Jilliand Page 9

  Jilliand stood frozen in horror even as she was bumped along by the men behind her. Rurik, the ship, and everything else was forgotten, except images from the day she was taken. Occupants of the tents below were not farmers. They were soldiers. Though unprepared for any battle—relaxed, laughing, and talking—they would fight. This would be ugly.

  “I have to warn them,” Jilliand whispered. She scrambled down the small hill and toward the fires. Suddenly, a man stepped into the full light of a huge bonfire near his tent. The guards from her father’s burg had talked about the man. His holdings were full of poor peasants, barely able to survive. Still he taxed them heavily and hung them quickly. He treated everyone with sick cruelty, just like her father had. He was her father’s only friend. Both were evil, taking a sick delight in the pain they inflicted on everyone in their path. In times past, this man had made crude suggestions about taking Jilliand. The man was too poor for Jilliand’s father, and the talk never went any further. Now, unwilling to be seen by a man she despised, she stopped running and crept down the hillside to crouch out of sight. The fighting had begun. Jilliand sank to the ground, riveted to the scene unfolding below her. The slaughter was punctuated by yells and cursing. It seemed to go on for hours before the sounds began to die down.

  At last, Jilliand walked to the edge of the destroyed camp, when a group of fighting men burst into view. She gasped when she saw Captain Avila in their midst. Mindless of anything around her, she ran headlong toward him. The captain stood alone in the center, sorely wounded, though he still held his sword. “No!” she shouted at the Vikings surrounding him. “No!” She forced her way through the ring of men to stand at his side. The assault on him paused as the Vikings waited, uncertain what to do next. Jilliand belonged to their sea king.

  “Jilliand, child, I’m dying. Let me die with dignity.” Avila’s face was cut and bleeding, his helmet missing, and his armor splattered with blood. He never looked at her after she burst into the circle. His shield arm oozed blood as did a deep wound in his side. He was staggering, barely able to stand.

  The men watched the old soldier and Jilliand. “Why are you here?” she asked him. “Let me help you. Please stop!” she yelled at the men around them.

  “I came seeking refuge for the night. I had no place to stay. Leave me, child. I go to your mother. She awaits me.” Avila gently shoved Jilliand away.

  “No!” she cried. But Avila had already moved into the circle of Viking men, forcing their hand, and was quickly struck down. Crying, she ran to him. Cradling his head, she sobbed. With anger, she surveyed the men around her. One of the Vikings moved toward her. She leaned over Avila’s body. “STOP!” she screamed in defiance. The man stepped past her, picked up the old soldier’s sword, and with respect, placed it into his hand. The wounded man grasped the handle as he died. The Vikings moved away and left Jilliand alone weeping, lying across him.

  Jilliand refused to leave Avila’s side. At last, she was grasped by one of the men, who tried to move her away. Wrestling free, she ran back to the fallen captain. She removed the smaller weapon and belts he carried, strapping on both. Kneeling, she kissed Avila’s face. The man who had pulled her away came for her again. She jerked her arm away, threw the sword she had been given by Rurik at his feet, and started sobbing again as she stumbled away toward the ships. By the time she arrived, the ships were no longer hidden, but floating in an inlet now swollen with the high tide. Swimming in her gown made movement sluggish and difficult. Dragging herself up, Jilliand climbed aboard the lead boat that was carrying Rurik and his crew. The ship slipped easily away and was soon flying over the water.

  Jilliand stood at the stern, looking over the edge, numb. Her heart was shattered. The last link to her mother was dead. As the tears washed down her face, the wind increased. It felt hard and cold. Just like my heart. She wept, unaware Rurik had wrapped his cloak around her.

  A storm soon found the ship and gripped it without mercy. Jilliand clung to the side, fighting against the wind blowing against her and in her heart. Her old friend’s words filled her mind. As the gale blew, Jilliand prayed. So lost in her thoughts was she that she barely noticed the rain pelting her. Lately, she had recovered her will to survive, but that drive was waning.

