“Then let me come with you,” Madoc countered. “The night wood is no place for a young woman alone.”
“Have you forgotten my heritage?” she asked, now inspecting the yard. “I can run these hills and forests as good as any man.” She shook her head. “Nay, Madoc. I must go by myself.”
“Once you reach your uncle’s, stay there and do not return. This one is far more astute than was Sir Goddard. If he learns the truth—”
Alana’s fingers fell over Madoc’s lips. “I have to return. Whether Henry says otherwise or not, this land is my inheritance. It belongs to me and to you and to all the Welsh who dwell here. I’ll not desert what is mine. Nor will I leave my friends to fend for themselves against these dogs.” She again glanced at the yard to see no one was about. “I’ll be back before dawn.”
Before Madoc could issue another protest, Alana was out the door, heading for the side gate. The sky was cloudy, masking the moon’s glow. The better for her, she thought, knowing her trained eye could see twice as far in the dark as any Norman’s. The air smelled of rain. She prayed the skies didn’t open until she’d crossed the river and was back.
Rhys—she had to get to him so she could warn him and her cousins that Sir Goddard was no longer at the fortress. The knight had been lax, mainly because he continually kept his face in his cup. But his replacement was every bit the warrior that Sir Goddard had failed to be. Paxton de Beaumont, along with his men, as well as the twenty others he’d chosen to stay, could fend off her countrymen with ease, no matter how large their numbers.
Not that Rhys planned to attack, but she must apprise him to stay on the opposite side of the river, far from the stronghold which overlooked the valley and the heavy wood. They could no longer meet as they once had, as they planned to do tonight. The risk was far too great.
On silent feet, Alana traveled from the sheltering shadows of one building to the next. Halfway along the side of the last structure, she spied the gate. Seeing no one guarded the outlet, she broke into a run. Just as she cleared the building, a hand snagged her arm, pulling her up short. Though she nearly screamed at full voice from the sudden scare, a soft cry was all that escaped her lips. She stared at the man who had grabbed her….
Paxton de Beaumont.
“What are you doing?” she asked, attempting to shake from his hold.
“It would seem that is my question to you.” He looked at the gate, then back at her. “Where were you planning to be off to at such a late hour? Does your lover wait for you in the wood?”
Glaring up at the tall knight, Alana clenched her jaw. Hardly. She’d die before she lay with a man again. Yet, considering the strange feelings that Paxton had evoked in her earlier, she wondered if that were true.
“I was going to Gilbert’s grave,” she said, dismissing the last of her mind’s meanderings as pure nonsense.
“His what?”
“His grave,” she lashed back. “It lies just beyond this gate, in a clearing, in the wood. Sir Goddard would not allow me to leave the fortress. So, at night, when he’d fallen drunk on his pallet, I would make my way to Gilbert’s resting place to offer a prayer for his soul.”
Paxton remained silent for such a long time Alana feared he didn’t believe her. The tension drained from her when he said, “I’m not Sir Goddard. It is best you remember that. When the sun has risen, we shall both go to Gilbert’s grave, so I may offer a prayer for him as well. For now, you will return to the hall. To make certain you do, I will accompany you.”
As she was escorted back the same way she’d come, Alana thought of her uncle. Somehow she had to get word to him.
Madoc, she decided, certain, from now on, she’d be constantly watched.
Not Madoc, she concluded, knowing Paxton de Beaumont was too clever by far. Someone else would have to take the message. Someone he’d not suspect.
Maybe Aldwyn.
No. He’d lost far too much as it was. She couldn’t chance that he’d next lose his life. Even so, Rhys had to be warned.
They halted outside the doors to the hall. Alana waited for Paxton to release her arm. But he held her fast. “Is there something else you wanted?” she inquired at long last.
“A truthful answer from you.”
Alana lifted her chin. “What is the question?”
“Did Gilbert drown? Or did you murder him?”
CHAPTER
3
Angry silence was Paxton’s reward.
