Jilliand

by Clare Gutierrez

  Philippe looked beyond the riders again. “Your brother follows us, Lady. Seems you do not know him so well.” His tone was cold. Jilliand was surprised to see that Philippe was actually frightened.

  “’Tis not my brother,” Jilliand replied, watching Philippe. “He is a king. He would not sneak around. These are his lands.” Jilliand could not think what might have caused the men to leave Philippe. She looked quickly at the men behind them. The young Norseman still rode with them. He returned Jilliand’s gaze. Her mind working, she turned back.

  “Why would you think you are followed?” Jilliand asked, trying to sound unconcerned. “Did you not withstand the fight?”

  “Do you think my men would just ride away? They have no place here.” He looked back once again. “They do not even speak the language. They belong in France.” He rode in silence for a distance. “If not your brother, then who?” His voice was flat.

  Jilliand looked at the quiet forest and fields and then at Philippe. “I only know my brother. My people would not follow you, and they have no horses. Perhaps your men quit.”

  Philippe snarled, “Frenchmen do not quit, Lady. You best think of something else to cheer me with.”

  “I would not cheer you, Highness,” Jilliand answered coldly. “You know your men. I have nothing to say on the matter.” She prayed someone would come for her.

  The noise of the horses and the riding gear were the only sounds she heard No one spoke. The group rode in silence for several miles. Jilliand found herself looking around—for what, she could not say. Suddenly, she gasped. Ahead of them, to her left, she saw it: a man hanging, his body swaying slightly in the wind. She saw him kick weakly. With no thought as to who he might be or why he had been hanged, she touched Lancer. Horse and rider bolted away from the party to the left and sped toward the man.

  Philippe had been surveying the forest to his right. When Jilliand rode away, it took him off guard, and he could not understand what she was yelling. He only knew she was getting away. With lightning speed, he notched an arrow.

  Jilliand glanced back toward Philippe, calling, “He still lives! Quickly, we must cut him down!” She saw Philippe release the arrow. Stunned, she cried out, “No! Look!” Frantically, she pointed toward the hanged man. Lancer was still loping toward the trees when the arrow found its mark. He jolted, then began to trip. Jarred, Jilliand was able to jump off. She hit the ground that was soft with several feet of snow. Horrified, she ran to her horse. Lancer made low noises as he tried to raise his head. Blood was flowing freely, staining the snow as it cascaded down his side. Crying, Jilliand knelt to lean over him. “Quiet, Lancer. It is over now. Quiet my friend,” she spoke between sobs.

  As the great horse died, Jilliand turned toward Philippe, who by now was dismounting near her. “Your man dies, and you kill my horse for helping him?” Jilliand was shaking. Until that moment, Philippe had not seen the man. Now he did. The man was already dead. “I hate you, do you hear me?” Jilliand screamed. “I hate you! I will never be with you!” Jilliand turned and ran blindly into the woods.

  “Yes, you will,” he called after her, grimly. “If I have to shackle you to the bed, you will be with me.” Philippe turned to the men behind him. “I want the woman—alive and unharmed. She will be mine.” Determined, he mounted and rode after Jilliand.

  Jilliand raced through the trees, choosing the thickest woods. Philippe would have great difficulty following her, unless he got off the horse and ran after her. Instinctively, she knew he would not do that. He was a prince, and so he would try to run her down.

  Without warning, a man stepped from behind a tree to grasp her arm. “Keep running, Lady.” Jilliand was startled to hear him speak in Norse. “Go as deep as you can. We will find you when it is over.” He lifted Jilliand’s hand to his lips then disappeared. Jilliand ran without looking back. The sounds of Philippe’s charging horse grew more distant. Unable to run his horse through the dense vegetation, he stopped, frustrated. Still Jilliand ran. Darting between the trees growing closely together, she pushed ever deeper into the forest. Behind her, she could no longer hear Philippe. The faint sounds of fighting came to her. She kept running, intent on putting even greater distance between herself, Philippe, … and whatever else was happening.