  As she clung to the stern, her tears gradually ceased. Perhaps instead, I shall stay. I know my mother and Captain Avila are watching over me. As she talked to herself, Jilliand glanced at the men nearest her. Yet, how do I live between worlds? Theirs and mine …? She was cold.

  The storm eventually moved away, and the ship stopped rocking. Jilliand hardly noticed. As her emotions settled, she became aware of the stillness around her. Night had come again. She stepped away from the side of the boat, and her eyes took in the crew, most of whom now slept. She was unaware of Rurik standing midship watching her. Rurik didn’t understand how she and the old soldier were connected. His men had reported Jilliand’s action with the old man but could not understand what they said in English. He was so old, he must be her father. Perhaps. No. Clearly, she loved the old man. She hated her father. Her lover? No. He shook his head, refusing to consider such a thing. No matter; it has ended for the old man. He died with honor and his weapon in hand.

  He found it odd that she had chosen to keep the old man’s weapon but not the medallion around his neck. Strange medallion, unlike any he had ever seen. He turned away once he knew she had recovered and assumed his post near the steersman. The steersman spoke quietly and told Rurik to sleep for they would arrive at their destination in the morning. Clasping the man’s shoulder, Rurik turned and walked away. He saw Jilliand as she sat with her eyes closed leaning against the side farthest from him.

  She didn’t move when he walked by, but he knew she was still awake. Leaning over her, Rurik dropped the medallion onto her lap and walked on. Jilliand jerked upright when the medal fell. In the dark, she could see Rurik walking away. She felt the chain and medallion. Unable to tell what it was, she stood and walked into the moonlight. In her hand, she held the heavy piece she remembered seeing on Avila, beneath his blood-spattered and torn shirt. Examining the medallion, she discovered it was a locket. She knew whose face must be painted inside. Grateful, she looked to heaven. “Thank you, Mother. I have to survive. I will survive. For you. Whatever I have to do.” Jilliand spoke softly. Slipping the locket around her neck, she sat back down and slept.

  Rurik’s ship sailed into the night. A crescent moon rested high in the sky, surrounded by stars … stars that would take the sea king home. Rurik gazed at the familiar twinkling beacons he used to navigate the waters. The vessel was silent but for the occasional cough or murmur from the men. Half of the crew slept. Rurik regarded the men manning the boat. Everyone was weary of soured milk. What little food they crammed onto the vessel was nearly gone. Soon, we stop where we can buy more supplies and hunt game.

  His eyes wandered back toward Jilliand. She is a strange one. She helped when she could, had become comfortable with the crew, and never complained. The memory of the scars covering her back brought a flush of anger. He would find out who had done that to her one way or another. Rurik spoke briefly to his steersman, made one last round of the ship, then lay down next to Dir and Askold. Sleep came quickly.

  The morning’s light found the crew up and about. Jilliand assumed they were leaving to raid. Rurik caught her eye as he left and shook his head. “Just as well. I care not to go,” she murmured. As if he knew she needed time, he had not spoken to her since that awful night. The men stood listening to Rurik.

  A group of men, weapons in hand, left with Rurik. Quickly to take advantage of the full tide, the remaining men rowed the boat farther upstream where they stopped to tie the boat. A second group, gathering weapons, but without shields or swords, left the ship. The remaining men began maintenance repairs on the boat, sails, and ropes. They also made a clearing, hauled in wood, dug a pit, and started a fire. Early in the afternoon, the hunting party returned. At the edge of the clearing, hung
a deer already skinned and gutted. Game birds and fish were being set out. Large strips of venison and more birds were skewered and set over the fire to cook. The fish were hung to smoke. Several hours later, Rurik and the rest of the men arrived heavily laden with grain. The ship was loaded before all sat down to eat. The men ate eagerly, laughing and talking while Jilliand sat apart, making meaningless marks in the dirt at her feet. Every time she thought a conflict within her heart was settled, something happened to stir up doubts again. Could she stay with the Vikings? Could she live with people so different and so violent? Jilliand knew well how violent the English could become, even to their own. Listening to the sounds of the men talking and laughing, Jilliand realized the overpowering issue was safety. She felt safe and accepted; neither feeling had ever been a part of her life before.

