Jilliand Page 5

  Determined to earn her keep, Jilliand tried to learn about cooking, making bread, and smoking fish. It was in catching fish that Jilliand proved she could contribute. When a boat stopped by their village, the men were able to barter fish for other goods. Eventually, Jilliand let the boys sell her horse. She stood out of sight and witnessed the last piece of her past disappear. When the boys brought her the money, Jilliand handed it to their father.

  With each day, she became more certain this was where she should be and that she would stay and make her place with these people. She began to feel a sense of belonging. One evening, when the family was outside, Jilliand dug a hole beneath her sleeping spot, laid her mother’s pouch inside, and covered it with her mat. Her fear was ebbing. She started to feel she had a family.

  Kemp and Norvin became her constant companions. Avril treated Jilliand like a sister and patiently taught her how to cook and clean. She taught her how to dry and use the plants they gathered to treat illnesses. The days passed, and life began to have a comforting rhythm. She loved roaming the gentle hills nearby nearly every morning.

  One morning just after dawn, Jilliand saw it. Her throat tightened at the sight of a broad expanse of smoke coming from someplace in the distance. Jilliand watched the thick black curls turn to grey as they dissipated in the early morning sky. She quickly ran back to the village. Not wanting to frighten anyone, she hurried to catch Calder. But before Jilliand could speak to him, she saw him pulling his wife aside. “Make ready. Smoke comes. We’ll be next,” he warned. Avril nodded and hastily began to pack a basket. With a stab of fear, Jilliand watched the boys playing outside with the other children. I must protect them. Somehow, I must protect them, she thought.

  The next morning an unexpected quick storm swept through. Jilliand stood in the rain, letting it fall over her. With her face turned upward and her eyes closed, she cried, and her tears ran with the raindrops. She was filled with fear of what must surely be coming to her newfound family.

  During the following several days, the worry about the Viking raids seemed to be forgotten. Everyone was working to bring their few cattle in. The harvest had gone better than anticipated, and the village continued preparing for winter. The mood in the village seemed as if this was just a routine change of season, but the light chatter around her felt out of place. The couple smiled at Jilliand during the evening meal, as the boys discussed who would be the first up to go fishing with Jilliand. That night, she tried to forget the fear of raids, rolled over, and finally fell asleep to the sounds of her new family.

  The next evening, Jilliand sensed something was wrong. She and Avril were hauling wood for the family’s fire when Jilliand said, “Is the winter so cold? I feel something more than the coming snow might be upon us.”

  “Aye, lass …” Avril answered. Her voice trailed off when one of her sons ran to meet her.

  As they reached the hut, Calder hurled himself toward them, shouting, “They come! Quickly! We leave now!” Grabbing what they could carry, he pushed them all out. Some of the men were arming themselves with laths, or sticks, or whatever else they could find. Other families, like Jilliand’s, were simply running into the surrounding hills as fast as they could.

  At first, Jilliand desperately ran with them, holding on to the boys to make sure they were keeping up. But then she stopped and turned back. These people are not soldiers. They have no weapons. They will lose. I must try to help, somehow. “Leave!” she shouted. “Go quickly! If I survive, I will come to you. Seek shelter with the lord of these lands.” Both boys were crying as Avril and Calder wrenched them away from Jilliand. Jilliand had seen what would be left after such raids when her father forced her to witness the remnants of such an attack. No one was left alive. Jilliand ran back toward the village. What she saw filled her with horror.

  The raiding party came down upon the village with deadly precision. The weapons and shields the Vikings used were unlike any Jilliand had ever seen. She realized her short blade was of little use. I must do something. She ran toward the huts that had not been set on fire and tried to help the remaining women and children get away, yelling at them to keep moving up into the hills She returned repeatedly to pull villagers from their huts and get them away from the fighting. The battle was spreading, and the village was in chaos. The farmers’ futile attempts to defend themselves and the lack of real weapons spelled doom for this settlement, like it had for so many before.

