Jilliand Page 22

  The room was quiet again but for the crackling of the fire. Jilliand stood still staring into the flames. If her brother knew all along the child was a girl, if he knew all he just admitted, would he not also know how that child was treated? Cold fingers of abandonment gripped her stomach. At last she spoke. “How do you know all this?”

  “Different messengers were sent, but I felt the messages must have come from a member of the lord’s household.” The king’s eyes were filled with painful regret. “I was never told how you were treated, only that you were held secure. The last message was delivered by an ancient couple. They told the tale of your life and how you escaped. They both died shortly after arriving here.”

  In relief, Jilliand nodded slowly. The old couple had not been harmed. “What became of the place where I was raised?”

  The king was quiet for a long moment. “It was destroyed when the Vikings came. They killed the lord although very few of his men. Strangely, they did not plunder nor burn the huts of his burg. It was as if the only reason they came was to take the lord. He was captured. His body was later found.” Jilliand’s brother, King Aethewulf, shook his head. “I think he repaid the lord for what he had done to you.” Looking at his sister, he softly asked, “Was that Viking the husband you speak of?”

  Jilliand looked at the man claiming to be a brother, the ones listening to her tale, and finally, at the flames in the fire. “Yes, he is mine,” Jilliand replied, her voice soft and filled with pain. Just the thought of Rurik caused a wave of sadness to wash over her heart. My nightmare continues. She looked back at the king. He sat with a frown marring his forehead. He looked at Jilliand intently … waiting. Jilliand knew she must tell the whole story. She met her brother’s gaze steadily and began.

  CHAPTER 24

  “MY FATHER’S HATE FOR ME began when I was born, I believe. As for the way he treated me, it must have started when I was but a child. My only memories of my life are filled with pain and loneliness. I was taken to a cell in the soldiers’ compound. I was only seven years of age.” Jilliand faltered. Taking a deep breath, with a shaking voice, she continued, “Although educated and raised as a son, I was still an outcast. That older couple cared for me. If not for them, I would have been killed.” Jilliand told the story of her life—living with a man she had always believed was her father.

  Taking another breath, she finished in a voice now normal and in control. “Eventually, I ran away. The captain who agreed to stay with the lord for ten years was still there. He helped me leave. He gave me this cross from my mother and, when he died, a locket he had always worn.”

  Jilliand paused, her thoughts on her old friend. Turning to look at the king, she murmured, “The couple that cared for me spoke often of my mother. They gave me the earrings in this silken bag.” She walked across the room and returned with the bag, handing it to the king. Jilliand opened the locket again, showing it to the king. “My husband brought me the necklace and ring you see on her in this painting. I wear that ring.”

  In an even voice, the young woman continued, “The scars on my body have healed. Those in my heart and mind have not.” Finished, she walked slowly to the window and stood looking down on the lake below. “There are now fresh scars on my heart.”

  The room remained hushed, as each reflected on the words of the king and Jilliand. “Am I permitted to walk in that garden?” she asked, breaking the silence, without turning from the window.

  “Would you like to walk now?” the king asked, rising.

  “If it pleases you.” Jilliand turned to him.

  Offering his arm, everyone stood. “What my sister, Lady Jilliand, speaks of this night is not to be discussed further.” He looked squarely at his page and Becca. Without further comment, he opened the door and the party walked.

  Silently, they moved around the garden paths, each lost in thoughts of what was revealed. The king’s mind worked over how Jilliand’s life had turned. With a stab on his conscience, he knew he should have done more to rescue her. Yet, there loomed the reality that the lord could have easily killed the only link he had to his mother.

  “Sire,” Jilliand’s voice was soft, “Do you mean what you say? Are you my brother?”

  “Yes, Jilliand. I knew it the moment I saw you, although you were hidden by your hood,” he smiled down at her, “and by the dirt.”

  “Your queen? What of her?” Jilliand asked.

  “My first queen died, after she gave me two sons. The second wife cared not for me, my people, nor my country. She left, without consummating our marriage. It was annulled.” He laughed. “I laugh now; but at the time, I wanted to skewer her!”