  CHAPTER 12

  BY THE TIME RURIK WAS ready to go ashore again, Jilliand had made a troubled peace with her feelings. Rurik decided to take her with him. When Rurik came to her, he held her hand, not her wrist. His touch was easy. As usual, he led her to the side of the boat, and Jilliand slipped over, gathering her gown around herself to keep it dry. She still felt awkward in a gown.

  Jilliand’s wavy hair had grown longer and shone red and gold like the setting sun. She had found a pair of breeches in some of the booty and wore them every day, for added warmth and freedom of movement, under the gowns she now wore. Though made of wool, the gowns offered little protection from the weather, as Jilliand had no under-tunics or other garments.

  As they walked away from the boat, Rurik informed Jilliand they were to be guests in someone’s court. Someone, he added smiling, who would pay him well. He explained that he had been to this burg several times before, in peace. The burg was larger and had signs of greater wealth and more people. He added that this visit would be a good visit, for his men, and for Jilliand, also. Alarmed, Jilliand pulled away from him. She had never pulled loose from him before, and he quickly lost his grip. She ran to the river’s edge where she stood, her heart pounding. He walked up behind her. She whirled around and firmly stated, “I cannot go. Are you not a Viking king? If so, you would not drag a slave with you. And what if someone recognizes me? Will you kill everyone again?”

  She was not a slave to him; although, he knew he had never made such a declaration to her. Rurik cared little what the English thought of him. “We are too far north now, for anyone to have seen you before.” He shrugged, frowning at her. “There is nothing to do about what you look like to them—slave or not.”

  Jilliand’s mind raced wildly, when an idea came to her. Taking the heavy chain from around her neck, she wove it under and up into her hair with the medallion hanging slightly down on her forehead, and then she pulled her hair up. She pointed to a leather strap he had hanging from his belt. Still frowning, he handed it to her. Gathering her hair, twisting it and wrapping it around her fingers, she used the strap to tie the hair in place. Shortly, she had her hair piled up on her head. Rurik slipped his dark sable robe around her shoulders.

  She turned and faced Rurik. He stared, his mind working. She must be of noble birth. I would have the rest of her story. He commented dryly under his breath, “You’re going to be hot. I do not care what the English think, nor should you.” He reached for her again. Perhaps she is right; it is not such a good idea to bring her with me. But it is too late now.

  Taking his hand, she walked with him into a huge hall. The walls were lined with candles that cast a soft light on the room. Tables were arranged end to end, with benches providing seating on the wall side. At even intervals, candles had been placed and lit on every table. In the middle of the room, one large table faced the head table on the diagonal. The head table was elegantly set. The plates were patterned clay instead of metal, and elegantly hammered goblets held wine. The settings on every other table were common metal plates, mugs, and utensils. Jilliand secretly wondered if her father had a place like this. If he did, she certainly had never been privileged enough to enter. She had cared little how she dressed before, dressed as she was like a man in the most ragged of clothing; now she felt like a woman. When she walked into the room, the hall went silent, every person was looking at the tall, muscular Viking, his woman, and his men.

  The lord and his lady began graciously seating everyone. Jilliand could feel many eyes upon her. When the meal was served, everyone waited for the lord to begin eating before they began. Jilliand waited for Rurik to begin. Straightaway, the room became silent but for the sound of people eating. In due course, the lord began speaking to Rurik in Rurik’s native tongue. He spoke quietly, and Rurik replied in like manner. Both men spoke carefully, as if they were navigating a river frozen with thin ice.

  Confident none of the Vikings could speak English, the lady of the castle began speaking aloud, noting how refined Jilliand appeared. However, as the meal progressed, and the wine flowed, she began to mock Jilliand and her clothes to the other ladies. The ladies laughed, making fun of Jilliand and Rurik’s men. Jilliand sat silent, never looking up. The lord’s wife then discussed her husband’s plan to wait until everyone was drunk and then sink or burn Rurik’s ship. “The Vikings will all be killed, and the woman,” she told them, “will be sold to the highest bidder”—adding she intended to bid on Jilliand herself. Jilliand sat silent as long as she could. Then, leaning to Rurik she spoke so softly that he could barely hear, “They’re setting a trap for you.”

