Jilliand Page 8

  “Yes, a bow.” She quickly added, “A small one with shorter arrows.”

  He turned back, surprised. “You can use it?” he asked frowning.

  “A longer blade too.” She watched the surprise open his eyes. “I have retained all that I have learned, and I will use that training if I must.”

  He nodded slowly, remembering the well-placed knife wounds that killed Gouldon. His eyes traveled over her slight figure, now swathed in his cloak. Nodding again, he left. Jilliand sighed. For the first time in her life, she felt no fear about her new life. Somehow, she felt safe. “A pagan, God? You bring me to a pagan?” she asked, her eyes raised to heaven. “My walk will be with a pagan.” She gazed at the landscape beyond the water’s edge. Peaceful. “Yet, I am safe—for now.”

  Jilliand felt someone shake her gently. Jumping up, tumbling over the robe now at her feet, she found herself nearly on him. The sun had just risen. A hush still hung over the ship; most of his men were sleeping. Rurik grinned, “You are happy to see me?”

  Hoping it was still too dark for him to see, Jilliand could feel the heat in her face. Before she could answer, he thrust a sword into her hand. He ordered her to do something in his mother tongue. Jilliand instinctively felt the weapon for balance and tested the edge. He nodded in approval. He ordered something again. Jilliand hesitated, not certain what to do. His language was still beyond her.

  Suddenly, he moved in on Jilliand, his weapon in readiness. She immediately stood in defense, loose but careful, as she moved quickly around him, forcing him to turn to keep with her. She held the sword in both hands, poised and ready. Again and again, she moved around him, only to move quickly back as he advanced. He laughed, staying with her. He began to move on her, and she easily stepped aside. She was more skilled than he had imagined. He quickened the pace, forcing her to move. Jilliand deftly evaded his sword but was not able to avoid his free hand, which easily caught her hair. Slicing at him, she forced him to loosen his hold. “Ah, you do well. We have played enough. Now we end it,” and with that, he advanced on her so handily she soon found herself backed against the boat’s side. For a short while, she held her own. In the end, he flicked her sword aside. She spread her arms wide, held her chin up, and waited.

  By now, most of his men had formed a ring around them, cheering and laughing. He smiled his approval. When he touched her throat with his sword tip, she refused to flinch. Putting his weapon away, he handed her the sword and said something that, again, frustrated Jilliand. When they were alone, he spoke in English. When his men were about, she understood nothing he said.

  Rurik walked to the stern, took an old animal’s hide, stretched it, and tied it in place. With a piece of charcoal wood, he marked a spot on it. Returning, he handed Jilliand a bow and a quiver of arrows. She smiled with delight. “You remembered.” Running her hand over the bow approvingly, she took one of the arrows. Carefully pulling the bow she tested the weight. A little tight, but this will do fine. Turning to him, she asked, “From where?”

  He looked from her to the hide. He pointed to a spot on the deck. She stood where he pointed but shook her head. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed to the spot again.

  “As you wish. It is too close, but …” With that, she shot three arrows into the marked spot. Askold retrieved her arrows. Every man on the boat was silently watching the two of them. Jilliand looked at the target, backed up far behind him, and raised the bow. He stepped aside. Again, she placed three arrows in the spot. Suddenly, the Vikings began to cheer her on.

  With the next step back, Jilliand knew she would be sorely tested to hit the target. English longbow men were legendary, but their bows were longer and stronger, as were their backs and arms. With brows knitted, concentrating, she notched the arrow. The men erupted in cheers when the third arrow found its spot. Jilliand knew they had accepted her because he had taken her side; but on this day, she swore she would give no man reason to doubt her. Avril and Calder had accepted her because of sympathy for her imagined plight. These men accepted her because of the person she was to them. I know not where this leads me, God. But I know You are with me.

  Her thoughts turned to the men on the boat, and while she despised the cruelty they had shown their adversaries, she had to admit that the English did much the same with those they captured. The Vikings were the first men, other than Captain Avila and Silas, who now treated her with respect. Never had she seen men so bound to their leader. They willingly followed him wherever he led them. Perhaps she would also … perhaps.

