Jilliand Read online

  The king and his men rode over the berm, crossed the moat, and entered the gate where the drawbridge lay open, unguarded. Silence hung over the courtyard. The darkness was unbroken—no candles, no fires, no movement. Life in the keep and its yard had vanished. Aethewulf and Alexander scanned the area. Horses stomped, riding gear clinked, occasionally someone coughed—nothing else could be heard. The stillness was finally broken by King Aethewulf’s voice. “We know not who came, where they went, nor what they may have taken.” Ignoring the knot in his gut, he ordered that anyone found in the area be brought to the great room in Jilliand’s keep.

  In two hours, the keep was alight with fires and candles. A clamor of voices echoed off walls and found its way down every hall. When the king entered, a hush fell over the entire populace. He took a moment to scrutinize the faces turned to him. “Lady Jilliand has cared for each of you. She is not here. Can anyone tell me how that is possible? How could she simply disappear?” The people in the room remained still. “Am I to believe she flew away? Disappeared like the smoke from a burning log?” His voice rocketed off the walls, as its volume rose with his anger.

  “Majesty,” one older man stepped forward. “We do not know the men who took Lady Jilliand. She did not flee; she stayed and fought with us.”

  Several women began to quietly sob. The fear in the room was palpable. “I think they are afraid of you, Your Majesty.” Alexander looked from the crowd to his king.

  Aethewulf nodded and sat down. Alexander questioned how the fight began, how many people were with the mysterious man, and what was done to defend the burg and Jilliand. With the answers to his queries, Aethewulf realized his worst fears were indeed true. Jilliand had been taken hostage. He left the room, choosing to plan his move in the room he knew best: Jilliand’s study. Inside, with a fire blazing and a cup of wine, he paced. Eventually, he slumped into a chair. Alexander and several men stood waiting.

  “I cannot risk all these men and my throne over one woman.” His voice gave away the decision he had already made. Alexander turned on his heel and left the room. Aethewulf dismissed the remaining men. He sat alone, brooding for a long time. The fire died down, and Alexander did not return. Aethewulf found his friend outside walking the grounds.

  “You know I speak the truth, Alex,” Aethewulf softly noted to the one man he trusted over all others.

  “The issue is, Majesty,” Alexander replied through clenched teeth, “I can find another lady-in-waiting, another page, or another soldier. I cannot replace Jilliand.” He walked away, his boots crunching into the crusted snow.

  “No matter,” Aethewulf shot back, “I have made my decision.” If he heard, Alexander gave no sign.

  Throughout the long night, Aethewulf struggled with his decision. He would follow his sister’s captors, with the sole purpose of identifying them only. He would not fight or pay for her. He could not. She meant nothing to the security of the throne. His third son lay in his mother’s arms, healthy and fit. When at last the sun pushed back the darkness, he sat alone before a dying fire.

  It took little time before Aethewulf and his men were ready to leave. They knew which direction Jilliand had been taken, but the question as to where the invaders had come from remained unanswered. Nothing had been destroyed in the burg or in the surrounding huts, and anyone not killed during the fight was left unharmed by the victor. Time had been taken to clean up after the assault ended. Clearly, Jilliand had been the object of the battle. The king and his men set off.

  Alexander rode next to his king. For the first time in memory, a deep chasm lay between them. Alexander admitted he wouldn’t be determined to rescue Jilliand either—except that he had fallen in love with her. Aethewulf was correct. At stake was one of the largest holdings in England. The king’s dream had always been to unite the kingdoms, moving toward one great country. His sons could carry on after his death. One of those sons had already claimed a section. Alexander knew Aethewulf had two more sons. Jilliand would not be ransomed. The man who now had Jilliand was from another country—but what country? What might be the price for her?

  “Alexander.” Aethewulf was determined to break the silence between them. “You are like a brother to me. I know you care for Jilliand, but unless she were queen and the mother of a male heir, she would not be considered a pawn to maintain hold over this kingdom.” Alexander rode on in silence.

