The Quest for Gillian’s Heart Read online

  "To shore, Rollo," Andor said. "We have our dead to care for."

  It was as fitting a funeral as they could arrange so far from home - a simple grave for each person with all their possessions that remained to accompany them on their next journey. A few others had washed ashore with the evening tide, including Astrid whose lovely face was bloated in death. Andor was grateful he could give her a proper send off. As he placed her gently in her grave, he touched her rounded belly for the first and last time. At least mother and child would be together in the next life.

  It was an emotional time for all, but Andor refused to allow himself to give in to tears. They had lost thirty people. It was time for decisions, not emotions. When the last grave was marked, he faced his people.

  "We have lost much and come far, but I will gladly return those who wish to go home."

  Leif took a stand beside him. "I have no desire to return just to start another journey next year, but I will give my ship and half my provisions for those of you who wish to leave. If that is all right with Andor."

  Andor nodded. There was a murmur among the people and slowly each one made a decision. More than half chose home. Without question Leif’s animals and half his stores were moved to Andor’s ship. The thirty who remained waved their friends off.

  "To Ireland?" Leif asked Andor.

  Andor rubbed the weariness from his neck. "I have no desire for raiding."

  "If not, we will not make it to Iceland," Leif said.

  Andor sighed and looked over the horizon. "Then we shall go a-viking."

  In his youth raiding had been an exciting experience. As he grew in years, his conscience did not agree with stealing from others. They were people just as himself. While he didn't understand their culture and did not want to, they spoke each other's language. Slaves and brides captured through the centuries had mingled with Andor's own, become a part of the world of the Northmen. To continue to pillage their villages was wrong, wasn't it?

  Still, Leif was right - they had to survive. When they reached Ireland, Andor would leave the raiding to Leif and remain onboard to await their return. Perhaps his guilt would then not be so great.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  Gillian glared at her husband’s inert figure. One fist found what used to be her waist while the other clutched a broom. He was still recovering from another night of drinking. Whenever there was a cup to be raised, Evan was there to lift it. Last night was once too often for Gillian. She narrowed her eyes and jammed the broom handle in his ribs.

  "Get up you lazy sot!"

  Evan groaned. She poked him again.

  "I said get up. You are a worthless excuse for a husband. I do not know why I married you."

  "Because no one would have a shrewish harpy like ya fer a wife," he mumbled from under his woolen blanket.

  "A harpy am I?" She poked him again.

  Evan whipped back the blanket. "Stop it, woman. Yer puttin’ a hole in me side. I shoulda strapped yer backside when I first married ya."

  "And ‘twould be the last thing you ever did. Get up!"

  Evan winced. "Quit yer screechin’. How can so beautiful a lass sound like a fishwife? Leave me rest, woman. The chores can wait." He snapped the blanket over his head.

  Gillian whacked the hump of his buttocks with the other end of the broom. "The cow needs milking. Tell her bellering soul she can wait."

  She gathered her skirts in one hand and bounced from their small stone cottage. The wind blew one red curl before her eyes. Muttering a curse, Gillian snatched her green kerchief off a peg by the door to tie her heavy mass of hair back.

  The cow called from her stall. "Hold on, girl. I will care for you shortly." She turned her head over her shoulder so Evan could hear. "Eight months gone with child, but you can be sure I will be handling the chores. The cooking, the cleaning, the sewing, the milking...and the plowing and planting, too!"

  Evan slept on as Gillian knew he would. She grabbed the bucket and strode to the animals’ stall beside the cottage. For her cow’s sake, she tried to calm herself before milking, but neither the milking nor the calming would be an easy task. She caressed the animal and settled on the stool. After a deep breath, she strained forward to grab the teats.

  It was true - Evan was a poor husband. Gillian knew he would be before she married him. But she was past the age when girls marry, and her father was afraid she would be left alone when it came his time to go. Gillian could not refuse a dying man’s wish. She married a man of his choosing and called it a daughter’s duty.