  “That cannot be true. You would want to live your life with one who cares not for all you stand as guardian of?” Suddenly, Jilliand’s eyes filled with tears. Tears that spilled over and ran down her face. “I fear I am beyond what I can handle. I am lost to a husband, who may believe I am dead. A husband I loved. I buried my first and only child, along with my dearest friend, the child’s grandmother. Perhaps I should return to the rooms you have lent me. I believe I have great need of a bed.”

  “But of course.” He immediately turned and began retracing their steps. “However, Jilliand, the chambers are yours for this night only. Beyond mine, are chambers I will give to you. I will see that you and your ladies are moved tomorrow. Make what changes you would.” In little time, they returned to the rooms Jilliand occupied.

  “Jilliand, you have lost a great deal. Know you have gained a brother and his kingdom. Welcome home, little sister.” He kissed both her cheeks, then wrapped her in his powerful embrace. “Please come to me when you have rested. I have yet to hear the story of your husband.” He could feel her gasp, trying to hold back the tears. He stepped back and held her shoulders. “Let the tears fall, dear Jilliand. You are safe now.”

  Struggling to maintain control, Jilliand nodded. Alexander moved closer, raised her hand to his lips, saying, “Lady Jilliand, welcome home. My services are yours, Lady.” Bowing, he and the king took their leave.

  Once inside the room, Jilliand was readied for bed. She dismissed Becca and curled under the blankets. When she could no longer hear the ladies, Jilliand broke down. For hours, the sobs tore at her very heart. “Rurik, am I never to see you again? Do you even know I live still?” She moaned aloud to the empty, dark room. “My heart is heavy. I want to go home. The place that truly was my home. I want my family back.” She sat up, hugging her knees. “I do not belong in this place.” Becca and her ladies lay in their sleeping quarters beyond Jilliand’s rooms. Hushed, they listened to the mournful sounds coming from the bed chamber.

  When Jilliand finally rolled over, slowly waking, the sun was shining through the stained-glass window. She lay still. Her life seemed like a bad dream. She wanted to be grateful for her newfound brother. Yet it was Rurik who occupied her thoughts. He and his small daughter and her tiny head with tufts of red fuzz. “I must stop thinking this way. It will not bring them back to me. Ah, Rurik, you taught me to love. Please come to me now, teach me to live without you, if I must.” Jilliand closed her eyes tightly.

  Timid knocking at her door told her the ladies were afoot. Rising, she answered them, crossed to the window, and looked out onto the gardens below. The plants were beginning to dress for the coming spring, but the frost clung to them stubbornly refusing to give up. She could see the paths winding their way around the remnants of hedges and flowers. The lake drew her attention again.

  “Is it terribly late, Becca? I would walk around the lake when the sun is shining. Come, let us go quickly, before we are missed.” Smiling at Becca’s wide eyes, Jilliand threw a blanket around her shoulders and opened the door. The hall was already filled with people passing. “Who are these people in the hall?” Jilliand whispered to Becca.

  “They are the king’s men, running errands for the king. I know another way, Lady. Come with me.” Caught up in the excitement of an adventure, Becca led her back down the hall away from the st
airs. She carefully opened a plain door, motioned to Jilliand, and took the steep steps down. The ladies came out close to a large pillar, hiding the door from common view.

  “You are good,” Jilliand complimented her new friend. “Just look at the sky. The lake looks soft now. So still, not one ripple.” She walked with Becca, taking in every detail. “Becca, you must be patient with me. I have moments when my sadness weighs heavily upon my mind. In those moments, I cannot stop the tears. It passes. But if it should happen when I am not alone, please help me get back to my rooms.”

  Becca nodded, “Certainly, Lady.” She watched as Jilliand wandered the peaceful gardens, a sad smile on her face. Finally, Becca warned, “Come, we must get you inside. The garden will be filled with gardeners and such. Better they not see you in your nightshirt.”