  “I know, Aethewulf,” Alexander eventually acknowledged. “I am aware of the changing boundaries that surround every kingdom. In this case, however,” he looked squarely at Aethewulf, “there is the great chance that once it is known she is not worth any ransom, she will be killed—after she is raped, of course.”

  The king had no answer. He stared at Alexander and then faced forward. He truly had not thought of that small detail. Alexander was right. Such would most likely be the fate of Jilliand. She, who had already faced so many trials. Turning, he looked back at Alexander. “I had not thought of that, Alexander.” He turned to look at the force behind him. Riding was miserable. The wind bit at them, and the thawing roads became wet and sloppy as the horses sloshed onward. The identity of Jilliand’s captor remained unknown. Watching his friend, Aethewulf knew Alexander would ask to be allowed the chance to free Jilliand. Aethewulf also knew he would grant that request.

  When darkness began to take possession of the land again, Alexander sent a rider to a small knot of lights in the distance. When the man returned, he had secured an area for their camp. Of more interest, he had news about the unit of men that had taken the king’s sister. Alexander pulled away from the company to speak with the man. When he rejoined Aethewulf, he shared the news regarding their campsite. But the information regarding who had taken Jilliand, Alexander kept to himself.

  The king’s men soon had tents up and food ready to be served. When Aethewulf sent for Alexander, he was told Alexander had ridden into the town, seeking information about Jilliand. For hours, Aethewulf sat alone in his tent. The longer he brooded, the more determined he was to let his sister go. No woman would cost him his kingdom—not even the sister who looked like the mother he had adored.

  A cold, grey sky greeted Aethewulf when he emerged from his tent. All night long he had waited for Alexander to return. With no word from his friend, Aethewulf ordered camp broken. Sitting atop the knoll looking down toward the hamlet below him, Aethewulf felt deep regret pierce his heart for the first time in his life. At what price did he keep his kingdom?

  The king and most of his men returned to Jilliand’s burg. The remaining men waited for Alexander’s return.

  Rurik studied a Rus winter landscape stretching as far as the eye could see. This land had never felt like home to him, no matter how hard he tried. White, silent, and cold, nothing more. He could hear Oleg talking with the men—Oleg’s men now. Oleg was a good friend and would be a good leader. The time had come. When Inga had died after delivering a dying infant, he had felt sadness for their son, Igor, to be left without a mother. Rurik also felt relief at the passing of a woman whose love and infant belonged to another man. With the help of the clan, Rurik had raised Igor, and he was now a young man. The young man had his mother’s temperament, and he and Rurik clashed more frequently these days. Rurik did not hesitate to leave. It truly was time.

  The deed was done: The lands Rurik ruled were passed to Oleg. Oleg had agreed to take Igor in as his own. When Oleg’s time came to step down, Igor would take over as the ruler. Rurik knew Oleg would teach Igor well. It was meant to be. Carefully, Rurik slipped the ring given him by Jilliand onto his finger once more.

  The Rus was a great country. Rurik believed it would become even greater. The sisters of fate had smiled on him after all. He had successfully taken the land and its peoples with little fighting. For years now, their fighting had become less and less a pastime. Ships moved goods around, trade grew, and the people were satisfied. His job was done.

  Saying goodbye, Igor had held his father close, grateful for the chance to be with
Oleg and mindful of the responsibility his father gave to Oleg. “Is father sad, Oleg?” Igor asked, watching the receding figure of his father and horse.

  “No, he is alive again,” Oleg noted with satisfaction. “Rurik lives again.”

  As Rurik rode away, his heart felt light. For the first time in years, he felt young. He was a Viking again. He was free.

  He would search for Jilliand, if she still lived. If she did not, he would find another place to live out his days. There were still fights to be fought. His journey was not yet over. Perhaps the fates played with him. Or perhaps, as Dir predicted, they were guiding him to her. He smiled at the thought of the hair and eyes like no other’s.