  Evan had seen her dowry and her beauty - it was enough for him. After taking her virginity and getting her with child, he settled down to drink away the small fortune marriage had given him. Fortunately, Gillian’s father had not lived long enough to see it.

  "There’s a girl." Gillian patted the cow’s side then levered herself upright. "A half bucket. No wonder you were crying so."

  She dumped some grain into the trough. "Eat up. I will put you out to graze after the plowing is done."

  Gillian set the bucket of milk inside the cottage then draped the seed bag over her head. She was almost to the horse’s stall when she heard shouts and screams a short distance away. On tiptoe, she squinted toward the coast. The prow of a ship bore down on the beach. Already men were leaping from it, running to the tiny village with swords raised high above their heads.

  She gasped. "Gaill."

  Ducking into the stable with the animals, she pulled the door closed. It was the only hope she had of avoiding detection. A dash to the cottage would only bring their attention her way.

  She’d heard tales of these pirates from the north. They wantonly slashed and burned their way through villages, taking what they wanted and killing anyone who would stand in their way. They took innocent folk as slaves and raped women. It was even said they ate babies.

  Gillian sucked in her fear and crouched at the head of her cow’s stall. The cries of her village people grew closer as the hoard of raiders overtook them. Women and children screamed. Terrified footsteps pounded a retreat past Gillian’s stable. Then she heard Evan shout, his voice still slurred from sleep and drink.

  "What do ya think yer doin’? That barrel of ale belongs to me!"

  Gillian buried her head in her arms. Their lives were being threatened, and Evan was worried about his ale. There was a scuffle, then silence. She refused to think of what fate had befallen her husband - he was no fighter.

  Footsteps crunched on the dirt around the stable. Gillian heard them pause by the door. It creaked open, bathing her and the animals in sunlight. She tried to make herself a smaller target as she stared up at the biggest man she had ever seen. His muscular figure filled the doorway; his sword covered with blood.

  Rollo looked down at the frightened young woman. Her wide blue eyes stared at him like she fully expected death to follow his arrival. How could he explain that he meant her no harm? That he had killed her husband to defend himself? He took a step toward her.

  "Do not eat my babe," she said.

  Rollo glanced at the belly as big as she was. "I only want the animals." He sheathed his sword and reached for the harnesses.

  Gillian struggled to her feet. "You cannot. How can I survive? You killed my husband, did you not?"

  Rollo nodded. "He came at me with a sickle." He pointed to the chickens. "Put them in their cages and bring them along."

  Panic pressed Gillian against the stall. "Are you capturing me too, then?"

  "I only mean to see you cared for. I killed your man. I will not see you starve because of it. You will come with me...willing or not. Not might hurt the babe."

  Gillian’s fear doubled. He was threatening her. Unconsciously she caressed the child within her. If slavery meant her baby’s survival, what choice did she have? Alone, with no means of support, they would surely starve.

  "You will not harm my child?" she asked, trying to keep the shiver from her voice.

  "You and the babe will
not be harmed."

  How good was the word of a people who stole and killed? How long would she and her baby survive if she fought him?

  She gauged his might and began to quiver. With one hand he could strike her down and do as he wished. Or she could follow as bidden and pray her acquiescence would gain her some favor.

  "Well?"

  Gillian gave a single nod. It took her only a minute to find the twig and leather cage that had been used when she bought her six chickens. It was where she had placed it the year before for safe-keeping. It took a little longer to load the fluttering mass of feathers. When she was done, she tilted her chin at the huge Northerner, forcing a show of bravery she did not feel.

  "To the ship," Rollo said.

  She walked out the door with the chickens, and he followed with her horse and cow.

  Gillian stole a glance to where Evan’s body lay face down in the sparse sod. He had run outside in only his breeches - no shirt, no shoes - all to save a barrel of ale that didn’t exist. He had drunk it the month before. His back was pooled with blood from the Northerner’s fatal wound. The sickle he had brandished lay by his side.

  Drunken fool.

