The din of conflict became louder. Rurik rode to the top of a hill on the far edge of a forested area. Smoke drifted over the battlefield before being carried upward by a breeze. Viking ships were moving away from the shoreline. Perhaps the English have defended themselves well, Rurik thought. Below him, Rurik could see horses and men littering the ground. A large encampment flying the English lord’s colors stood to his right. Rurik’s eyes took in every detail. The Vikings had withdrawn, but although the English had been badly injured, they had not been bested. Judging by the size of the Viking ships, the English far outnumbered the Vikings. As Rurik studied the scene before him, a man came from the larger of the tents. He walked as one defeated. The men that walked behind him were quiet and subdued. Rurik realized the English must have paid the Vikings to leave. It was probable the Vikings took with them one of great prominence as hostage. Most likely it was the defeated man’s son. This would assure the English kept their part of whatever bargain was struck. Rurik felt his pulse quicken with the old fire. Vikings still roamed the seas and fought. Vikings still won.
Rurik watched until the wagons laden with the bodies of those of importance were loaded and rolling away. The battleground itself was still strewn with the bodies of both English and Vikings—an ugly testament to the true spoils of war. Rurik rode from the scene. His search for Jilliand would not be easy.
Through that summer and deep into the fall, Rurik roamed the coast, seeking information that might lead him to Jilliand. In one of the larger villages, he spent time walking the streets talking to people. His persistence paid off. A woman so old she could barely stand and claiming to know of Jilliand stopped him as he walked toward an inn. Her speech was as slow as her movements. But when the woman spoke of Jilliand, her eyes lit up. “I knew a lady, such as you talk of, sir. She has been long gone. I believed she was dead. But I hear tell she has returned to England. Talk says she stays with King Aethewulf.” The woman paused. “How do you know of her?” The woman’s eyes were watery, but she looked up at the Viking without hesitation. Rurik thought of his own mother, gone these long years. He reached out and touched her shoulder.
“I took her as my wife. I believed she was killed but have heard that she may still live. Your words give me hope, woman.” Rurik pressed several coins into the old lady’s hand, nodding respectfully, as he turned away. I must find this king. Jilliand lives, I feel it. If she loves another, I will not stay. I only need to see her once more, and I will walk with fate to the Valkyries.
By now, the snows had begun. A white shroud covered most of the lands. Temperatures dropped quickly at night. Rurik hoped to find shelter soon. Across a wide valley, a smaller hill ran along its northern boundary. Silhouetted against a darkening sky sat a great wall whose wooden logs defined the expanse of the settlement within. A bustling town lay sprawled outside the main gates. From his vantage point, Rurik could see the burg and grounds were larger than any he had seen on English soil. This would be the king I have heard about. Stories tell of a king’s fierce fight against the Viking raids. Tales of a king who defeated the Vikings more than once. A king who would not be a friend of mine. Rurik had heard all the talk, seen several burned villages, and even watched a battle where Vikings barely defeated men wearing the same colors that were flying at the corners and over the drawbridge of the burg. More importantly, Rurik heard the rumors of a lady with red hair who lived with the king. Jilliand—could it be Jilliand?
The people living around the burg looked well cared for. The homes and animal shelters were suitably tended. Maybe this will be the place. Rurik urged his horse onward. With self-confidence, he rode through the great entrance. Boldly moving across the moat and through the gates, Rurik was challenged. “I have business with King Aethewulf. I am Rurik, from the Rus. I come seeking information.” Rurik was neither threatened nor intimidated by the number of soldiers around him. More than one man’s eyes followed the lone rider. One man slipped around a corner and ran to alert the captain of the guard.
The captain of the guard stepped to a doorway to watch Rurik. The Viking was unafraid and clearly knew what it was to be king. Although older, Rurik still cut a striking figure. He was slender, muscular, and taller than nearly all the men around him. At his side, he carried a great sword whose hilt was laden with priceless jewels. A smaller blade hung at his other side. Around his arms were rings of gold and silver. He wore a heavy golden ring on his right hand. On his left, he wore a ring like the ring worn by the king. From a thick silver chain, the amulet of Thor hung on his chest. Over his shoulders, he wore a heavy cloak of the darkest sable.