  It took Rurik months to make the journey from Rus to Norway. He stopped at each settlement, taking his time to come ever closer to the land of Jilliand’s birth. He stayed longer in Norway, while the weather wrestled with itself, struggling to give up winter’s cold. Before spring could reach the land, Rurik was aboard ship again. Warships still ran the waves, along with merchant ships. The ship he was on was a warship, much like his ships of old. The crew was eager for adventure, to capture slaves, plunder villages, and search for gold that was becoming scarce.

  Their first stop was the coast of Denmark, at Rurik’s request. He jumped over the side, and waded ashore. Turning back, Rurik raised a hand to the boat as she slid away from the shore, heading back to sea. Its sea king answered his salute. Rurik turned, surveying the land. Vegetation had reclaimed the area where once Rurik’s own settlement thrived. Homesites were overtaken by trees. Their branches still bare from winter’s freeze, reached skyward, ghostly skeletal arms clawing in search of the sun. The earth remained frozen beneath layers of snow.

  Rurik shivered. Not from cold, rather from the gloom that seemed to permeate the area. He was drawn to the home he had built for and shared with Jilliand. His heart ached. When he reached the spot, now marked only by a few standing poles, he paused, remembering the love this place once held.

  Suddenly alert, he stiffened. The stillness of the air seemed broken, yet Rurik could hear nothing. There … again … like a soft whisper. He whirled around. Snow lay around him, broken only by his own footprints. Closing his eyes, he begged, “Again, come again. I listen.” He felt the sigh surround him again. “She lives. I know she lives!” The boat was long gone. For a moment, the Viking stood, thinking. Nodding with determination, his mind clear, he began walking; climbing up the hillside, away from the shore.

  For several days, Rurik walked. At some point, he began to veer toward the water again. He knew Jilliand would not have walked along the water at the beginning for fear of the raiders. She most certainly would have moved inland. She knew the land well. Later, she must have looked to the waterways, searching for people.

  Eventually, he came to a settlement not unlike his own, except this village bustled with life. As he walked toward the larger of the structures, he was approached by several men. After a brief conversation, he was escorted to the leader.

  Rurik spoke of his journey. The man, much older, shook his head with disbelief. “I remember. I know of this woman, Rurik. She was your queen?”

  “Yes.” Rurik leaned toward the man. “What can you tell me?”

  “She was here, years ago. She fled your home during the raid you speak of. She spent the night with my family, in my house,” the man told Rurik.

  “And the child she carried?” Rurik asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “She lost the child and the child’s grandmother after the raid. The child was born too early. The grandmother died when they tried to move on.” The man continued quietly, “We sailed the next morning, with her on board. I left her on English shores.”

  “English shores? Why?” Rurik frowned, trying to understand. “Why?” he repeated.

  “She requested it. I tried to convince her to stay with us, but she would not hear of it, for fear she would bring an attack to this place too. There was a battle when we landed. I saw her taken captive by an English soldier. I believed her story was over.” He paused, watching Rurik closely. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

  “I do not know where she is, but she lives. Of that I’m certain.” Rurik looked at the older Viking. “She lives.” He spoke quietly.

  “Rurik, we still raid. I leave in five days. My ships will sail to shores we have not yet walked. Come with us. When you know it is time to leave, you are free to leave.” He placed a hand on Rurik’s shoulder. “I always need good men. You are one. If you wish, I would give you a ship. You could sail for me?”

  “I could,” Rurik answered, “but I will not. Not this time, friend. I sail with you only as far as England.”

  The older Viking nodded. “It is settled.”

  As the older Viking promised, in five days they sailed. The ship made shore along the southern coast of England, near Dorset, a place known for the people’s willingness to trade with the Vikings. Along with the rest of the men, Rurik left the ship. Standing on the shore, he surveyed the landscape. If I stay on, I would be expected to join the raids. This time, I am not raiding. I am hunting. He walked with the Viking crew to the township. When the men began to barter for supplies, Rurik left them. He had other business. Rurik looked for the stables.

  Leaning on the gate to the stable corral, he studied the horses there. A stable hand approached him cautiously. “Lookin’ to buy, are you, sir?” His eyes ran over the jewels in Rurik’s sword, the gold rings on his arm, and the size of his frame.

