Jilliand Read online

  The older couple loved Jilliand, treating her with a gentleness she knew only through them. Whenever possible, Myla made certain Jilliand knew everything that Myla knew about her mother. Jilliand knew that her mother had come from a faraway place, that she had lived in a real palace and had been kind and gentle. Myla tried her best to keep the memory of Jilliand’s mother alive.

  For his part, Silas talked of the world around them and of God. In his humble manner, he tried to teach Jilliand about her mother’s faith. Many a night, Jilliand felt God must have forgotten about her. But the couple would not hear of it. They tried always to encourage Jilliand, refusing to let her give up.

  Over time, it occurred to the lord that his only child might be given in marriage in exchange for a handsome sum. She was beautiful—just like the mother who died trying to give birth to her. The lord hated Jilliand. Always had. He had wanted a son. In the beginning, with his twisted mind, he had refused to believe she was not a son. He saw to it that she was well educated and insisted she be well trained in defense. He frequently beat her viciously for any mistake. None could fault him if she should die fighting. He could be rewarded handsomely if she died defending a king. As she grew older, though, the lord was forced to recognize that Jilliand was not a son. Instead, he thought, perhaps she would be given in marriage to someone with money. For her part, Jilliand had grown up praying that one day her life would change or that her father would love her. It never had, and he never did. Her world was ugly. She was allowed outside only when summoned by the lord for training or when he and his men went on what he called night rides. During the times the lord was away, she was allowed to visit the old couple’s hut. They had provided her only touch of kindness. She loved them deeply and listened to every word about God, her mother, and a place away from her father.

  Jilliand had listened to stories of a world beyond the closed cell door and the rotting logs that made up the walls of the fortress. But more often, there were long nights with silence as her sole companion. Tonight, however, with the first stirrings of hope, she would flee to that world, each step bringing her closer to freedom. Desperate to escape her life and all its horrors, Jilliand gave no thought to what she would do outside the walls. Remembering the old couple again, she prayed. “Please God, take the ones that aided me, before he gets to them.”

  Slowly, carefully, Jilliand crept along the fortress wall, staying out of the moonlit areas. It seemed time stood still, and every sound was magnified as she inched her way toward an unknown freedom. The entrance gate cast a great shadow onto the grounds. Jilliand easily faded through that shadow. At this point, she could hear the water—and smell it. Stepping hesitantly down the bank, she quickly undressed and stepped into the vile liquid that would soon carry all manner of the day’s waste beyond the walls and into the moat. At the point where the water flowed under the wall, Jilliand realized she could never get through, even crouching. Taking a deep breath to keep the stench at bay, she knelt, then crawled. Struggling to keep her clothes out of the water and her back dry, progress was slow. Tears filled her eyes when her torn back scraped against one of the spikes. She bit her lip to keep from crying out with the pain and kept moving. Jilliand finally passed the wall, climbed out of the water, and hurriedly dressed, resisting the urge to run. Instead, she scrambled up to the top of the berm, slipped into the fortress’s shadow, and carefully made her way around the wooden walls, away from the gate. Once out, she crouched and crawled down the mound of earth surrounding the walls. Again, she stripped before slipping into the cold water of the moat. Here, the water was nearly clear. Jilliand easily reached the outer bank. Dressed again, she climbed over the mound and onto level ground. She stood up, breathing deeply. The air was clean, without a hint of human excrement, smoke, or decaying food scraps that were the odors that usually permeated her cell. Taking one last look at the walls surrounding her prison, she turned away.

  “Even if it must be by my own hand, I will die before I return to this place.”

  Jilliand gave a fleeting thought to the man she ran from. Father wished me dead. I wished the same many times. Her mind had cataloged the abuses. Being beaten, thrown and left to drown in a lake, the isolation—they went on and on. She never understood how to deal with the pain, rejection, and loneliness: She always believed death would be her ultimate release. “But tonight—this! Mother, can you see this? I’m free, Mother, I’m free!” she whispered into the silence, pushing thoughts of her father aside and away.

