” Olga gently whispered. “We cannot leave her to the animals.” Stricken, Jilliand looked at the old woman, and holding her dead child tighter to her heart, she refused. “We cannot leave her alone for the animals, we cannot take her with us, and we cannot stay here. I believe your God waits for this child, Jilliand. Let her go.” At last, Jilliand nodded. />
  Wrapped in her mother’s blanket, the body of the sea king’s daughter was burned. Olga helped Jilliand pile rocks onto the tiny mound of ashes. Then they burned the afterbirth. Kneeling beside her child’s ashes, Jilliand tried to pray. Instead, she began to weep with a pain so sharp she felt she could not breathe. How could this happen? Rurik’s first child dead, and his people all gone. Her mourning echoed through the forest and returned to her heavy on the wind.

  When at last, Jilliand ceased weeping, she raised her head to look for Olga. The old woman, still as stone, was seated on the ground leaning against a tree, her eyes lifeless. “No Olga! No!” Jilliand stood slowly and staggered to Olga’s side. She sat down next to the old woman. Gently, she brushed the cheek once so soft and full of life, and now cold in death. After a long time, Jilliand rose.

  She built another simple pyre, this time for her husband’s mother. It took all her strength to roll the woman onto the brush mound. Lighting a branch from her fire, she set the pyre aflame. When she finished, Jilliand slumped onto the pallet that Olga had prepared. She had no tears left. “Perhaps it is time I die also.” As if dead inside, she pulled the blankets and cloaks over her body and closed her eyes.

  When she finally awoke, Jilliand was at first confused. Where am I? Her night had been filled with ghastly nightmares. But when she looked around, she careened back to the present and knew what she had lived through had been real.

  Death may come for me next. Surely I cannot survive months of winter alone. “God, what do I do now? I cannot take any more. Please …” she begged aloud. Grasping the silver cross at her neck, she lay staring but not seeing. A ray of sunshine infiltrating a dusky world found the pitiful heap of a lost and broken woman. The light slipped around the evergreens, pushed through the brush, and spread gently around her body. The sun was refusing to let the darkness hold her. Instead, it gave her strength. “If Rurik is to find me, I must live,” she murmured in a voice that was tired and unsure.

  Jilliand’s dress was torn, bloody, and caked with mud. Her engorged breasts ached—a constant reminder of her dead child. Her legs shook when she tried to stand. Clinging to a tree, she steadied herself. She staggered to the next tree, and the next. Jilliand fought against the nagging fear that she truly would die alone. Walking was grueling. She was so weak that she could not go on, and she finally crumpled to the ground. She grasped the locket, praying death would come quickly. Struggling to make her cold, stiff fingers work, she opened the locket. Her mother’s face looked back at her.

  “I cannot give up, Mother. You never gave up. The man that wore this never gave up.” Through tears Jilliand spoke to Captain Avila. “You must help me, my friend. I do not know what to do. Give me some direction. God, You have taken care of me all these years. Please do not abandon me now. I am so lost. Help me, God,” she prayed. “Help me. Help me. Please help me.”

  She remembered the flint and built a fire. Her mind crept into the dark world of exhaustion, where images of her life flickered before her eyes. She shuddered with the memory of her father, tried to recall everything Myla and Silas had told her about her mother, and remembered how freedom had felt for the first time when she had left the cell outside her father’s castle. The days aboard Rurik’s ship, the kindnesses of his people, and the love his mother gave her warmed her heart. Hesitantly, Jilliand eventually let the memory of Rurik fill her mind. His gentle touch, his kiss, the passion they shared, and the home he had given her made her moan with sorrow. I must find a way to go on. He will come for me. I’m sure of it. He must. I promised I would wait.

  CHAPTER 22

  RURIK LED HIS VIKING FORCE across the Baltic Sea toward a great land known as Rus—that would one day be called Russia. Weather pushed violently against them. The Viking warriors were accustomed to the sea and its many moods. However, this storm forced them to struggle mightily just to stay afloat. Twice they were forced to seek land and repair the ships, but they finally landed along the coast of Rus. Eventually, after over two months, they reached a site near the lands now sunk in battle. The Slavs, settled farther up the coast of Rus, were deadlocked in a battle for control of the land. Rurik intended to step in and rule both sides. It was taking too much time. Rurik was agitated over the delay. He knew Jilliand was near her time, and he had to get back soon. Everything he did now had a new purpose.

  At first landing, Rurik met with the sea king of another Viking fleet. Years of fighting together bound the two men as friends. The man was as close to Rurik as Olav was. After customary greetings, the man took Rurik aside to speak quietly in private. “I have sad news to share, my friend. I have news of a great raid and fire. I know it to be true, Rurik. It began at the settlement below yours and then continued up the shore. Your entire homesite and all the families who lived there were killed.” The older Viking clasped Rurik’s shoulder.