  Then the sounds of battle shattered the silence around her. Vaguely, she was aware of an echoing yell. There it was again. “What is that?” she whispered. “Who are these men chasing Philippe?” Jilliand stopped to catch her breath. The light was beginning to fade. Piercing the air was a scream unlike any other she had ever heard. Shuddering, she stood as if paralyzed. Again, the agonizing scream faded into the evening breeze. “Whoever that was, his death did not come easy. What will Philippe do to me?” Jilliand felt fingers of fear and despair grip her.

  It was beginning to snow again with great, heavy wet flakes. Her shoes were wet, her feet were getting colder, her hands were numb, and her face ached. One lone tear rolled down her cheek. Quickly, she brushed it off. “Mother, I fear this time I will die. I have not the will to live. I have nothing left. I have no place to go.” Her throat tightened. “I will freeze this night. I am through.”

  She half-heartedly searched in the fading light for a brush thicket, a rock pile, anything to crawl under. There was nothing. Standing under an old evergreen with long, drooping branches, she whispered, “Oh, Rurik, tell me what to do.”

  Philippe rode hard after Jilliand until the vegetation became too thick. To catch her, he would be forced to send men on foot. He knew she could not go far, but she could freeze to death. The sound of fighting pierced through his determination. Reining in his horse, he listened. Whirling the horse around, he headed back toward the sounds. He would have to fight to keep Jilliand. You do not know Aethewulf as well as you think, Lady. He does come for you. Philippe broke into the clearing where fighting had begun again. With a leap, he cleared his horse and joined what had quickly become hand-to-hand combat. The men fighting Philippe’s men were clearly winning. This fight is over. We are not going to win. Jilliand … I must get to Jilliand.

  Philippe called to any of his men near, as he ran after his horse. If Philippe caught Jilliand quickly, he could still get away. Mounting, he sped toward the wooded area where he last saw Jilliand running. A great cry reached him, while the sounds of running horses spread around him. He was being chased. Philippe was cut off and forced back toward his men, who by now were prisoners. A large group of men who wore Aethewulf’s colors and Vikings who wore Philippe’s colors surrounded the battleground. Philippe was taken to a tall striking man who was clearly the leader. It had been a disaster. Philippe’s men were either dead, had changed alliances, or had surrendered. Philippe stood defiantly. “I am Prince Philippe of France. Unhand me.” When asked where Lady Jilliand was, Philippe snarled, “I have no idea. You should check her castle.” Rurik glanced at the Viking men now surrounding him and Philippe.

  “The perfect offering,” Rurik noted coldly. “Now. This will be done now.” He walked slowly toward Philippe. Fear choking him and despite the men holding him, Philippe tried to struggle away. The fear he felt was justified. The blood eagle sacrifice began.

  When Philippe’s screams finally faded away, Rurik asked about Jilliand. None of Philippe’s band knew where she was. Some knew she had ridden away, trying to get back to her burg, they believed. None had seen her since then and much time had passed. Rurik ordered the men to set up camp and search the area. He would ride back to her burg. If she is on horseback, she could have gotten away. The gods would not play with me again, surely. I must get to her before her brother leaves with her. Rurik returned to Jilliand’s burg with two laden horses in tow.

  King Aethewulf was in council chambers when a message was brought to him. Thoughtfully, he stood. “We are through until tomorrow.” Each man with him noted his response to the messenger and in silence the room emptied, but for one of his pages. “I will speak with this man in private. Bring him to me.”

 
Rurik was taken to Jilliand’s private study where the king waited with his page. When Rurik entered, the page was dismissed. Rurik did not kneel, but stood watching the king. King Aethewulf stood eyeing the tall man before him. Neither spoke for a moment.

  King Aethewulf spoke first. “I hear much about you. You have a fearsome reputation. You are Rurik, the prince of Rus, a land great in size. What brings you this far south?” What can I tell him about Jilliand? I know not if Alexander was successful.

  Rurik noted the attention Aethewulf gave him, the challenge in his eyes, how much like Jilliand he appeared. His mouth was the same; the eyes were the same.

  “I come for a woman.” Rurik would not tell what he now knew—Jilliand was not here and, as yet, was not safe.