  From a window above, King Aethewulf watched his sister. He had often thought about her and how her life might have gone. When he had learned that his mother had died in childbirth, the weight of guilt and grief nearly drove him mad. Now, looking at the young girl below him, he felt an intense sadness. “I should have done more to find this child.” Watching her, he smiled to himself. She looked like he remembered his mother, only more so. “I will know what she learned from the Viking. She was dressed as a queen. Her ring looks to be valuable. I would see her with a sword. And a bow. And on a horse. We have much to go over, she and I,” he mused.

  As Jilliand whirled to come back toward the castle, Aethewulf started.

  “Ricart,” he called his page, “is that not my nightshirt, the one we could not find last night?”

  The young page looked out, his words jumbling over themselves. “I, er … it would, that is, I think it might be, Your Majesty. How ever did Lady Jilliand come by it?” As soon as he asked, he bowed, blushed deeply, and again began to stutter.

  “Hush, boy. She is my sister. I think perhaps one of her ladies may be the culprit. No matter, looks better on her anyway,” he laughed. Watching her from the window, he continued, “How long I have wondered about that child. Where she might be. If her life was safe. Now she is here, I wonder what comes to her next,” Aethewulf spoke quietly. The time of Viking raids would be upon them soon enough. Some days, Aethewulf and his men won. Most often, the Vikings still moved without restraint, up and down the coast. Maybe Jilliand would be his answer. If the Viking king still lived and ruled, perhaps Aethewulf might exact an agreement from that Viking to stop the raids, in exchange for his sister. It is clear she loved the Viking. Maybe …

  When King Aethewulf and Alexander met that morning, Aethewulf shared the adventures of his missing nightshirt. While they talked, the king studied his friend. This friend who has never married, preferring instead to serve his king. Maybe now is the time. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he was pushing it away. Jilliand has just come home. I would not ask her to leave yet. Still … if the Viking no longer lives … He set the issue aside to think on it later.

  That afternoon, he sent for Jilliand. She came into the room where he and his general council were meeting. As soon as she opened the door, she stepped back out. “Jilliand, come here. I wish to speak with you.” She looked some better, though sadness clouded her eyes, and the gown she wore revealed that she was even thinner than he had thought. She nodded to the men surrounding the table.

  “You sent for me, Majesty?” Her voice was even and quiet, though hesitant to interrupt his business.

  “I would know why it is we lose to the Vikings so often. What makes the Vikings such fierce warriors? Can you help me … us,” he waved his hand to include the room, “to understand?”

  Jilliand looked at the men before her. She paused for a moment. It was clear these men would listen to her out of respect for their king. Would they believe her? Perhaps. “What do you do, sir?” she asked quietly, each man in turn. At first, they hesitated to answer. A nod from the king brought their response.

  When she had gone around the room, she stood looking at them. “I see the king has bishops, lawyers, accountants, knights, earls, and advisors. This is good for the king. I wish him wise counsel.”

  “Well?” King Aethewulf pressed her. “What has this to do with anything? Every king has such men. Even the Viking, surely.”

  Jilliand began, “A Viking king is surrounded by men who are, each and every one, warriors. From childhood, every free male is trained to fight; to ride; and to use a sword, a lance, and an axe. Every man is in excellent physical shape. They are loyal to the king by kinship. The relationship is intertwined like a stout rope. They fight next to kinsmen and friends. They truly would die for the king, without hesitation. Each of them. Dying in battle is how they assure their place of honor in their afterlife.”

  There was mumbling around the table. “Please, I mean no disrespect. Your lives are different, by necessity.” She paused. “You must realize how they think. They and their main gods are warriors. The Vikings’ whole religious belief, as near as I could tell, revolved around getting to a place for a great final battle. Each man cared not to live long, he cared only to live well, and die fighting.” The men were quiet, but Jilliand could feel their resistance.

  Her glance went round the table. “We are not like that. My God is a kind and gentle God. He cares for His people. He would keep us always with Him, when we die.” She stopped talking, fearing she may have said too much. What could these men possibly understand? They had never seen anything but violence from Rurik’s people. Of greater concern was her fear that the bishop would condemn her. Jilliand could see the look in his eyes.