  At the mouth of a large waterway, Great Ouse, the ship had been anchored waiting for the tide to rise. It now moved silently up the swollen river. When they reached the predetermined spot, the boat was tied securely though not hidden. Jilliand stayed behind. The crew seldom drank water, preferring ale, beer, or soured milk, as water, when available, was often associated with illness. However, one of Jilliand’s teachers told of many rivers all over England, fed by fresh water sources from springs. Taking several flasks, Jilliand set out to search for a spring. When she returned, she was laden with fresh drinking water. Once more, she set out. By her third trip, the bird calls near the boat were familiar. Setting the filled flasks down on the deck after her fourth trip, she was acutely aware of the sudden silence. Not one bird sang. An ominous feeling engulfed her.

  Whatever quieted the birds was beyond the stern. Staying low, she gathered her bow, arrows, and blade. Bit by bit, she crept around the deck, searching the shoreline.

  Their smoke was visible before she saw the line of men. Moving stealthily, the men were coming toward the ship, many carrying cauldrons filled with burning wood. Jilliand stood, held her breath, and aimed an arrow at the first man. He fell. Silence was shattered by yells coming from the attackers. Changing positions, she notched another arrow and felled the second. By this time, the men were sending fire arrows toward the boat. She stood and felled a third. When she stood for the fourth, a flaming arrow just missed her, hitting the deck. She hastily wrapped an arrow with a strip of her shirt. From the deck fire, she lit an arrow of her own. Jilliand fired back toward a large mound of dried undergrowth just beyond the line of men, now running toward her. The flames grew rapidly. She prayed Rurik and his men would see the smoke. Using one of the water buckets, she doused the flames on the boat.

  Standing, Jilliand was unable to notch another arrow before she was slammed backward with the impact of a well-placed shaft. Its force was such that it went clean through her, entering her body just below her collarbone, nicking the shoulder blade as it passed. She fell to the deck, stunned but still conscious. “I have to get off the ship,” she gasped. Rolling over, clutching her weapons, she crawled, dragging her way across the deck. She slid over the side, putting the boat between her and the oncoming line of men. Her left shoulder was throbbing, and her arm was nearly useless. She was forced to let go of her weapons. “I do not think I can do this,” Jilliand gasped. Doggedly, she struggled until she made the distant bank. Only when she had pulled herself onto land did she realize she was bleeding. She was too weak to do more than collapse. Lying on the bank, she saw dark curls of smoke from her fire had risen high into the skies, carried by the breezes. Jilliand could hear the Viking battle cry in the distance as her world went black.

  Rurik and his men were loaded down. A very bountiful harvest had just been gathered by a smaller burg and monastery. That harvest now belonged to the Vikings, along with weapons and jewels found inside the burg’s keep and gold from the monastery. Each man carried equal shares of grain and gold. Most also carried weapons. They would need the grain and other stores for the long winter ahead. Rurik knew they had more than earned their bounty. He carried several gowns, some robes, and a stack of blankets. He tucked jewels inside each gown and packed everything into salvaged bags. Catching one of the horses from the burg, he tied the bags onto the animal and led him out. This was a good run.

  As he reached the last rise above the boat, he saw the smoke. The cry went out.
Men dropped what they were carrying and ran to battle. The attackers heard the Vikings and turned their attention from the boat to Rurik’s men. A brutal hand-to-hand battle ensued. Vikings were legendary for their ruthless, fearless fighting, a reputation well earned. Both sides fought ferociously, but in the end, the Vikings prevailed. A battle was won, but the boat was damaged. Looking for survivors, Rurik ordered every man found be put to death. They found three men killed with Jilliand’s arrows. Jilliand was not on the boat.

  Some of the crew returned to where they had dropped their bounty. Others began repairing the ship. Bloodstains on the deck were a foreboding sign to Rurik. He jumped into the water. Unable to find Jilliand in the water, which by now was beginning to rise, Rurik immediately headed toward the distant bank. Wading up the bank, he anxiously scanned the area. Then he saw her. With his heart in his throat, he picked her up and labored with his load through the rising water, back to the boat.