  She rounded one of the huts that was still standing and scanned the disaster surrounding her. Clearly, it would all be over soon. She was struck by a thought that stunned her: Mother’s pouch! She ran back toward the hut where she had hidden it. She ducked inside.

  Sounds outside the hut were quickly changing. The initial battle cries faded. Jilliand knew the main fight was over; the real horror, at least for the women and children, had begun. Now, the fight’s aftermath gave voice to the dead and dying. Wounded men moaned in agony, begging to leave their hell. Women, many already dying, screamed as they were handed the fate of the vanquished. Children wept and screamed as they were dragged from their lifeless mothers. They would not be held hostage and ransomed. Their parents were poor. Their lord was poor. Their pitiful lives were worth little to the marauders. Jilliand felt a sudden stab of fear as a realization hit her. Maybe some of the children will be spared. But not me; not this time. There is no way out for me.

  Her heart pounding, Jilliand crouched against the wall of the hut as far from the entrance as possible. She forgot about the pouch hidden away. She had not moved fast enough. In trying to help everyone she could, she now found herself trapped. When they came for her, she would force them to kill her before she would be taken. She waited, listening to the awful din. The sounds of humanity dying on all sides rose and fell.

  Jilliand’s face was covered with soot and blood, her clothes were torn and ragged; she looked like every other wretched soul trying to survive. A strange calm came over her. She refused to stand still and wait for death. The will to survive rose in her chest. Jilliand had to move now if she were to have any chance at getting away. Standing up, she crept slowly to the entrance, trying to determine how close the invaders had gotten.

  One by one, each hut was being torched. Before long they will be at this one. Her head felt scrambled, and she could not think clearly. Jilliand could hear men talking as they went about the business of destruction. Angry at how little gold or silver was to be had, the victors would be in no mood for mercy. They never were.

  As Jilliand slipped out through the opening of the hut and slid along the side, her movement caught the eye of a lone Viking. He stood waiting, his eyes following the dark figure. Strange this one only comes out now. Perhaps he hides something. Loath to miss the opportunity of finding anything of value, he watched intently.

  Jilliand had stopped and, flattened against the wall, she waited while several men passed. The sun caught her long wild hair, lighting it like a flame. Filthy and ragged, she looked worse than a street urchin. She did not move like one, though. She did not move like she belonged in this village. She was lithe and graceful, athletic, strangely calm, even calculating. Surprised, the man watched her, studied her. Dressed like a man, this one is, but this one is not a man. She must have thought to fool me. Scorn shone in his expression as his eyes followed her. He waited. Would she duck back inside the hut—or run?

  Jilliand intended to slide around the side of the hut, but when she turned to be certain she was not followed, a man stood only a few feet from her. He saw the line of her face, her mouth, and her full lips. Her eyes caught his. The green of her eyes was like the jewels on the hilt of his sword or the green of the first spring grasses. Jilliand froze, and her eyes locked onto his. He studied her with a new interest. A slight nod from him indicated that she was to come toward him. Hesitating for a heartbeat, she walked out, her head high, her hand on the handle of the blade hidden beneath her shirt. No, she will not run, he thought. She looks unafraid, ready to fight. He made a
quick decision. She goes with us.

  Jilliand knew there was no one to help her. She glanced at the dead lying everywhere. The huts were nearly all gone. Her eyes turned back to the man. He was tall, lean, and muscular—just like all the rest of the invaders. His auburn hair, wet with perspiration, clung to his head and curled under his helmet. A thick mustache covered his upper lip and dropped just beyond the edges of his mouth. This one looked to be the leader. Gold and silver rings adorned both arms. Around his neck hung a heavy silver amulet in the shape of a hammer suspended by its handle. His mail was splattered with blood. From his waist hung a long sword. In one hand, he held a shorter blade, and in the other hand a large round shield. He stood contemplating her, his eyes narrowing.