  It didn’t occur to her to grieve. There was no emotional bond to wound her heart, not like there had been when her mother and father passed on. Her mind said, "What a pity," then her thoughts moved on to more incongruous things such as the pail of milk left in the cottage and the bag of seeds around her neck.

  She had never been more frightened, there was no doubt of that. So much so she couldn’t ask the towering giant next to her if she might retrieve her clothing or the things she had for the baby from the cottage. She fixed her gaze on the ship before her while her footsteps echoed the pounding of her heart.

  Two Gaill men caught her attention. Both were bearded as was the man beside her. The first, dark and scowling, marched male captives up the ramp. Twelve in all, single, young, strong. Gillian recognized eleven as Evan’s drinking companions. The twelfth was a novice monk, Seamus. She was grateful no fathers or husbands were among them.

  The second man stood at the prow, surveying the scene before him. Gillian was too far away to see his features, but his stalwart stance identified him as a leader of men. He wore no helmet, only a headband to keep his shoulder length, blond hair secure from the wind.

  He was powerfully built, his shoulders filled the tunic he wore. A red cloak was tossed back over those shoulders, and every so often it flared like a banner in the breeze.

  A woman stepped up beside him - a smaller, feminine version of himself. Wife? Sister? It was difficult to know.

  "Hasten, man!" the dark haired man yelled at her captor. Then he chortled. "If you were going to find a bride, you could have found one less used, Rollo."

  Gillian looked up at her captor’s impassive features, questioning him with her eyes.

  "Do not worry," he assured her. "All is well. Have a care on the ramp. ‘Tis a little steep."

  She juggled the caged chickens to her left hand, and lifted her skirts with her right. A steadying hand grasped her elbow and took the cage. Gillian looked up, expecting to see Rollo. Instead, she found eyes the color of the forest looking back at her.

  "Easy up. Freyda will settle you." He indicated the woman Gillian had seen by his side. She stood at the top of the ramp waiting for them.

  Gillian accepted the help offered, surprised at their consideration of her when she was to be nothing more than a slave.

  "Rollo, I should like the tale that goes with this lady’s presence. Freyda, see she is comfortable."

  The woman smiled and offered her hands in greeting. "By what name may I call you?"

  "Gillian, daughter of Conor and Gwynneth." Again she was being treated more as an honored guest than as a slave. Cautious of trickery, she held her tongue.

  While the leader and Rollo put her animals in the hold and set the chickens aside, Freyda led her to a row of skin bags lined with furs.

  "This is where I sleep with my son, my brother, and Rollo. You will be warm and dry for our journey," she told her.

  A young red-headed boy smiled at her. "I am Erik."

  "And your brother?" Gillian asked Freyda.

  "He is Andor," she replied.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Iceland."

  Gillian eased down onto a pile of skins. She had heard tales of that place also. Fertile, green land. Mountains that smoked yet were topped with ice. But if barbarians could be respectful despite the stories she’d been told, perhaps Iceland’s tales were also false. She swallowed the tears that threatened to choke her and prayed for the strength to keep her wits about her.

  Andor listened to Rollo tell of his murder of the young woman’s husband. It was not uncommon for him to take her in. As a boy, Rollo had once killed a nursing doe. The guilt so overwhelmed him, he sought out the fawn and raised it on his own. Rollo’s problem now was what to do with her now that he had her. He had no need of a slave girl and no desire to wed.

  Andor watched her as they rowed out to sea. She stared around her with those ocean blue eyes of hers wide and fearful. Eat her babe - where would she get a thought such as that?

  By Freyda’s reckoning, she was not long from delivering. They had until that time to prove that she and her child would come to no harm with them. But what to do with her?

  He did not like the idea of having her as a slave, yet there was no question of her being cast aside. Andor supposed she could simply join his strange household of widowed people and one very gentle man.