  The bishop watched Jilliand, frowning. Then he asked, “Child, did you pray to their gods?” His face was filled with concern.

  “No,” Jilliand replied quickly, looking at her brother. “My husband even chose to allow me to wear my cross. I was never witness to their worship.”

  The bishop interrupted, “I know people they take captive are required to accept their gods. Why would you be treated differently?” His voice bore a ring of discernible challenge.

  Jilliand gradually turned to face the bishop squarely. “Because he loves me.” The room was silent, though Jilliand was aware that several of the men at the table glanced at one another. “In many ways, they are not that different from us. Their treatment of the people they conquer is not so different from my English people.” Her voice softened. “They love their families.” At this, her eyes filled with tears she hoped none could see. “They are kind to their wives, and they treat all travelers with respect and care.”

  Jilliand looked at these men. Many were overweight, slow of foot, and accustomed to easy living. Few of them had actually fought the Viking. Those who had would never forget it. The ones with that experience listened intently and were now studying the men around them.

  “They are all pagans. God is not with them,” declared the bishop firmly. His voice was even, but his look indicated he was chastising her.

  “They are pagans, Bishop, but they know it not. To them, we are the ones doomed,” Jilliand replied quietly. She was finished speaking. She doubted these men would take to heart anything she said. She was just a woman. No matter. They asked, and she had answered. She turned to leave.

  Aethewulf stood. “One thing more. You say this Viking is your husband? Does he live still?” The silence in the room was heavy. When Jilliand nodded yes, Aethewulf continued, “Why are you not with him?”

  “He believes I am dead,” she replied softly. “At times I wish I were,” she added.

  ‘’Thank you, Lady Jilliand.” He stepped to her and lifting her hand kissed it. Jilliand curtsied before she walked out. Watching her leave, Aethewulf had an unsettled feeling.

  “We have soldiers; they are loyal because I pay handsomely. That is not the loyalty they might have if they were related to us. Farmers try to help. What do they bring? Sticks, rakes, and no training.” He walked around the room. The shield line, the drive, and the disregard for death were all part of the package of a Viking warrior, which included
his expertise with weapons. A formidable package.

  “The Lady Jilliand needs time and care, to bring her back to God.” The old bishop watched his king thoughtfully. “We have God on our side,” he reminded King Aethewulf, smugly.

  The king nodded. “Yes, and He is the mightiest of allies. Still, the Vikings have wreaked havoc on our lands and with our people for hundreds of years. She brings good information,” he noted. “I will meet with Alexander and my men at arms this evening. The weather grows warm now but will soon enough be cold. Vikings will come again. This winter, I will be ready.”

  “Perhaps this queen may have influence on the Viking king. We may have an ally against the Vikings, if we know who the king is,” Alexander noted quietly to Aethewulf as they left the room.

  “Or where he is. Time will tell …” Aethewulf walked on, deep in thought.

  The bishop waited until the room was empty before speaking to his page. “Fetch the Lady Jilliand to my special study, immediately. I would speak with her in private.”

  Jilliand had not yet entered her rooms when the bishop’s page stopped her. “His holiness the bishop wishes to see you, Lady. Come with me.” Jilliand glanced around. Only Becca stood near. “You are to come alone, Lady.” The page spoke firmly. Bowing slightly, he indicated the way. Jilliand hesitantly walked. Her heart was in her throat, pounding. She had heard stories of what happened to people who were believed to have accepted the pagan gods. Unnoticed by anyone, a lone figure listened to Jilliand and the bishop’s page.

  What can I say? I can tell he does not believe me. God, please help me say words that would change his mind and heart. You know I am innocent of any pagan worship. You know I love only You. Help me. The sound of Jilliand’s steps bounced off the walls of the dimly lit hall. Her steps took her deeper into the bowels of the castle. Unheard by either Jilliand or the bishop’s page, other feet now raced in the opposite direction.