Torches blazed in their holders, illuminating the courtyard at strategic points throughout. But no light shone at the spot where they stood, and Alana’s eyes lay in shadow. Nevertheless, he felt her irate stare… a stare that threatened to cleave him in two.
Seconds passed, the question of whether or not she had murdered Gilbert hanging between them like a razor-sharp sword. At last he heard her indrawn breath.
“If you wish to name me as the cause of Gilbert’s death, you are welcome to do so. Had I not taken that fateful plunge, the river sweeping me along in its eddy, he might be alive today. Instead he lies in his grave… pulled from the same waters that nearly ended my own life. I did not force him to do what he did. He made the choice himself. So blame me if you will. Sir Goddard certainly does. Why should I hope it would be any different with you?”
Paxton’s fingers tightened around her arm when she strove to break free from his hold. “Because I am not Sir Goddard,” he replied sharply.
“Given the nature of your question, you couldn’t prove it by me,” she snapped, still resisting his grip. “If you do not believe my accounting of the events, ask your counterparts what transpired that day. Ask them what they saw when they found my husband’s body and brought it back to the fortress.”
“I have.”
Her fruitless struggles ceased. “And?”
“They saw nothing that would indicate Gilbert’s death was anything other than a drowning,” he admitted, relaxing his hold somewhat.
“Yet you choose not to believe them. Why?”
Paxton was unable to answer her query. What was he to say? Though he lacked the needed proof, instinct told him she murdered Gilbert? Or, at the very least, had some sort of involvement in the deed?
Such an argument would be given little credence when set before his king. But Henry apparently shared the same intrinsic feelings as did Paxton. Gilbert had died. The question was how.
“You, sir, have prejudged me,” she announced when he stayed quiet for too long. “And you’ve done so for no other reason than because I am Welsh.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I? Had Gilbert been married to a woman of Norman blood would you be asking the same question of her?”
Paxton again held his reply, her query stirring around inside his mind. Was she right? If Alana had been Norman and not Welsh would the question ever have been asked?
“You claim not to be anything like Sir Goddard,” she said. “But I say you are. The two of you are a perfect match, especially in way of your prejudices.”
Her words hit him like a wave of cold water. He wanted to deny her accusation, to deny he held any bias against her ilk, but he couldn’t. In truth, he’d deemed her guilty, had done so before he’d ever set eyes on her. The motive, he now realized, was indeed her heritage.
He breathed deeply. “I withdraw the question. Likewise, I apologize for having asked it. But, as you are currently aware, I’m having great difficulty believing Gilbert drowned. He was an expert swimmer… in fact, he was the one who taught the skill to me.”
“That day his ability was not enough,” she said. “We had experienced a heavy rainfall the night before, far heavier than usual. The current was exceptionally swift, the river churning like a boiling caldron. I didn’t see Gilbert come in after me. Once I hit the water, I was far too busy struggling to keep my own head above the surface as I was being swept downriver. I was terrified, certain I would die. My lungs felt as though they might burst. Had it not been for a tree limb stretching a
cross my path, which I somehow caught hold of, I wouldn’t have survived. Luck was with me. Gilbert, however, did not share in the same good fortune as I.”
Paxton noted how she trembled under his grasp, how her voice quavered when she related the incident. She’d been reliving the horror of that day, the horror of losing her husband, the horror of almost forfeiting her own life. His heart lurched, compassion filling him.
Releasing her arm, he raised his hand and touched her face to find it was wet with her tears. “Put your misery to rest, milady, and think of that day no more. The hour grows quite late. It is time you retire. Tomorrow, as promised, we will visit Gilbert’s grave. Till then I bid you good night.”
“Tomorrow,” she whispered. Turning, she hurried into the hall.
Once the door had closed behind her, Paxton expelled his breath.
The moisture from her cheek yet clung to his fingertips. Tears of grief. Or were they feigned?
Though he tried, he couldn’t seem to rid himself of his suspicion. Part of the reason, he acknowledged, had to do with her being Welsh.