  He watched Leif saunter toward them, a smirk upon his lips. Andor knew he meant to tease Rollo. Although such jibes normally did not bother the younger man, this time Andor was sensitive to the emotional devastation Rollo was dealing with. Despite the fact he had merely been defending himself, Rollo would never forgive himself for what he deemed a senseless killing.

  Leif pounded Rollo’s back with an open palm. It had little effect on the burly blacksmith.

  "Shall we prepare the bridal ale?" Leif asked with a hearty chuckle.

  "Leave him be," Andor said. "She is not to be his bride."

  Leif rubbed his pointed beard as he studied Rollo. "If ‘twas a slave girl you wanted then, why not pick one not so big with child?"

  Andor stood between the two. "I said leave him be."

  Leif bowed his head in mock acquiescence before he turned away. His dark eyes rested on the red-haired beauty sitting where Freyda had put her. Andor had no trouble reading his expression. If she were a slave and not yet claimed, she was fair game for any man.

  Gillian did not miss the gleam in the dark man’s eyes as he walked toward her, and knew his intent was not to be courteous. His long, skinny legs closed the distance between them too fast for Gillian’s liking. She scrambled to her feet and dashed for the rail. Better to drown in the sea than to have the ugly Gaill violate her.

  Leif jumped forward and snagged her arm. Gillian swung wildly with her free hand, clipping his chin. His expression changed from one of humorous victory to utter rage. With jaw clenched in fury, he raised his arm.

  Andor caught his wrist in a bone-crushing grip. "I cannot say how you treat your wife, but this woman you will not beat." He threw Leif’s arm away from him, and pulled Gillian behind his protective stance and into Freyda’s open arms.

  "She is a slave girl," Leif said. "You said no claim has been made of her."

  "I said Rollo makes no claim. I did not say I did not."

  "And what might be this claim?" Leif demanded to know.

  "I claim her as wife."

  "By what right?"

  Andor remained calm. "‘Twas your wife who caused me to lose my wife and child. This woman is adequate compensation for that unpardonable loss." Leif would not dare argue with that logic. He turned to the woman behind him. "Gillian, daughter of Conor and Gwynneth, what say you? My wife has passed to the other world. Iceland can be an unforgiving land for one alone. Will you be the keeper of the keys t
o my properties and partner me?"

  Gillian looked from Andor to Leif and back again. Honorable marriage to one, enslavement to the other. As with her decision to go with Rollo, there seemed little choice. At least Andor had done the unheard of by asking her preference, and he and his had been kind to her...so far. She had endured her life with Evan - it could be no worse with Andor. And it was not the first time Gaill had married Gaedhil.

  "Marriage to you."

  There was a flicker of a smile on Andor’s lips before he turned to Rollo. "You took her in. I look upon you as guardian. What bride-price do you place on this woman?"

  A crowd had gathered around. Rollo could not answer. Gillian’s standing among his people would be reflected by the price he asked for her. Too low would be an insult, too high might anger Andor.

  "Let me offer a bride-price then," Andor said.

  Rollo gave a single nod.

  In a voice loud enough for all to hear, Andor said, "I offer forty ounces of silver and one-quarter of my land."

  There was a collective gasp, followed by the low hum of murmuring. The significance was not lost on Gillian - Rollo had just become an independent man.

  "Do you agree?" Andor extended his hand to Rollo.

  With a broad smile, the other man accepted. A handshake sealed the betrothal.

  "She comes to you with a fine dowry," Rollo said. "Six chickens, a milch cow, a fine plow horse, and enough seed to plant your land thrice over."

  He removed the bag from around Gillian’s shoulders and passed it to Andor. So much had happened since she boarded the ship, she had forgotten she had it. Andor walked to a large wooden chest in his sleeping area. He unlocked it and removed a small, gold-festooned box which he also unlocked. Gillian heard coins clink as he measured out a portion into a pouch. Once he was done, the box and chest were relocked, and he returned to them.

  "‘Tis with great honor I pay this bride-price." Andor presented the pouch to Rollo.

  Rollo bowed his head slightly to show his respect then handed the pouch to Gillian.