Jilliand Read online

  “I would serve you, Lady Jilliand. King Aethewulf and I have been as brothers all our lives. I would serve you as a friend, a brother, and a knight. I feel your sadness heavy as a rock in your heart, often coming to the surface to cause great ripples in a life I pray is easier for you here with us. When you are free to love again, I will be the first to claim your hand. I can see you are not free. Do not ever hesitate to ask for me. What I can do, I will. What time we can spend together, we will take, without giving cause for gossip.”

  Taking her hand, he kissed it, and then holding her hand on his arm, he walked the hall to her door. Bowing low, he bid her a goodnight. When he straightened, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “Weep not, Lady. I am happy to have your friendship and have great need of a sister. Do not feel sad for me or for us. Only let your heart mend, Lady.”

  Jilliand watched him walk away. How could she tell him she would never love again? “Oh Rurik, of what do you think, as you go through your day? Do you ever think of your queen?” she whispered. Within the quiet protection of her private chambers, for a long moment, Jilliand stood before the looking glass. I hardly recognize the woman that looks back at me. I am no longer the beaten girl, nor the contented wife. I am a princess … unwilling, but a princess nonetheless. I fear I no longer know myself.

  Becca watched her mistress as she prepared for bed. “M’lady, you are so mournful. Will this feeling never leave? You are too young to have this in your heart.”

  Jilliand smiled sadly. “Becca, most women of my station marry not for love, but for kingdoms. I was blessed to love and be loved by the king who captured me. I cannot imagine living with another man. It is proving very difficult to go through life as one without a heart. Perhaps all the more difficult because he still lives. I know he lives.” Her voice was so soft, Becca could hardly hear her. “Sadly, he does not know I, too, live.”

  When the sun found its way into her sleeping chamber, it found an empty bed. Jilliand was restless again. The feeling was strongest in the early morning hours. Swiftly running over a mental list of things she and her ladies could do, she had everyone scurrying by the time they broke fast. And so each day went by, much too slowly. Jilliand did her best to fill the time. She was becoming skilled with her needles and threads, tended the gardens, and spent time teaching her ladies how to read and write. A task the king found mildly irritating. “What need of such learning do your ladies have?” he had asked her during one of their long walks.

  “Do you think they will always be my ladies? What if they should find themselves alone in another’s service? How much easier to please their mistress, if they can do these simple things. Surely, you cannot believe any man you consider a fit husband to one of my ladies would be threatened by their learning?” When Aethewulf did not immediately respond, she smiled up at him. “Besides, it keeps my own skills sharp. A good thing, do you not agree, Brother?”

  The king never answered only shook his head and laughed. He loved to walk with her, loved teaching as they visited. It gave him someone to talk with, other than his council and Alexander. She proved to be a quick study. Her education had been what could be expected of someone from that man’s court, but it had not been sufficient for a princess—the king’s sister. So it began. The king taught; Jilliand learned.

  CHAPTER 26

  ASKOLD, DIR, THEIR FAMILIES, AND other families had sailed with Rurik to the land called Rus. They worked with him, fought alongside him, and watched as he thrust himself headlong into every aspect of creating a safe, permanent settlement in an inhospitable land. He was successful, but no matter what Rurik did, he was not satisfied. Both jarls knew what really drove their sea king. The ache for Jilliand never lessened. Winters were long—however no more brutal than from where he came. But to Rurik, without companionship, they seemed so. He did everything a good leader would, with his usual attention to detail, personnel, and the welfare of the inhabitants. Warmer weather brought with it opportunities for exploration and expansion of his new domain, yet Rurik remained numb. He had not even been to sea since they settled in Rus. His friends worried about their king. With Jilliand dead was it possible Rurik had lost all the qualities he once embodied?

  One particular mountain near his village frequently served as a vantage point to survey the land below. At the mountain’s summit, Rurik, Askold, and their horses were silhouetted against a setting sun. The peak was skirted by a gently sloping perimeter that slid into an open meadow overlooking a valley. From the dwellings nestled in that valley, smoke meandered skyward. People and animals milled about. The scene spoke of a pause in the struggle to survive that allowed the dwellers to simply live.