  Jilliand remembered nothing of what happened after she crawled onto the bank and faded into darkness. She awoke to the slight motion of the ship and the voices of the Vikings. She tried to sit up but was not able. Her chest was bound tightly. Her arm was bound and immobile. She was now clothed in a soft, thickly woven gown. Cringing, Jilliand wondered how many men had seen her naked. She tried to rise again but this time was gently pushed down from behind. Standing near her was the old steersman. He shook his head and walked back to his post. The mild rocking of the boat lulled Jilliand to sleep again.

  When Jilliand next woke, she was able to sit up. Her chest felt as if it were torn from her, and her shoulder ached, but her arm felt better. She struggled to stand up, grasping the side of the ship. She could see Rurik and the steersman at their usual place. Intent on watching the waterway, no one took notice of Jilliand. Grateful for the privacy, she tried walking. Finding she could move normally, if more slowly, she walked the length of the ship, steadying herself. Repeating the process, she swayed against the ship’s side. Wobbly but determined, she paced. Finally exhausted, she slid down the side near the stern, leaned back, and closed her eyes. One of the men brought her a small flask. Opening it, he tapped her shoulder and motioned she should drink. Taking a swallow, Jilliand coughed and gasped as the liquid burned its way down her throat. She tried to return the container, but the man shook his head, grinning, and left the flask with her. She took another swig and then another. As the warm liquid flowed down her throat into her empty stomach, Jilliand relaxed. This time when she stood, she was lightheaded and strangely happy. The ale proved very effective in relieving the throbbing of her wounds, though not in her ability to walk straight. Jilliand gave up, slid down the side of the boat, and leaning back against the ship’s side, she slept again.

  The ship moved farther out to sea. With the passing of days, Jilliand’s wounds were healing. Days rolled into nights. The men now acknowledged her when she walked past. Rurik watched her but had not spoken since the battle. To Jilliand, it did not matter. She knew she was safe. That was enough. The weight of worry about her father had gone. Rurik knew full well she would bring him no bounty; he didn’t care.

  It hadn’t taken long for Jilliand to discover that her silver cross was gone. I pray Rurik has it. Jilliand spent long hours staring at the sea spread out before her. She was treated well, and there were no walls around her. Her life was not charted, and she had no defined rights or privileges, but she had endured. She was alive!

  CHAPTER 11

  THE MONTHS CLASHED WITH THE weather, while the aged Captain Avila grappled with loneliness. At one time, he was the favorite of the crown prince of Spain and his wife. Honored by the royal couple, he had supreme command over her guard and was frequently chosen to carry out special assignments. The prince on his deathbed had summoned him again, asking one last favor from his captain. He asked Avila to keep his wife, the English princess, safe. Avila had done his best to honor that command; though as fate would have it, it would not be long for the wife. Avila would end up caring for her daughter. As the princess lay dying, while she gave her daughter one last breath, she made the same request of the soldier. These days, all of that felt like a lost dream. Life makes no promises, nor does it smooth the road for its travelers. Once honored and loved, he now fought for anyone who offered shelter and food. The schemes of men meant little to him. His own purpose had been of the highest calling. For that cause, Avila paid the greatest price. He had lost the family he loved and served, had lost his honor among men, and had no home.

  At night, Avila often lay awake. He could still see the princess’s red hair and emerald eyes. The memory of her soft laughter brought a rare smile to his scarred lips. Her daughter looked just like her. So much so, it had soothed his heart when finally he left her that day, knowing she would one day be free. He would have stayed after she had gone for the pleasure of putting an end to Jilliand’s father, but he knew Jilliand would not survive without the horse. He had carried out his last royal command as well as he possibly could.

  A tale was carried far, whispered around fires, and shared soldier to soldier, as it spread throughout the land. Everyone heard of how the lord had gone mad with anger when he found Jilliand missing, her cell bloodied, and his foul plan destroyed. When it was discovered Captain Avila had gone the same night, the lord declared Avila an outlaw. The lord sent word to every landowner that his daughter had been killed by Avila, and a reward was offered for the capture and return of that soldier.