  Jilliand absorbed the images of the carnage. Three women lying nearby were barely conscious. They were lying naked, beaten, and blood soaked. Jilliand studied the man watching her, and her eyes moved back to the women. Would that be her fate? As if he had heard what she was thinking, he walked over to the three and, as she watched, quickly slit their throats. After which, he wiped the blood of his weapon on the belly of the last. Jilliand stepped back, horrified, nearly falling. Pointing to Jilliand with the same blade, he signaled to one of the men, instructing, “Take her on board and see she is not touched.” Although she could not understand him, she knew she was taken. Her eyes darted back to the hut. The man turned and walked away.

  When one of the men approached her, she pulled her own blade, but he was quicker. His sword was at her throat, and he gestured toward her blade. Reluctantly, she let her weapon drop. He jerked his head in the direction the rest of the captives were going. Jilliand looked once more at the pitiful remnants of the village, then at the Viking standing before her who was waiting for her to move. Jilliand stepped over the smoldering remains of huts, and dead and dying bodies, to join the line of children filing ahead of her toward the raiders’ ship.

  CHAPTER 8

  MOST OF THE INHABITANTS OF Jilliand’s village were either killed or taken as slaves. Some who had run in the beginning like those Jilliand helped may have survived. The pillagers seemed more intent on leaving than chasing anyone once they realized there was little of value to be had. The Vikings held one boy aside and dragged him throughout the village to witness the destruction. He would be released to take the tale to his lord, and word would spread. Fear was a great weapon that the Vikings understood well.

  What little grain the village had gathered in was soon piled onto the ship. Jilliand was taken to the bow and left there while the rest of the captives were loaded. She trembled as she looked out and took in the horror these brutal people had left behind. Twice she had tried to help the little ones being shoved onto the deck, and both times, she had been pushed down and a sword put to her throat. She stayed seated and silent after that.

  When the ship was loaded, it finally moved away from the shore. From her place on the deck, Jilliand studied the men at work on the boat. They were all tall, athletic, and agile. When they began to row, their oars dipped into the water in perfect rhythm. The ship’s operation was precise and smooth. She saw the man who had found her. He was standing at the bow of the ship talking to his steersman and the man who had put the sword to her throat. The three men laughed and turned to look at her. She glared back at them defiantly.

  From his place at the ship’s bow, Viking Sea King Rurik was barely aware of his ship’s movement over the water. He thought only about transferring these captives and heading back out quickly. Winter would come soon, and his own people would need whatever he could bring back. This raid had netted very little, only a few children for slaves. Oh, and the girl. He turned to look for her again. Askold had told Rurik about Jilliand’s repeated efforts to help the other captives. Rurik knew she was not part of the village. Her clothes, though dirty and torn, were of a finer material than the villagers wore. The blade Askold took from her was well made. Rurik’s eyes moved over her figure. Frowning, he studied her. He could imagine what she might look like if she dressed as a woman or maybe was not dressed at all. Now smiling to himself, he turned away.

  With the crew steadily rowing, the shoreline was fading behind them. As the ship rode the waves, Jilliand felt her stomach begin to churn; her mouth filled with bile. She pulled herself up and leaned over the side. The nausea and vomiting came in bouts that surged over her. Eventually, the feeling began to ebb. Clinging to the boat’s side, Jilliand glanced behind her to see that most of the children were also ill. The crew was busy and took no notice of them or Jilliand.

  Nightfall brought with it an uneasy calm for the captured passengers. Except for the low voices of the crew and an occasional child crying, an eerie silence settled over the vessel. Jilliand scrutinized what little she could see of the ship in the darkness. The middle portion of the ship had low sides. Not a barrier to anyone trying to leave, Jilliand noted. Oars protruded from holes lining both sides of the ship at precisely the same height and distance from each other. The oars moved in perfect rhythm, rapidly pushing the ship farther and farther from the shore. The ship’s carved stern rose high above the sides of the vessel, making a great seaward arch and coming to an elegant point, as did the bow. The bow was higher than the stern, and at the top of the bow’s point, a figurehead rose. Jilliand noticed its face had a carved, fierce grimace.