It had been years since Rurik felt the need to survey his surroundings with a warrior’s eye. Without thinking, he began to do so again. Taking note of the exits, where his horse might be kept, and the placement of the king’s guard, he entered the courtyard. He walked and spoke like one with authority and power.
Rurik could see the signs of wealth, manpower, and wellbeing of the people around and inside the burg. Would Jilliand give this up for him? He was no longer a sea king, no longer the prince of Rus. He was only Viking.
When he dismounted, one of the court guards started to take Rurik’s weapons, only to have the sword drawn on him. Quickly stepping between the two men, the captain ordered the Viking be allowed to enter the keep with his weapons. “He wears the king’s ring.”
Rurik gave no hint of surprise at this information. It is the ring from Jilliand. I wear it again. Does she wear mine still? His thoughts were always on her. He remembered the day she had given him the ring. If she does not wish to … no, I cannot think on it. She will come. She must come. I draw comfort from this information. She must be here.
The captain spoke quietly. “The king is not here, Viking. He is at Lady Jilliand’s.” His eyes pierced Rurik’s. “The lady’s burg lies one day’s ride south, near the water. You can see the keep from the road.” He turned to walk with Rurik. “If you wish to stay the night, I will see you have a place to sleep.” The weather had settled, but the bitter cold lingered.
“No. I leave tonight,” Rurik replied.
“Eat with us, then.” He led Rurik on to the barracks.
The men sat at a long table, with others of the king’s guard. The men talked in subdued tones, often glancing at Rurik. Rurik wondered how several Viking men at the table came to be with King Aethewulf. This was not the time to ask. The talk among the men indicated Aethewulf had left with a full regiment. “Does the king fight for Lady Jilliand?” Rurik casually asked, as he finished his meal.
The captain looked at Rurik for a moment, before answering. “No. He has fighting men with him but will not lose his kingdom over a woman, even his sister.” His tablemates became quiet. “The lady rides alone.”
“I would give up my kingdom for Lady Jilliand,” Rurik quietly noted, swirling the wine in his goblet.
“That is easy to say if you do not have a kingdom to lose,” the captain noted, watching Rurik. The table was silent, as the men waited for the Viking to respond.
For a long moment, Rurik sat quietly, staring at his wine. Rurik looked across the table at the captain. “I gave up my kingdom for this lady. I am Rurik, Prince of Rus.” His voice was quiet and even. “Lady Jilliand does not ride alone.”
The captain studied the man before him. Then, nodding, he began, “There is one who rides for Lady Jilliand. His name is Alexander. The king will give him men, and Alexander will ride for the lady.” He stopped to refill his goblet. “We believe the man who invaded is one of the sons of the king of France. Most likely, Prince Philippe. He looks to take land for France.”
“This Alexander, does he know Lady Jilliand well?” Rurik asked.
“He does. He loves the lady, but she does not love Sir Alexander.” Then the captain smiled. “She loves a Viking.” The men around the table relaxed. “Come, there are men here who will ride with you. I tell you also—we now know more than a third of Prince Philippe’s men are Viking. They ride with him, but they
are not of his thinking, I would say.”
“Viking?” Rurik frowned. “How do you know this?”
“Some of Lady Jilliand’s wounded men were brought back here.” Standing up, the captain ordered supplies and heavier clothing for Rurik. “I do not know how the Viking men came to ride with the Frenchman. Some Vikings ride for King Aethewulf.” The captain nodded toward the men who were sitting and watching Rurik and the captain.
Rurik also stood up. “Any that would ride with the prince of Rus, come with me.” Seven men stood. Among those standing were several Vikings. Rurik nodded, pleased.
Temperatures plummeted as darkness fell. Both riders and horses were bundled as Rurik and his men rode south. Something about the soldiers’ manner gave warning to Rurik. What were the gods telling him? Clearly, these men rode for Jilliand. No matter. They would fight well for her, he would see to that. Of greater interest was the information that many of Prince Philippe’s men were Viking. They might also fight for Rurik.