  He nodded at her very seriously. He then spoke to the lord and both men laughed. After a moment, Jilliand leaned over to Rurik again, saying, “His wife looks like an ox. Her mind is more likened to an ass.” A smile played about Rurik’s mouth. The night wore on. In time, most of the lord’s men were drunk or asleep. Jilliand noticed that the Vikings drank from their own flasks; none were drunk. Most of Rurik’s men had wandered away, slowly but surely, until only a few were left in the hall.

  At last, Rurik calmly rose to his feet and spoke, “We will accept payment in grain, gold, and silver. My queen never asks for payment. I ask for her. She will choose some beautiful gowns such as those seen in this room.”

  At his words, the stunned lord dropped his cup. A quick survey told the story. The Vikings were gone from the hall; they most certainly had infiltrated the castle, likely wandering at will outside and were, the lord knew, not drunk. The only drunk men were his. He was outmanned and outsmarted. “I pay no fee!” he bellowed and shot up as his chair clattered backward. The hall became quiet as a tomb.

  Rurik answered smoothly, “We can live as partners, you and I. I’ll keep your shores safe, and you pay me; or you die an adversary, your shores raided until only blackened land and burned-out huts remain. You know I can and will do as I say.” With his words, the lord went ashen. Rurik stood waiting.

  The lord’s wife watched anxiously. Her eyes never left Jilliand’s slight, quiet form.

  The Englishman stood in silence, staring at Rurik. Sharply, he turned to his wife, “Send one of your ladies. Bring several gowns out for the Viking woman to choose from.”

  The wife bristled. “I will not! Look at her. She is but a street whore!” She spat the words out in disgust.

  Speaking quickly, ignoring her, he turned to his steward, “Bring five gowns, cloaks, and other wraps here. Let the woman choose.”

  His wife screeched and flew after the poor steward. Jilliand touched Rurik’s arm. He leaned down to listen to her, still watching the lord. She said, “Your thought is kind, but we both could fit into one of her gowns.”

  Solemnly, Rurik nodded in agreement, although he did not change his request. The hall was silent again. The lord stood staring, trying to think. Finally, in defeat, the lord ordered his grain and food stores opened. When the steward returned, he was still being followed by the lord’s wife, who was beating him about his head, cursing. He brought the bundle to Jilliand. She looked with feigned amazement at the forced generosity. In the stack of clothes the poor man had grabbed, Jilliand found two simple gowns and care
fully laid each piece out. She took a heavy deep-brown cloak, adding it to the pile with the two dresses. Leaning toward Rurik, she softly asked, “May I speak out?” He nodded.

  She rose from the table and walked to the now weeping and wailing wife. In a gentle voice, speaking perfect English, she noted, “Lady, your gowns are elegant. The neckline and sleeves are beautiful. Your gowns would be prized in the finest court. My hair color prevents me from wearing some of these beautiful colors. While your most generous gift is deeply appreciated, I would only take these three items.” Curtseying respectfully, Jilliand draped the items on her arm. Bowing to the lord, she added, “Thank you for your kind hospitality, sir.” She nodded to Rurik and gracefully walked from the hall, her head held high. In truth, she knew nothing about women’s style and clothing. Perhaps no one could tell. With pride, Rurik watched her receding figure.

  The lady was painfully aware that Jilliand must have understood every word spoken about Jilliand’s dress and person. Recovering her dignity, the lady rose and asked her husband, “I would speak with her again. Call her back. Ask the Viking to call her back.” Her husband had no intention of doing such a thing and sent his wife from the room. He could not complete his business with Rurik quickly enough.

  One of Rurik’s men escorted Jilliand from the hall. Once outside, they did not return to the boat the same way they had come. Jilliand was not surprised to see the boat had been moved. Setting her bundle on the deck near the bow, she removed Rurik’s cloak and folded it. Without speaking, she helped load the grain. The men accepted her assistance without notice. The steersman smiled, watching this slender woman with an unexpected toughness about her. This woman was surely sent to help the Old One who lives with our people.