  Rurik was stunned. For a moment, he could not speak. “How do you know this is true?” he asked, his voice tight, his eyes narrowed. How? Everyone? The anguish was like a sword, piercing his very being, his mind, and his heart. He could not think beyond what he heard. This could not be. The sisters of fate would not play such a joke on him. Not Jilliand and the child. His life. He became aware that his friend was speaking again. With great effort, he listened.

  “I went to the house of your mother, Rurik. It was gone. Everything was burned. The house you shared with your queen and the empty homes of Dir and Askold are gone. It is said that followers of a man named Gouldon sailed from the lands of Wales seeking you. They found only women and children. They did what Vikings do, Rurik. I followed that ship. I now give to you the arm rings and sword of that sea king. He and his entire crew are now dead. Their ships were burned, and all they carried destroyed.” He clasped Rurik’s shoulder again, handing him the sword and rings. “I am sorry, my friend.” The silence around them became thick with Rurik’s pain.

  “In the ashes, I found this.” The older Viking held the sword Rurik had given Jilliand for their firstborn son. “It was in the house you shared with your woman.” The blackened blade lay cold and ugly in Rurik’s hand. In anger, Rurik raised the sword and with a mighty thrust, sank it into the ground. The hilt quivered as Rurik walked away. Standing alone, staring out at the sun sliding beneath the horizon, he saw Jilliand’s hair. He wept bitterly for the woman he loved. When his friend left the next morning, Rurik stayed on the beach for hours staring at the sea.

  Over the next weeks, Rurik and his ships were repeatedly driven back out to sea by the inhabitants of the new land. Never before had he been forced to retreat. This time, when they were no longer pursued, Rurik stood at the bow, an ache deep in his heart. His jarls cornered him. Askold’s voice was hard with anger. “We can defeat these people, Rurik! You must put thoughts of your wife and son out of your head. You are a Viking. Fight like a Viking!”

  Dir added, “Your wife and son look down on you. Fight to be with all the warriors you’ve known. Your men need a Viking sea king. They need you. You cannot give up now.” When Rurik would not respond, the men walked away, exasperated. All was silent, but for the sound of the waves as they rolled under the ship. Rurik’s sorrow was draped over his vessels like a great black shroud.

  For several days, Rurik stood looking out at the sea. Then, ever so softly, it came to him. A silent whisper, as if Jilliand called to him. Do what you were meant to do. I will always wait for you. Slowly, the voice grew in strength, until he felt as if Jilliand were standing at his side. “She lives here,” Rurik spoke into the wind, his fist upon his chest.

  Rurik called his men together, spoke briefly, and turned the warships around. A great cry rose from his vessel and was picked up by the other ships with them. The king was back. The companion warships were rapidly changing direction. Then suddenly, as one, the ships fell silent, and each man slipped back to what they were born to be—Vikings.

  Men on the shore were taken completely by surprise. Having watched the Vikings sail away defeated, they never imagi
ned they would return. The fight was quickly won, as Rurik gained control of the coast. It took longer than planned, but Rurik’s people came to stay.

  In time, Rurik and his jarls took over Novgorod on the Volkhov River. A fortress was soon completed to house his warriors. Other buildings followed to house the families that had sailed with him. Within three years, he had increased his holdings to an immense area. This new land was known as the land of the Rus. Rurik was now Prince of Rus, a land that would one day be the largest country in the world—Russia. All the while, in solitude, Rurik mourned. Why did I not bring Jilliand? The darkness of night sheltered him as he ached and walked in deep sadness. He drove himself and his men hard. He was restless, determined to keep the weight of Jilliand’s death at bay. Only at night did he allow his mind to hold her memory.

  Rurik never spoke of Jilliand, though he mourned her every day. When they had left their settlement, the families of most of the men, including both Dir and Askold, had sailed in a knarr behind Rurik’s fleet. Over and over, he asked himself why he had not taken Jilliand with him. Settled in the new land, his brother and jarls tried to pull Rurik out of his darkness, but he lacked the power to climb. He went about his work to settle this land, expand its borders, and bring a people together, doing what he had done all his life. Now, he moved as in some world caught between the living and the dead. Still, Jilliand stayed in his heart.

  As if the heavens knew she had borne all she could, the next day was finally as bright and sunny as any for the season. Jilliand forced herself to get up and pushed onward, veering back toward the coast, hoping to find people. For several days she traveled this way.

  At last, Jilliand came to a village not unlike where she had lived with Rurik. Walking into the middle of the grounds, she stopped and waited. Jilliand knew she looked frightful. Bloodied, dirty, torn, and ragged, she stood. For a moment, all speaking around her ceased as the inhabitants of the village stared. One Viking finally came to her. He was taller than Rurik, heavier and older, though he still moved with ease. From the reaction of those around him, Jilliand knew he must be their sea king. “Welcome, traveler. From where do you come?” His voice was calm and quiet, but a deep frown creased his forehead, and questioning hazel eyes peered at her through his narrowed lids.