At early morn, a soft glow in the distance grew. Rurik led the men around the settlement, ordering them to be silent and ride slowly. “Does the Viking ever rest?” one of the Englishmen whispered. The few Vikings with them only laughed. Thoughts of the coming battle, hunger, and fatigue weighed on most of the men. Still, some remembered Jilliand warmly, and others believed in Rurik. They would all follow the Viking. When Rurik had led them well beyond the burg and its surrounding huts, he finally stopped. Rurik’s Fjord had greater stamina than the rest of the horses, but even he was slowing.
“We will rest here. Feed the men and horses.” Rurik turned his horse over to one of the men. What are the gods telling me? I see Jilliand, cold and frightened. Rurik began pacing. Camp was quickly set up. Eventually, Rurik sat down to wait, his thoughts on the coming fight, the man he pursued, and the woman he loved. Surely, the gods would not lead me to her, only to have her taken again.
“For certain, any Vikings riding with the man we pursue will join you.” One of Aethewulf’s guards stretched out next to Rurik. Rurik looked at the young man. The guard was anxious—not afraid, but ready to get into the battle.
“That will be determined by the reason they ride with the Frenchman.” Rurik also stretched out. “If the French hold hostages, the Vikings will not leave the Frenchman. If the Frenchman promised to pay for sailing or fighting, yes, then they will come with us.”
“Why do we wait?” the young man asked, his impatience unchecked.
“I wait for information,” Rurik replied, as he closed his eyes. “Do you know of Lady Jilliand?”
“I do. Lady Jilliand saved my life once. I was very young, very foolish, and filled with the fire of conquest. She spoke out for me.” The young man lay staring at the sky nearly hidden by the forest. “She lied for me, actually.” The guard smiled at the memory. Just as he dozed off, hoof sounds of a rider split the air.
Rurik jolted up immediately. A horse burst into the camp. The rider, an older man with the manner and confidence of an experienced fighter, rode directly to Rurik.
“The Frenchman who took the lady has nearly two hundred men. They were moving south.” The man dismounted. “Sir Alexander should catch up with them around midday. He and his men intend to fight the French, but he has only half the men the Frenchman has, if that many.”
“How far away?” Rurik asked.
“Nearly a day’s ride,” the man replied, shaking his head. “If we are to be any help to Sir Alexander, we must move.”
“Ride!” Rurik ordered. In only moments, the glen was vacant. The men rode hard, steadily gaining on their quarry.
CHAPTER 31
BEGINNING WITH FIRST LIGHT, PHILIPPE pushed his men hard. The prince had no desire to fight, certainly not when he was on the run himself. Alexander’s troops hit Philippe’s men just as Philippe stopped to rest the horses at midday. The hand-to-hand battle was vicious. At the first cry from his rear guard, Philippe shouted at two of his men, and with Jilliand in tow, rode deep into the nearby forest. There, while the men hastily set up a tent, he dragged Jilliand off her horse and shoved her hard into the tent where she fell on the ground. “Your shoes, Lady,” he demanded, hovering over her with his hand outstretched.
“Your Highness?” Jilliand asked. Surely she had misunderstood.
“Your shoes! Now! Or I take them off myself.” He leaned toward her, danger in his voice. “You cannot run from me if you are barefoot. The snow lies heavy on the ground, and the cold is deadly.” Jilliand’s heart fell when she understood his intent.
Removing both shoes, she handed them over. “Leggings, too,” Philippe instructed. “I want to see bare feet. Make haste, Lady! I don’t have much time.”
Jilliand handed him her leggings and sat down on a makeshift bed. Tossing several heavy covers and another cloak onto the bed, Philippe left. When she was certain he had gone, she stepped to the flap, peering outside. A thick blanket of snow covered the ground as far as she could see. There was no guard at her tent, but it didn’t matter. She was captive, as surely as if he had chained her to a wall. Huddled under the covers, she waited.
Alexander was horribly outnumbered, but his men fought hard. The thought of Jilliand on his mind pushed Alexander to battle with ferocity. Still, the fight was turning for Philippe. Alexander hoped to get to the French prince. If the prince were killed, the battle would belong to Alexander. Taking a desperate chance, he fought his way into the middle of Philippe’s men, his one thought to save Jilliand. Too late, he realized the prince had already slipped away. Men closed in around Alexander. As he went down, he heard the thunder of horses and yells above the din of the ground battle.