  “I am.” Rurik continued to watch the horses.

  “There be a better one I know of,” the man informed him. “He eats more than all the rest together.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he grimaced. The Viking before him looked to have money, but often those were the stingiest.

  “Show me,” Rurik ordered. He followed the stable hand to the back of the stables. In the corral beyond, alone, stood a Viking Norwegian Fjord Horse that was unusually tall for its breed, about fifteen hands high. It was a yellow-tan color with a mixed light and dark tail and mane, typical of its breed. Known for its strength, calm disposition, and great stamina, the animal watched the men looking at him. Both men entered the pen. Rurik ran his hand over the animal’s neck and withers. He could feel the muscles. He checked the animal’s legs and hooves. “I will take him,” Rurik told the stable hand. “After all, he is a Viking horse, is he not?”

  The man felt his throat tighten. Vikings had not raided in many years, preferring instead to trade, but the stable hand’s memory was much longer than many years. “Yes, ’tis.” The man breathed a heavy sigh of relief when Rurik walked away.

  “I will come for him shortly. Have him saddled and ready.” Rurik turned back and tossed several gold coins to the man. “I’ll pay the rest and more when I return. Just see the horse is ready.” The stable hand nodded eagerly to Rurik. “I expect the gear you saddle him with will match the value of such a fine horse,” Rurik added casually.

  The stable hand nodded again. He knew the asking price of this horse was small. Not many English cared to own a Viking horse. If he played his cards correctly, he stood to make a nice stack of coins this day.

  Rurik walked to a nearby inn to eat. An older man watched him enter and studied the Viking closely from the back of the room, hidden as he was by the shadows. Rurik felt he was being watched before he found the man. Taking up his tankard, Rurik walked over to the man’s table and sat down. “Do you have something to say to me?” Rurik challenged him.

  “Not often one sees a Viking alone and without a ship,” the older man calmly observed. “You are searching for something?” The man’s weathered face spoke of years in the sun. The sparse hair on his head was as white as his beard. His back was bowed, and his hands gnarled with age. His blue eyes were clear and steady. Nothing about the old man was threatening; nor was he intimidated by Rurik. The two men sat and talked. By the time evening unfolded, each was comfortable with the other.

  “If you are so moved, you could
ride with me. I will provide the horse.” Rurik at last stood to leave.

  But the old man stood up slowly and, seemingly in pain, moved toward Rurik. “I will walk with you, my friend. I have never seen the one you seek but understand your drive to find her.” Holding on to his walking stick, he led the way out of the tavern. “You must not give up, Rurik, Viking King.” He mumbled a bit and then added, “I knew such a love once. I let matters of the world interfere. Our time on this earth—however you see it—is short. Make every sunrise count.” By this time, they were at the stable door. “Go with God, Rurik. He watches you too.” He clasped Rurik’s shoulder. Swaying as he walked, he left Rurik to gaze after his crooked frame as it disappeared.

  “I remember well the time when the sight of a Viking would fill men’s hearts with fear,” Rurik mused. “Perhaps Jilliand’s god does see me. Perhaps her god leads me to her. She believed our gods, hers and mine, know each other. Maybe they do.”

  Concluding his business with the stable hand, he rode out of the village in search of the one woman he loved over all others. She haunted his dreams, interrupted his thoughts, and drew him ever closer. That night he slept under the stars, his horse near, with his mind at peace. He felt a strange comfort in this England.

  As morning broke, Rurik was already riding. Rain clouds clung over the land, refusing to move on, while the sun struggled to force its way through. Rurik passed several meadows and the woodlands that surrounded them. The ride was pleasant enough, though he paid little attention to the area, now that he knew with certainty his course lay before him. His mind drifted to Jilliand and his dead child. Did I lose a son? What would a son borne by Jilliand look like? Not like Igor, for certain. Igor was large boned and thick like his mother. No, Jilliand’s child would have been … Suddenly alert, he reined in the horse. The sounds of battle were faint, coming from deep within the woods. Rurik advanced.