The wind ruffled his hair, and the first driblets of rain struck his shoulders and splattered the ground. His gaze remaining fixed to the door, Paxton ignored nature’s own tears. Rather he sought to calm his thoughts and clear his mind.
Until tonight, he hadn’t known the extent of his prejudices, perhaps because he was unaware that he harbored any. He was not alone though. Intolerance was a shortcoming of all humanity. Unfortunate but true.
Lost in a self-examination over his feelings about Alana and her race the rain pelted him with force, but he felt not a drop. He was soaked to the skin when he was able to at last concede that, in itself, her heritage was inconsequential. She deserved to be judged solely on her character. This he understood.
Yet…
Paxton whirled around and stalked through the growing puddles toward the garrison.
His mental study had been for naught. Whether it had to do with her being Welsh or, more likely, because of some innate sensation that kept twisting at his gut, his skepticism about Gilbert’s widow refused to subside.
A tragedy or vile treachery—which was it?
Paxton knew he’d not rest until the answer was made clear.
New growth sprouted from the forest floor, peeking up and around the decaying leaves littering the damp ground. Tree limbs waved at a canopy of puffy white clouds and patches of blue sky, a cool breeze stirring through their tops. Undulating mists rose from the turbulent river below, the ethereal vapors disintegrating into nothingness once they met the sun’s rays. The air smelled fresh, invigorating, cleansed from the night’s heavy rain.
In the center of the small clearing, Alana gazed down on Paxton’s bowed head. He knelt on one knee beside Gilbert’s grave, his eyes closed in reverent prayer.
While Alana stood behind him, she was busy offering up silent prayers of her own. Whereas Paxton’s were for Gilbert’s soul, hers were for herself in way of thanksgiving.
Between lauding every saint that came to mind, she wondered what she would have done if Paxton had not stopped her near the gate, but had instead followed her into the wood and across the river, to see her meeting with Rhys. She imagined him lurking behind a tree, listening to every word, discovering the truth about her deception. Would he have slain them then and there?
Alana silently extended special praise to St. David, the patron saint of all Wales, leader against the Saxons, and she hoped, her own personal protector against Paxton de Beaumont and all his kind.
Staring down at the elongated patch of earth that Father Jevon, at Paxton’s request, had sanctified earlier—a mass being said also—she was more than certain that if St. David hadn’t been watching over her last night she’d now be lying in a newly prepared grave, Gilbert’s death avenged.
Rhys—she had to get word to him.
Listening to the rush of water as it swelled over the rocks and crashed against the boulders lining the river below, she knew it would be several days before anyone could safely cross to the other side.
Unknowingly she chewed her lower lip as she fretted.
With her not having showed at their appointed meeting place, Alana was aware her uncle would be worried. Though thwarted in her endeavor, she was glad she hadn’t been able to traverse the river. She’d not have gotten back if she had. She just prayed Rhys wasn’t foolish enough to come looking for her, nor that he would attempt to cross the cataclysm himself.
A twig snapped underfoot. Alana gasped when she felt a hand on her arm. Blinking, she saw Paxton standing before her. She was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t seen him rise. He stared down at her, his face somber.
“I spoke to you, several times,” he said, “but you were far away. I presume you were again thinking about that day.”
She looked to the grave and its carved stone marker. Praying God would not smite her for her deceit, she beckoned forth false tears. “Whenever I come here I always think about that day.” She raised her chin, allowing Paxton to see the shimmer in her eyes. “How could I not?”
“Your grief is understandable. But you must not allow yourself to dwell on the incident. To do so will only make you ill.”
Alana was amazed when his thumb brushed against her cheek. His touch was tender yet brief, much as it had been the night before. And like last night, she found she was again affected by his sympathetic ministrations, more than she wished to admit.
Her heart fluttered erratically; her face suddenly felt flushed; oddly, she was left breathless. Never had a man made her feel this way.