  Captain Avila stood alone atop the wall surveying the grounds. He watched as the frail old man struggled to carry his bundle. Avila recalled the sadness in Silas’s eyes when that very morning they had decided their plan would begin that night. When Silas reached his destination, he paused, glancing up at Avila. Nodding with satisfaction, Avila kept his post for several more hours before he left the wall and walked unhurriedly to the stables. He—like many of the men who fought for hire—had brought his own horses. Unless they were lucky enough to enlist in the service of a rich lord or king, horses and weapons were the soldiers’ responsibility. Avila owned two horses, and he had been planning for a night like this.

  Captain Avila had been in the service of the lord for many years. Too many. Avila’s charge would soon be gone. He would leave too—taking only what he brought. No more, no less. Over the years, he had made it a habit to ride around the outside of the fortress in the pretense of securing it from the time the drawbridge remained lowered until late into the night. This made it easier for late visits by his men to the whores outside the moat. The old soldier cared nothing about these things. It was always with this night in mind that he rode. In the beginning, the lord questioned him. But eventually, the lord, like everyone else, paid him little mind.

  The lord’s worthless rocky lands, climbing to the southern edge of the English coast between South Seaxe and West Seaxe, were nearly uninhabitable, but they were all the lord had left of his family’s wealth. Taxes levied against the few people under his power allowed only a meager subsistence for his men. Many families and soldiers fled before they starved. But the soldiers remaining were happy with the lazy life they lived. They ate and were paid. Paid very little, but what did a man need money for, if shelter and food were provided? The pittance in their pockets found its way into the purses of the women hanging around the grounds and the fortress. Everyone was happy … and careless.

  Avila waited a respectable time before departing, making certain he was seen leaving alone to make his rounds, as always. Outside the farthest gate, hidden from sight, he had his second horse. Retrieving it, he rode away. The captain touched the locket he always wore around his neck. I have done my best. One last job.

  Jilliand stumbled along in the dark shivering. The air was cold. Darkness separated her from everything around her, and she had no idea where she should go. The knowledge that her father would order her death caused her little concern, so deep was the hatred she felt for him.

  “You must live for your mother.” Myla’s comment offered little encouragement now. Jilliand only knew she was alone, lost, and freezing. Silas had instructed her to go north and travel beyond her father’s lands. How far north? she wondered. To keep the cold tolerable, she walked as fast as the black night would allow. The darkness kept the landscape a secret. Jilliand stumbled over unseen rocks, clumps of vegetation, and dips in the countryside. Slowly, she became more aware of her surroundings. She could make out shapes of bushes and trees, but the uneven ground still caused her to fall several times.

  In the distance, Jilliand noticed a swath of land where the dark silhouettes of trees were missing. She headed in that direction. She came to a road. Jilliand’s teachers had spoken of the patchwork of this country—pieces like scraps of old cloths sewn together for a blanket, with the remnants of Roman roads running through the whole. Although each piece was held by a different lord or king, ownership changed with the winds as men fought over the lands. Jilliand knew her father’s northern boundary met a g
reat parcel of land held by a man more powerful than her father. There, Jilliand prayed she might find safety and shelter. But a seed of worry about how she would live began to grow. She knew nothing of cooking, sewing, or tending to a home. She could read and write; perhaps she could find work within a monastery. I can learn. I will be safe. Father would never challenge the monks of a monastery. She need only find one. Early dawn found her several miles away from her father’s fortress, still heading northward. She anxiously looked behind her; but so far, no one seemed to have followed her.