  “We have many women, as I am certain you noticed,” the king replied dryly. “Describe her.” Aethewulf knew well the woman Rurik sought. He was not certain how to tell the Viking that Jilliand was no longer with him.

  “She is more beautiful than any other. Her eyes are like emeralds of great value. Her hair is red as the sunset, her temper fiery as the sun. I think you know her and know her well.” His voice had softened. Rurik looked squarely at the king, his eyes unwavering. “This woman looks much like you.”

  Aethewulf replied, “What is your business with the king’s sister? She is more valuable to me than gold.”

  Rurik’s disdain at this statement was evident. “As she is to me. I thought her dead for a long time. I hear she lives. She is my wife.” A curious sadness filled the deep-blue eyes looking at the king.

  Aethewulf walked slowly around the room, his mind racing. Aethewulf spoke of many things. At last he spoke of the deadly raids against his land and people. Rurik listened without comment. Losing patience, Aethewulf challenged, “I am not certain I will allow Jilliand to see you. Vikings have long been a thorn in my side.”

  Better a thorn than a sword, Rurik thought. Aloud, he noted, “I think you would talk with me of matters about your kingdom. I am willing to listen.” He glanced at the man walking around him.

  “Lady Jilliand is not here. She was taken hostage eight days ago during a siege on her castle. When we arrived, they had taken her away. Sir Alexander and his men have ridden to take her back.” King Aethewulf stood with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. The Viking before him might be forced into his service, if the king spoke well.

  Rurik stepped to the door and spoke to another page standing in the hall. When Rurik turned again to Aethewulf, he carried a sack. The sound of Aethewulf sucking air into his lungs sliced through the room. On the floor lay Alexander’s sword, his blade, and a leather pouch. “The man you speak of is lying outside. I brought his body to you. He was outmanned,” Rurik noted coldly. “When we got to him, the fight was well on. He was already dead. Some of the men with Alexander survived: They are with my men.” Rurik picked up the satchel and shoved it into Aethewulf’s hand. “The body of the man we fought is outside, also. He left with Lady Jilliand headed for the southern coast. We drew him to us.”

  Aethewulf froze. Rurik stood watching him closely, waiting for the questions he knew would come. At last Aethewulf spoke, “My sister? She is safe?”

  “If I find her,” Rurik responded quietly, “I will care for her.”

  Aethewulf nodded slowly. He suddenly felt old and tired. “She looks just like her mother, only more so,” Aethewulf told Rurik. He sank into a nearby chair. “You should know, I tried to get her to marry. Not a good thing: woman like her, alone. She refused. She was waiting for you.”

  “I know.” Rurik’s face softened. “Our time has come again.” He walked to the door, then stepped back—turning to Aethewulf he spoke, with his voice carrying the unmistakable note of finality. “If I find her, we will not be back. Our place is not here.”

  Aethewulf nodded. “I have loved her and cared for her.”

  “That’s what I am told,” Rurik acknowledged. “She is your sister. She is my world.” With that, he was gone.

  EPILOGUE

  DARKNESS COVERED THE FOREST. TALL evergreens swayed above, pushed by a slight breeze. Under one large tree, Jilliand sat cold and alone. For several moments, the sound of approaching horses shaking the very ground nearly went unnoticed.

  Jolted by the sound of someone calling her name, she raised her head to listen. The sounds of men and horses surrounded her. Again, she heard the sound, “Lady Jilliand!” Dare she hope the caller was not with Philippe? Slowly, she tried to stand. Her heart beat as if she would die. Her breath came so quickly that she had to grasp the tree trunk she leaned against.

  “Who hails?” Jilliand tried to reply. Her voice seemed not to carry. Again, she tried. “Who calls for me?” This time, louder. “Here, I am here,” she yelled, after taking a deep breath. Silence. Then, a voice spoke.

  “Keep shouting, Lady. We come for you.” The answer was in Norse. Jilliand’s heart beat faster. Could it be Philippe’s men had deserted him? A knot pulled at her stomach. Or maybe the Norseman is with Philippe.