  “You need a woman, Rurik,” Askold noted for the hundredth time. Rurik was silent. Their horses stomped impatiently, with their breath rolling from their nostrils in short grey puffs. Years had passed, and Rurik still sat alone beside his fire at night. Shaking his head, Askold kicked his horse forward gently, and the men rode down the hillside onto the meadow. Spring was moving in; it was a time of renewal and coming warmth. Trees were still bare, rivers only slightly thawed, and grasses still brown. Yet, the sunlit days were longer, and the promise of spring clung to the gentle breezes brushing the landscape.

  Askold was startled when he heard Rurik agree. “I do. Perhaps Inga, the overlord’s daughter. He took his defeat poorly. I still hear rumblings of rebellion.” Rurik tipped his head, allowing the sun to warm his face. It felt good. “Jilliand is dead. It is time I believe the runes. I will take this wife. My son will come from her.” Nodding, a decision reached, he glanced at his friend. Askold was still digesting the news, staring silently at Rurik. Rurik marry again? Now that it was spoken, the idea felt strange.

  “Inga?” Askold repeated, frowning. “Are you certain, Rurik?” Picturing the woman Rurik spoke of, he began to smile and then chuckle. His laughter bubbled until it exploded, echoing across the meadow, bouncing off the surrounding rocks to return, as if in disbelief also. Inga was well known. She was pleasant enough to look upon, but her disposition was the thing of which legends were written. She gave “sharp” a new meaning. Askold tried to control his mirth, but one look at Rurik, and it would begin again. “Maybe it is not so bad that you are still alone. Or, maybe you can control the woman.”

  “Enough!” Rurik heeled his horse and crossed the meadow with Askold. With eyes narrowed, Rurik noted, “A marriage would settle Inga’s father down, until such time as a son is born.”

  “Then?” His friend pushed.

  “By that time, a son would be undisputed king. If it is a daughter, Oleg will be in line. He is a good man, a good leader, and our people respect him. This would be easier put to rest if you or Dir would step up to take my place if needed. I know you better than you know yourselves, it would seem. Either could rule these lands.”

  Askold was quiet for a long time. Rurik knew Askold struggled to find words to explain why neither he nor Dir wanted any more responsibility than what they now had.

  “It matters not, my friend. My mind stays the same. Inga will be a good wife. I will have heirs, and life will go on.” Smiling, he slapped Askold’s shoulder. Turning back toward the meadow, his eye caught sight of a red fox dashing along the forest’s edge. In that instant, Jilliand’s face flashed before him. He felt as if a lance had found its mark. “Would be better,” he muttered. Determined to move beyond Jilliand’s memory, Rurik turned his horse around. “Askold, you will ask for Inga’s hand for me. ’Twill be interesting to see what gifts her father might offer, but it makes no difference. I will have Inga.”

  “As you wish, Rurik. And may the sisters of fate give you peace, at last.” The two men rode back toward Novgorod.

  In two months’ time, Rurik stood before his bride in their bedchamber. He willed himself to think only of Inga, the woman who was now his wife. He took her hand and led her to their bed. The night was filled with passion. Rurik could not keep Jilliand from his mind, but the union with Inga felt right. By morning
, he lay next to his wife, comfortably dozing. It would be good.

  As time wore away the excitement of untested waters, Rurik realized his friend Askold was correct. Inga was sharp tongued. Rurik learned quickly that she also had her father’s cunning. She and Rurik worked well together as rulers—poorly as lovers, though they did eventually have a child. She only became gentle and kind when she interacted with their son, Igor. Inga simply did not love Rurik. Due in large part, he believed, because she must have felt he loved another. Maybe she did not know for sure, but Rurik did—Jilliand still filled his heart.

  He loved a ghost. Even now, she roamed freely in his mind. When Inga again became pregnant, Rurik was slightly surprised. They were seldom together. No matter: He would have a second son. Igor was coming of age, at nearly five years of age. Soon, Rurik would take him from his mother to live and be trained with the men, a day he knew Inga dreaded.