  Her eyes took in the green, rolling hills in the distance and the trees that were gathered near the road and then scattered beyond. Birds called to one another. Flowers struggled up between boulders, splashing their color on the hillsides. Every sight was a thing of new beauty. Jilliand was a prisoner—now freed. The breezes blew her hair from her face. Once more she filled her lungs with clean air. Her mood lightened. The sun watched as the young woman walked into her future.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE LORD LAY IN HIS bed staring at the ceiling. When he married Jilliand’s mother, he took all the wealth the woman was carrying with her. None of the men accompanying her knew exactly where she was bound. The lord had heard talk about the woman and who she was, but no one knew for certain. It had been strange that there were never any attempts to rescue or claim her. The rumor was she belonged to a rich king. But no one knew which one or his name. Even the woman seemed not to know or to care. Maybe it was all just loose talk. He quit worrying about it when she became pregnant. With a son, he would be able to find and go to her intended destination, whatever it had been. But then that old familiar feeling of bitterness washed over him. There had been no son, only the girl … and she was worth little.

  As the child grew, the lord knew he could only hope to rid himself of her if she appeared to have some worth. To this purpose, he ensured Jilliand was well educated. Without the interfering influence of a woman, he made certain she could handle a sword with skill, and her mastery of a smaller version of a longbow was impressive, even to his jaded eye.

  Through the years, he watched coldly, as Jilliand tried all she knew to garner approval from him. Nothing had worked. Her attempts only made him angrier. The truth was, he despised her but could think of no easy way to get rid of her. Too many of his men admired her and a certain quiet strength she seemed to possess. She hung on him, like a great chain around his neck.

  Then one night over a year ago, around the tables in his dining hall, everything changed. Gossip told of a very wealthy, widowed lord who owned land south of his. After a year of careful talks, lies, and empty promises, the lord had finally won the old man over, and he had agreed to take Jilliand as his bride. Getting Jilliand married off was all that was left for the lord to do. And that would happen soon enough. Finally, he would rid himself of the shackle! With her marriage, he would take on a fortune.

  He rolled over and threw the bedclothes off his gut. “This is the day, at last. ’Tis been long enough coming.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he scratched his chin, rubbed his balding head, and yawned. He reached over and shoved the woman next to him off onto the floor. She stumbled to the door and left. Standing to stretch, he walked to the window, which cast slivers of light on the floor of his chamber. The sun was already straight above. No matter, everything was to take place in the evening. Before the sun set again, he would be wealthy beyond anything he had hoped for. This would be his day.

  His thoughts turned to his own wedding, those long years ago. His bride was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and it mattered little to him that she had never loved him. He couldn’t have cared less; she was his. The night the woman died, he had refused to see the newborn child when he was told it was a girl. His temper was legendary, and the child suffered.

  Today, he would take that child, now the picture of her mother, and give her in marriage to the aged neighboring landholder. By the decrepit future groom’s own decree, the bride’s father would be the guardian of the old man’s widow and all the monies that would be left to her. She would be allowed to live out her life in comfort in her husband’s castle. He also promised to give a large yearly endowment to the church. However, with careful planning, neither the groom nor the girl would live to see tomorrow. Both dead—perfect plan—all their fortune would be his. The lord smiled as he glanced into his looking glass.

  The cruelty of the smile staring back at him made him look away. He felt a slight stab of guilt at the lies it took to get the old man to agree to marry his daughter. The lord shook his head in disgust. The idea that any man in his right state of mind would ever give such wealth to the church was beyond him; but then, most leanings of honest men were beyond his comprehension.

  “Bring the girl here. She needs to be dressed,” he called down the hall. He turned back to the chamber and grunted with satisfaction. Tonight it would end—finally. From the chest in his room, he pulled out the very gown Jilliand’s mother had worn when they wed. The gown had cost him dearly, but at the time, he had cared little. He was to marry a woman far above his station. The lord tossed the gown onto his bed. “Tomorrow I will burn the gown. The last trace of the wretched child.”

  Over an hour later, a page returned, with anxiety and fear contorting his face as he stopped at the door. At last, summoning his courage and taking a deep breath, he knocked timidly. At the lord’s command, he stepped inside.

  “She’s gone.” The man trembled, dreading the outburst he knew would surely come. “There is blood everywhere.”

  “Who is gone?” the lord asked, frowning. “What blood? What are you talking about?” He towered over the frightened man.

  “There is blood on the pallet, the floor, and the wall. Your daughter, m’lord,” the page said, his voice trembling. “She’s gone … there is nothing left in her cell.”