  With the cargo, weapons, and captives, the boat was completely packed. Jilliand studied the weapons again. The blades the men carried were longer and larger than any Jilliand had ever seen. The round shields were also much larger. A man would have to be strong to carry and use such weapons. With a critical eye, she studied the crew. They were indeed strong, and most were taller than the men Jilliand had seen. She was an eyewitness to how they easily dispensed with the few protectors of her pillaged settlement. How would these men do against a real soldier? She had yet to see that confrontation.

  Jilliand’s gaze drifted off beyond the crew and ship, to the ocean surrounding them. She had never been near the sea, let alone on it. A great expanse of nothing rolled out before her. Jilliand watched as the boat moved across the water. The sea was at once frightening and gentle. It was a quiet night without so much as a puff of air.

  Several men began to work the riggings, and soon, a huge sail was unfurled. Jilliand watched in amazement as the giant cloth billowed with the breeze she could not feel. Looking over the side again, she caught her breath. She was surprised at how the vessel moved with such grace and ease. The boat flew on top of the sea as they rode the waves. Forgetting for a second that she was a captive, she looked to the sky. “How is this possible? I have become part of this thing. We move like the clouds,” she gasped.

  As the wind picked up, so did the boat’s speed. Jilliand faced the wind, closed her eyes, and let it blow. Her long hair flew behind her. So caught up in the experience of being, Jilliand failed to notice the men at the bow and several others who were watching her intently. She breathed deeply. The air was clean. Jilliand had been held captive for so long, every new experience was a taste of freedom. Opening her eyes, her shoulders slumped. She would have to find a way off this boat and away from these men. Vikings were not known for their kind ways with the English, especially those for whom a ransom would never be paid—like Jilliand. Where do these men go? How can I get off? While these thoughts flashed through her head, she remembered old Myla’s words: “You are of noble birth, Jilliand. Remember who you are.” Unconsciously, she straightened her back.

  She knew one thing for certain and thought, When I get away, I will never stay with another helpless village. I will find a court somewhere. Someplace that is protected by soldiers. Right now, it was useless to think about her past or future. She leaned on the boat’s side, staring out at a darkened world. Her current situation was daunting. Once again, as with her father, her life was not hers to govern.

  When the sun began its ascent, the ship dropped its sail again. The vessel moved slowly toward the coast, hugging the shoreline. Rurik walked to
where she stood, watching the sea. Jilliand quickly turned when he came close. She had no weapon, but her body movements were instinctive and defensive. He wondered if she hid another knife at her waist. Purposefully, he quickly moved to her left. With practiced agility, she stepped away, turned, and faced him. He pulled his sword out.

  “You would strike down an unarmed woman?” Jilliand admonished him. “But of course you would. I know what you left behind.” Her tone was sarcastic. He may not understand her words, but he would know their meaning.

  His narrowed eyes never left her face. Removing his smaller weapon, Rurik tossed it to her. “Now you’re armed. What can you do?” Though his language was beyond her, his intention was clear. Like a flash of lightning, she caught the sword, held it squarely, and half crouching, began to move around him.

  “I see you have been trained. But can you fight?” Rurik noted, as he swiftly moved in on her. Jilliand easily stepped to one side and moved behind him.

  “You think to tire me? Good.” He studied her. I would know who taught you.

  There was no mistaking his intentions. For the first few moments, he toyed with her; she moved with confidence, never coming too close, yet not avoiding the fight. Jilliand moved in and away, as she pulled him closer to the side of the ship. The thought came to her that if she could get close enough to the side, she could easily jump over. The shoreline was near enough. Distracted, and concentrating on possible escape, Jilliand tried to step around him again, but this time he was ready. As if he read her mind, she found her chest against the tip of his sword. Rurik nodded toward the deck. Locked on his piercing blue eyes, she struggled to understand. Again, he spoke and nodded to the deck. Not certain what else to do, Jilliand tossed the sword in the direction he nodded.