  “Here, I am here,” Jilliand cried out again. She could hear horses snorting, riding gear jingling, and men coming toward her. Taking a breath, she stepped out, cautiously. There, coming toward her, were men in her brother’s colors and the Norseman previously with Philippe. Had Aethewulf come for her? An older man dismounted and hastened to her side. He scooped her up and set her on his horse, mounting behind her.

  “We can make camp further in. We wait for two days, and then …” He stopped. Jilliand only knew Philippe was not with them. That was all that mattered. When the party stopped, a small tent was set up for her. Soon, there was a fire burning in a pit inside. The man brought a thick broth to her and some wine. “You are safe here, Lady. If you have need of anything, call out. We are all around you.”

  “Alexander?” she asked, watching the soldier. He shook his head. “The Frenchman cannot find me?” Again, he shook his head, and this time a slight smile passed over his face. “Thank you.” Jilliand hardly knew what to do next. Suddenly, she was exhausted, cold, and hungry. She dreaded seeing her brother again, but it was better than seeing the French court. This night, she would sleep as one who is safe, not afraid of what the night might bring. After drinking the broth, she lay down on a padded mat. The sounds of camp slowly faded from her mind.

  Jilliand slept that night and most of the following day. After eating, she slept again. The low sound of the men talking was comforting. She did not ask why they stayed. She had no desire to see Aethewulf. Logically, she understood why he would not come for her. It still stung. Somehow, Alexander had managed to save her—somehow.

  On the afternoon of the third day, Jilliand ventured outside her tent and walked among the men. A few she recognized from her brother’s soldiers. The rest she knew had ridden with Philippe. Yet here they were, protecting her—or so it seemed. Seeing the young man that wore her cloak, she asked, “Why did you ride with the prince? I do not believe you are French.” She spoke softly to him, in Norse. He stared at her so long, she decided he would not talk.

  As she turned away, he replied, “I was promised freedom for my brothers.” When Jilliand turned back to him, he looked hard into her eyes. “It was easy for him to promise such a thing. They were already free—they were both dead.” Jilliand started to speak. He spoke first. “It does not matter, Lady. Life goes on. The gods have other plans for me.” He smiled at her. “And for you too, I think,” he added.

  “Perhaps.” Jilliand, smiling sadly, nodded. “Perhaps.” She wandered around the area, and then returned to her tent. Closing the flap, she sat cross-legged near the fire. Its warmth felt good, but still her heart was heavy. She closed her eyes. Remembering every detail of her burg, she tried to imagine it as home again. She knew it could never be. Aethewulf would never care enough for her to protect her. Worse, he would now insist she marry. Word of what had happened would spread, and it would surely happen again. She had become fair game. What do I do now? Where can I go? She sat star
ing into the flames, empty and alone.

  The sounds of a rider coming into camp made Jilliand stand up. Holding her breath, she waited. The men were laughing and visiting. The rider was obviously known to them. She started to sit back down, when she heard a man’s voice.

  “It is him!” Jilliand opened the flap of her tent. Men throughout the camp had begun to gather. Following his voice, she found him.

  When Jilliand stepped into the light near the fire, she saw only the Viking. Rurik turned to her. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and then her feet were moving as in a dream. She cared little that it would be unseemly to run to this man. He had been her husband, her lover, the father of her child. She would feel his arms about her once more, if only for a moment.

  Rurik moved toward her as a path opened through the throng of men. Only he and Jilliand existed now. He reached out to her as she ran into his arms. He could feel her against him; her arms wrapped around his neck. He could smell her hair and feel the tears flowing from the emerald eyes he had longed to see. “Jilliand …” He held her fast. Time stood still. “Jilliand, I have dreamed of you just this way, for so long.” His voice was low, husky with emotion.

  The men watched this woman some hardly knew and the man they all now served. The camp was hushed. At last, Rurik straightened. With his arms still around her, he softly spoke into her hair, “Tell me, is it true? Do you still wait for me?”

  “I told you I would, Viking,” she whispered into his ear. “My word is all I have left to me. I keep it.” With one motion, Rurik scooped Jilliand up and walked toward her tent.