  “GONE?! This cannot be!” For a moment, the lord stood still. All that wealth gone with her! He himself had agreed with the intended husband’s one stipulation: If for any reason Jilliand did not marry him, all the old man’s wealth would go to the church. The lord exploded. A vicious slap knocked the hapless page to the floor. “I’LL FIND HER MYSELF! SHE WILL WISH SHE WAS DEAD!” Everyone in the burg scattered at the sound of his screaming pronouncements. Some scattered to search for the girl, but most scattered to avoid contact with the crazed lord.

  After two hours of searching, it was clear the girl was truly gone. Nearly all his men had witnessed Silas bring her back to the cell, the same as every other night. They witnessed Silas leave without her and knew neither Silas nor his wife had left their miserable hut. The girl never ate after one of her father’s sessions with her, so none had entered the cell. Not one man knew anything of the girl’s disappearance. None of the people out and about the evening before had seen her. Nor could any explain the blood splattered about her cell. So much of it—surely the woman was dead.

  With a rage he could not control, he had several guards whipped for allowing her to leave. He searched the old couple’s hut himself. The couple stood by, the wife trembling with fear. It was clear they knew nothing about the girl’s disappearance when he questioned them himself. When Silas was taken to the empty cell, he had collapsed on to the floor, weeping like a baby.

  The lord surmised that someone must have raped her and in so doing, killed her. But who? The only man missing was Captain Avila. Undoubtedly, it was him. Cursing, crazed with anger, he declared Avila an outlaw and charged him with the kidnapping of his daughter. He had men ride to every nearby landowner carrying his declaration. A reward of gold was offered to the one who brought the captain back alive. The lord had plans for how the worthless captain would die.

  As the sun sank beyond rotting wood walls, the lord sat brooding and drinking. To an empty room he admitted aloud, “Would not be Avila … he loved the mother. Loved the miserable wench, too. Did he take her with him? But all that blood …” He shook his head. Despondent and angry, he launched his goblet at the wall.r />
  He heard the talk already going around the grounds and among his house staff. People believed the girl was killed by the lord himself. Even when she is gone, she ruins my life! Should have killed her when she was born. As the days dragged on, the few families that remained on his holdings began moving away. It was well known he was cruel; now it was believed he had murdered his own daughter. People were frightened about such a horrendous and sinister crime.

  CHAPTER 4

  AS IF SUSPENDED ON A string from the heavens, a slice of moon hovered above the waters. It cast a lonely glow over the rippling blackness lapping at the land’s edge. The silhouette of the shoreline was broken by the dark forms of Viking ships. Like so many great birds of prey, they swayed with the gentle waves, pulling at their ropes, eager to take flight.

  On the same western shore of Denmark, stood a lone figure. His body was wrapped in a bulky fur cloak, over a heavy woolen shirt and pants. Wool-lined boots covered his feet and legs up to his knees. Waves of thick auburn hair reached his shoulders. His upper lip was covered with hair of the same color. Each breath he exhaled left dense steam in its wake; the air was brittle, and the temperature was dropping. Tonight, as on every night this time of year, he walked alone along the water’s edge. This was the season he loved best, and he always felt the familiar restless yearning to be at sea, to feel the ship dance over the swells, and taste the salt spray that stirred his spirit. He was Rurik, a Viking sea king. A man who lived for the fight, lived to die with his sword in his hand. He was Viking.

  With the fire of conquest in his breast, he felt neither the biting wind off the sea, nor the cold that was heralding the coming winter. His village was settled and silent for the night. But Rurik’s mind refused to rest; instead, he reviewed his supply list, the men he would take, and his route. The English to the south would be gathering in their harvest; that harvest would help sustain Rurik’s people. His settlement was growing as were other settlements along the coast. Perhaps the time comes to find new lands to settle, he thought. Lands with more room. Great changes were afoot. He could feel it. This would be a different journey. It was time. Skuld, the goddess of the future, nudged him.