  One morning as she lay awaiting her birthing time, Rurik came into the room. He stood near her bed. “I know I have not been easy to live with, Rurik.” She turned away. “It will soon be the day you take our son to the house of the men. He already knows much about this country, weapons, and warfare. I am afraid he knows little about ruling and fairness. For that, I take responsibility. I know you will teach him well.”

  Rurik turned Inga’s face so that he could see her, and she could see him. “You have been a good wife, Inga. Our son is strong because of you. You have done your part well. Now it is time to teach him to be a Viking ruler.”

  At the words “Viking ruler,” Inga’s face blanched, and her mouth became a bitter line. “He is not a Viking, Rurik. Not while I live and breathe. He is Rus. Only Rus.” Angrily she pushed his hand away.

  “Then pray you have a daughter, Inga,” Rurik quietly answered, as he stepped back from her bed. “Lest you again taste the bitterness of truth. He is Viking. Any son I have is Viking.” Before she could answer, he continued, “I pray you deliver our child safely, and you both live. Son or daughter, I will love the child.”

  “I know not why,” she snapped at him. “Why would you love another’s child?”

  When the words came to him, Rurik froze. For the first time in their marriage, Inga felt fear. Rurik’s face became cold, and his eyes seemed not to recognize her. “I pray to the gods for the health of the child, no matter who the father might be. And yours, so we might finish this conversation.” Turning on his heel, he stalked from the room, without looking back or closing the door. The ladies attending Inga stepped aside quickly, and an ominous feeling filled the chamber. With Inga’s admission, Rurik would not stay to acknowledge the child. That night, as tears ran from Inga’s eyes, the initial pain of childbirth struck her.

  The daughter Inga carried died trying to enter the world. Inga died the next night. Rurik watched his son struggle to understand what was happening. Igor mourned his mother and hated the tiny dead infant that had taken her from him. Rurik patiently talked with Igor all through that endless night and the next day. As he sat on the bed next to his now sleeping son, Rurik realized he felt little sense of loss over Inga, and his anger at her revelation had been dampened by her death.

  Rurik began to feel a growing restlessness, as if he had left something undone. He gave Oleg greater responsibilities, all of which he handled well. But Rurik was increasingly exasperated with his son. Igor responded to Oleg’s teaching without question; but with Rurik, heated arguments were frequent. For his part, Igor spent more and more time with Rurik’s men, and less and less with his father, believing Rurik was not the one to teach him what he would need to learn. Igor thought he could take his rightful place as the prince of Rus if he listened more closely to Oleg. Rurik did nothing to change Igor’s thinking. Rurik’s thoughts were the same, every day. I long to be gone from this place. To where, I know not. I only know I should go.

  One evening, as the sun began its descent beyond the horizon, an older sea king, well known to Rurik, came ashore with his men. They were greeted warmly and escorted to Rurik’s home. After a meal, the Viking and Rurik walked alone around Novgorod. The sky became lit by millions of stars. The moon hovered overhead, dashing light upon a snow-covered landscape. The air was sharp, and the men moved briskly to stay warm. “What news do you carry from the south?” Rurik asked. He had not been on an expedition in many years. “Do you still find the English settlements easy prey? And the monasteries—are they still houses of wealth?”

  “Why do you ask? Are you of a mind to sail again?” The older man stopped and turned to him, awaiting his reply.

  “Truth be told, I tire of my life. I sorely miss the sea, the battle, that life.” Rurik searched the skies looking for familiar star formations. When the old man did not answer, Rurik glanced at him. The old Viking sea king met his eyes.

  “I have other news, Rurik. This time out, I heard talk of a woman. Her hair red as the sunrise. Her eyes as green as the stone in your ring.” Rurik stood motionless, barely daring to breathe, waiting for a name—her name. Could it be? Could she be alive? His mind begged; his heart raced. “Go on—where did you hear of this woman?” He dared not believe it could be Jilliand, after all these years. “She lives?”

  “That I cannot say. She was seen years ago in a village below where your home once stood. She was believed to be your queen. Can that be true?” The silence held both men prisoner. At last, Rurik nodded, slowly.