Philippe rode back toward the fighting. He could not see Alexander but was stunned to see Alexander’s men were being aided by another force. He could not tell where the additional men came from, nor who they rode for. Desperate, Philippe turned his horse and rode hard, back to Jilliand. A few of his men followed.
Jilliand listened to the distant sounds of battle. The noise of riders coming toward her tent grew louder. Jilliand prayed it would not be the prince who came for her. It was. He ripped the tent flap open. “You were not expecting me, I can tell. No matter. I am here. Get your shoes on—now!” He tossed her shoes and leggings back. “Your rescue was in vain. No wonder—too few men. It matters not. The king’s sister. What might I do with you?” His eyes moved over her hungrily, causing Jilliand to cringe.
As soon as her shoes were on, Philippe grasped her arm and yanked her up, shoving her toward her horse. I have no value now. Perhaps this is my time to die. My heart is tired. Jilliand glanced at the few mounted men waiting for her. Her thoughts were interrupted when one of the prince’s men rode near to report that many of his men had left before the fighting began.
“Left? To where?” Philippe demanded, angrily. “Are you certain they are not among the dead?”
“I am certain. They were gone before any real fighting began,” the man noted grimly. “I thought those types liked to fight.”
“No matter. We do not need them now.” Prince Philippe would come to court a hero. Perhaps his father could still get something for this lady he had kidnapped. He looked at her again. She was a thing of beauty, even if she did have an air about her. He would tame her. Although he tried to disguise it, Jilliand could feel a sense of urgency in him, worse than before. That same feeling hovered about his men. Philippe rode as fast as he could push the horses.
With unseeing eyes, Jilliand stared at the road. The land was dead with winter’s frigid temperatures, white with snow, and empty of all life. Bitter as my soul, Rurik. How I wish you had run me through. To have loved one such as you and then lose you seems not fair. Exhaustion made her vulnerable to the sadness waiting to claim her heart once more.
Philippe studied Jilliand. She never requested anything to be made easier for her. She refused to be beaten. Philippe had not planned on taking anyone hostage. As soon as he saw Jilliand, he had recognized her. She had changed little
since the time he had first seen her.
For weeks now, Philippe’s band of men had moved along the coast ravaging everything in their path. It was luck that he found the Viking men. It took a lie told by Philippe, a French prince, to get the Vikings to fight for him. In exchange for the lives of Vikings held by France from last year’s raids, the Vikings had agreed to stay with him for one year. There were no prisoners being held by France. All the Vikings taken had been killed. These men would not have known that little detail. Now, they rode and fought for Philippe. They were fearless fighters. In truth, they tolerated the travel and weather much better than his own men. Strange that they gave way so easily. They never had shied from the fight before. Philippe looked back at his men again. Only two Vikings remained. No matter. We travel more quickly now.
The taking of Jilliand changed Philippe’s plans. Without Jilliand there would have been no delay in leaving after laying waste to her burg. Now, it seemed probable King Aethewulf would try to take her again. Better to make it to sea quickly. He watched Jilliand, who gave no indication that he was even present. That will change. Philippe looked around, wondering just how long it might take to reach his ship. Do I have enough men left to man a ship? He glanced behind him, once more.
“To where do we ride, Prince Philippe?” she asked, without looking at the man she grew to despise more each day.
“Does it matter?” His answer was curt.
Jilliand did not answer. She merely glanced at him and then looked away, her heart sick at the glint in his eyes. To even think of Philippe touching her made her ill. Lancer could easily outrun any horse, but she would not risk him. She leaned down and gently patted his neck. She heard Philippe give an order for them to stop. Pulling Lancer up, she gratefully slid off to the ground. Quickly putting the horse between her and Philippe, Jilliand was thankful when one of the men took Philippe aside to speak with him.
Suddenly, they were riding again. Jilliand caught the look of anger on Philippe’s face. Turning away, she pretended not to notice nor hear his conversation. She gathered that several more men were no longer riding with them. A persistent feeling of anxiety charged the air around them. Alert, Jilliand glanced at her captor. He was counting the men behind him. Jilliand glanced back. Every man was warily scanning the land around him.
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