Taking command of her emotions, she decried the strange responses he always managed to evoke. She hadn’t wanted to think about their effects last night, and she certainly didn’t want to think about them now.
He pulled his hand from her face to gaze at the tear on the tip of his thumb. Then his hand fell to his side. “I thank you for bringing me here and allowing me the opportunity to say farewell to Gilbert.”
“It was kind of you to offer a prayer for him,” she countered, hoping he hadn’t detected the differences in her physical demeanor. “I know he would be gladdened that you thought so highly of him.” She paused, then approached the one subject that had been needling her since his arrival. “Gilbert had mentioned your name several times with affection, but I don’t know much about your friendship or how it is the two of you had met. I’d very much like to learn these things, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
He chuckled. “I doubt he mentioned me with ‘affection,’ considering how competitive we were. Despite our rivalry, we did become good friends.
“As for how we met, Gilbert and I were first pages, then squires at the house of Varaville in Normandy. We learned our skills there, while serving both a father and a son. Eventually we squired for different knights before we finally earned a pair of golden spurs of our own.
“The last time I saw Gilbert was five years ago, prior to my being called to service at Cartbridge Castle, north of Derby in England. I visited him at Chester, where he was under the command of Earl Ranulf. I was gladdened to see him well and happy.” He inclined his head. “Now that I’ve told you what you wanted to know, I’d like to hear the same from you. How was it that you met Gilbert?”
“I was here when he and his men arrived.”
He arched his brow; disbelief showed on his face. “What ho! Are you saying you’d usurped Henry’s own castle?”
“Henry was not king then. ’Twas Stephen who ruled England. But nay. This land was my father’s. Because of the conflict, first between Stephen and Matilda, then between Stephen and Henry, the fortress had long since been abandoned. Instead of destroying it, we utilized it for ourselves. When my father died, all this became mine.”
“As I say, you appropriated the castle from Henry.”
Alana bristled. “How can someone appropriate something when it already belongs to him? You Normans are all alike: arrogant and greedy. You’re never satisfied w
ith what you have, perpetually wanting and taking more. Did it ever occur to you that you’re not welcome here?”
“Aye, it has occurred. Nevertheless we are here, and here we shall stay.”
Alana noticed they were practically nose-to-nose. Not exactly a favorable position to be in, she concluded, then pulled back a step. Her anger, however, did not subside. “Henry’s interference here may one day meet with defeat, then you’ll all be sent packing. But this talk about your king is inconsequential. It was Earl Ranulf who sent Gilbert here, for he was the one who had claimed this land. And like Gilbert, he is now dead.”
“Which brings us back to Henry,” Paxton stated. “Since Ranulf’s heir, Hugh, the current earl of Chester, is but ten years old and cannot possibly defend any of his holdings with either his wit or his sword, Henry has taken it upon himself to act in the boy’s stead. Hence my own presence here.”
Alana couldn’t refute his argument. Earl Hugh was only six when his father died—poisoned, it was said, by William Peveril, who was angered because his lands had been given to Ranulf by charter from Henry.
When the news of Ranulf’s death eventually reached the remote castle, Gilbert had worried over whether any rebellious Welsh from outlying areas would spawn an attack against them. Earl Hugh, because of his age, was unable to command, and Henry had not yet ascended to England’s throne, while King Stephen’s rule was as lax as ever when it came to his holdings in Wales.
In the end, Gilbert’s unease had been for naught, for no such aggression ever came. But much of northern Wales did see an upsurge of violence as Owain Gwynedd was spurred to action, his quest to reclaim his homeland from the Normans continuing unto this day.
“Have you no response?” Paxton inquired, for she’d been quiet way too long.
Alana met his gaze. “Nay. ’Tis as you say. The castle is Henry’s.”
She didn’t believe that one whit, but had conceded such simply to appease him. She’d allowed her anger to be fueled, which helped her cause not at all. The more vocal she became about who owned this land, the more his suspicions would rise. It would be better for her to remain docile, for everyone’s sake.
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