  Although none believed the lord’s story, finding a benefactor had been hard for Avila. No one cared to lose more men because they employed a declared outlaw. Consequently, Avila became a lone mercenary. But another rumor grew and was soon taken as fact that the lord himself had killed Jilliand in one of his well-known fits of rage.

  On this night, Avila lay fully dressed, surrounded by others of his ilk. Old injuries along with old dreams made sleep near impossible. He clasped the locket resting over his heart, beneath his tunic. How I miss you, sweet Lady. Surely, some day soon, I will join you and his Highness, and be peaceful, again.

  Avila forced his mind to pull out the memories again. Memories of a time when life held so much promise. So reluctant was he to keep living that Avila had developed a reputation for putting himself in danger by his ferocity in battle, and his daring with his weapons. None would have guessed that he hoped to be the vanquished, to be rid, once and for all, of the burden life had given him.

  Just as he began to drift off to sleep, Avila heard the sound. He lay holding his breath, the better to hear. Perhaps it was his dreams that awakened him as usual. The sound seemed to hesitate before it burst over the encampment. This was no dream. The battle cries of the Viking were well known. There would be a fight. Captain Avila threw his covers aside and rushed to meet fate.

  This night wrapped itself with a thick fog. Damp, cold fingers moved through Jilliand’s clothing. Why do they not seek land and build a fire? Surely nothing more will fit on this ship. The cold made her wounds feel fresh again. A thick robe was among the other items of clothing Rurik had brought her. Jilliand pulled it from the stack and wrapped it around herself. It helped, but she continued to shiver.

  To keep warm, she began pacing the ship’s length. As she walked, a few of the men spoke to her. Smiling, they nodded to encourage her to keep moving. Grateful for the camaraderie she now felt, Jilliand smiled back. Really no reason to stop, I suppose. They seem content … and warm. Jilliand was also warming up. Perhaps ’tis not just the weather that makes a soul cold.

  Jilliand never spoke to Rurik about her injuries, nor how she wound up in a gown. She was grateful for the clothes. More so for the heavy cloak. Fearing they would spend the winter farther north, she tried not to use the cloak so as not to become accustomed to its warmth. Whatever else winter brought, cold was certain to be on the list. Dressed in the gowns, although they were too large for her small frame, she sensed unfamiliar feelings sweeping through her. She liked the feel of the gowns, the rustle as she walked, and the a
pproval evident on every man’s face as she passed. This gown was better than what she had worn in her old life. Perhaps the days would be better also.

  In due time, Rurik’s ship met up with his knarr. When the cargo was loaded, the knarr headed out to the open seas. Unloaded and lighter, Rurik’s ship quickly made the trip back to the coast where they met three other vessels. They were to make at least one more run. The ships moved up a river like they had so many times before. In short order, each ship was moved onto a finger of land, between the coast and ocean and then hidden. Every man was dressed for battle.

  Rurik stood looking at Jilliand for a long time. Jilliand waited, watching the man she knew controlled her destiny. “She goes with us,” he stated after much thought. Motioning to Jilliand, he spoke to her in English, “Get your weapons.”

  “I have none. I lost them when I swam after I was wounded.” Secretly, she was glad. Surely, wearing a gown would make the weapons feel out of place.

  Rurik nodded and spoke to Askold. Askold brought her a different blade and scabbard. This blade was a length Jilliand was more accustomed to wielding. She slipped the scabbard under her belt, surprised it felt familiar and comforting.

  Armed and ready to fight, the crew’s movement was quiet and deliberate. Pray they do not attack another village, for truth, I would not help with what they do. Given little choice at this moment, she walked along. “Had I known this was our intent, I would have found breeches,” she softly noted. Rurik glanced at her but kept moving. Suddenly, Rurik halted everyone. Silently the men behind her moved off to either side.

  Jilliand shivered. This night is black as the devil’s heart. Surely, no good will come this night. She tried in vain to see where they were headed. Stepping around a knot of brush, she saw it. Below her, at the foot of a gently sloping hill, was a small company of English soldiers. The fires gave the figures an eerie glow as they wandered around camp. Jilliand stared, her mind racing. I cannot fight my countrymen. I will not do this!