  “It must be.” Now his voice was strong and firm. It had to have been her. His restlessness had a purpose. There was something he was supposed to do. Life again had a reason.

  By the time he bid the old Viking goodbye, Rurik had a plan.

  CHAPTER 27

  JILLIAND LIVED WITH HER BROTHER, the king of Wessex. As the king’s sister, she had everything. Yet, time moved slowly for her. She walked at night, rode frequently during the days, and when he allowed, she crossed swords with the king. Yet, even after eight years, Rurik still wandered around her in heart, whispering in her ear, and kissing her lips. She no longer cried during the days; the nights, however, remained unconquered. It was then her tears fell.

  The Vikings continued to wreak havoc along the English shorelines. Monasteries were hit with a vengeance, the monks were slain, and their valuables taken. On occasion, the English won. Aethewulf listened for word of Rurik, the man his sister still loved. He now recognized the name and what lands Rurik ruled. Yet, he had heard no word of any raids made by the prince of Rus. Perhaps the man no longer lived. Perhaps Aethewulf’s plan to use this man to forge a truce between their peoples was to be fruitless.

  One afternoon, the king sent for her. “Majesty, you wished to see me?” Jilliand said and curtsied to her brother. When he stood, his council stood, and at his nod, they left the room. Alexander stayed on for but a moment.

  “Lady.” Alexander kissed her hand. “Pray tell me, are we going to ride this afternoon?” His voice was teasing. Afternoon rides had become a normal pastime for both.

  Glancing toward her brother, who was watching and listening to them, she smiled. “I think not. Perhaps it would be better if I waited, at least a couple of days.” She and her ladies had been late to dinner the last two nights, much to her brother’s disapproval.

  The king held out his hand. “Come with me, Jilliand. I would walk with you.” He took her to the gardens she loved. Since that first night long ago, Jilliand had walked these paths so many times she could easily walk them with her eyes closed.

  Jilliand feared he intended to speak to her of marriage—again. Best to have it out in the open. She waited quietly. He walked along, as if thinking on his words. “I think I may understand your hesitancy to wed again, Lady. However, it is not proper for a woman to go about without a man to care for her, escort her. You are so young, Jilliand. You could have children, a home.” They walked on.

  Trying to decide how to explain her thoughts, Jilliand hedged. Turning her face skyward, she watched a flock of geese flying south. The leaves were fully turned and falling. The harvest
, what there was of it, had been gathered. The air had a snap to it. Winter was coming again. I know winter well. It has been in my heart for so long.

  “It’s been nearly nine years or more, Sister. Is that not time enough to wait?” he asked kindly, pressing her. “It might be this man no longer lives.”

  Looking sideways at him, Jilliand pointed out, “I think it is you, Brother, who has a new yearning. You worry because you would not want to leave me alone.” Jilliand smiled at him. “Fear not, Majesty. I can care for myself. Although,” Jilliand’s eyes twinkled with mischief, “you might find it convenient to deed a small hut and bit of land to your sister. I could keep men to guard me, if you thought it wise.

  “Aethewulf, I have seen the way you and the dark-haired beauty from Spain look at each other. That is as it should be. I have no desire to be in her way. Surely, you can find someplace I might live, without burdening me with some helpless man.” She studied him through emerald eyes, smiling. He loved to see her smile. It had taken so long to happen.

  “You are quite astute. I wish to make her my queen. As always, I find I cannot force you into anything. And I will move you, as you have requested. I have the perfect spot. Would you be willing to settle near the coast to the south of here? I will see that you have men, and you can change whatever you deem necessary in the house.” As he spoke, he was already making a list of the men he would send with her. At the top of his list was a young man named Nate who had been trained as one of King Aethewulf’s personal guards. Aethewulf knew Nate would take good care of his sister. Yes, Nate must go.

  To the south, where the Vikings might land! Perhaps I can find Rurik, or at least hear of him, Jilliand thought. “It would be perfect, Brother. I thank you for agreeing to my wishes, although knowing you, I believe the deed has already been done. When will it be ready for me?” She danced at his side. To be free from court, on my own. I could only dream.