A candle burned late into the night.
Twisting and turning, the tiny fire ebbed and spat on its wick, as though it were gasping for its last breath, but Alana paid the dying flame no heed.
Secured in her chamber, she stared through her open window at the countless twinkling gems scattered across a midnight blue sky, wishing she were high among them.
If not up there with the stars, then someplace else… someplace far away, someplace where she was safe and free from worry. Anyplace but here, she thought.
Briefly she prayed that this night would linger forever, for she lived in dread of what was to come on the morrow. But she knew that was impossible. As it had done in ages past, the sun would top the horizon once again. But this time, the dawn would mark the fulfillment of Paxton’s promise and the commencement of her own misery.
Not that long ago, sunset had signaled the end of the fourth day. Though her hopes were now dashed, Alana had always trusted that the group would return. But with the coming of twilight, the reality that something terrible must have happened to Sir Graham, to his two companions, to Madoc, and to the two dozen Welsh who’d accompanied them to Offa’s Dyke became ever so clear, not only to her but to Paxton as well.
Shortly after dusk, he’d approached her in the hall. The tension inside him was evident. His frown had deepened as had the lines near his mouth. His whole body was unnaturally taut. But where she thought she’d see anger in his eyes, she instead saw remorse. With him, he carried a hastily sewn gown made of sackcloth.
“Tomorrow, when you rise, you’ll don this and naught else,” he’d said, shoving the makeshift piece of clothing into her hands. “Not long after sunrise, you’ll be taken to the yard for your punishment.”
“And what is my punishment?” she’d asked.
“Flogging… ten lashes and no less.”
Alana remembered how her heart had lurched at hearing those words. Apparently she’d paled also. Likewise she’d been unable to mask her fear.
None of this was lost on Paxton, for he’d taken a step closer to her. “I shall try to go easy on you. Even so, I know you will suffer. The edict was given, and I have no choice but to follow through on my promise. You know this, don’t you?”
“Aye,” she’d responded, then squared her shoulders. “I assume, then, it is you who will be administering my punishment.”
“It will.”
“Then so be it.”
At that, Alana had moved away from him, carrying the sackcloth with her.
The shabby creation presently lay next to the waning candle on the table that stood behind her. With one last bright flicker, the flame died, leaving her in darkness.
Staring at the stars, their brilliance appearing to have increased tenfold, Alana admitted she was afraid. But above her fear for herself was her concern for the men who were her kin, for Sir Graham and his comrades, and certainly for Madoc, her trusted friend.
Had Rhys intentionally ignored her message to him? Or had her directive gotten to him too late? If he had slain the knights, her people too, why hadn’t he tried to get word to her? Surely Dylan would have come. But then she’d ordered him to stay across the river. And if Rhys hadn’t attacked the small company, was it possible they had still fallen, perhaps by the hand of the Welsh prince, Owain Gwynedd?
Myriad questions abounded in her mind, but one stood at the fore: Where were they?
In the courtyard below, Paxton was wondering almost the same thing as Alana.
What was the delay? Where were they? Damnation! Were they all dead?
From the shadows, he’d been watching Alana at her window, saw the candle flame flicker and die.
With darkness masking her, he sank to the bench that he’d moved outside the garrison’s door and took up the whip with its dozen yard-long braided leather strands, their ends knotted. Next he grasped the container that sat beside him. Aided by the residual light from the torches scattered throughout the yard, he stared at the memento, a last remembrance from his father.
His fingers ran the surface of the solid gold flask which was encrusted with jewels. Inside was a precious perfumed oil. Both were said to have come from Persia. Mayhew de Beaumont had procured the treasure on his way to Jerusalem. When a close friend and fellow knight was to return to Normandy because of a recurring fever, Paxton’s father had sent the gift, along with several other valuable articles, ahead with the man.
From the time he’d received the keepsake from his mother, shortly after his father’s death, Paxton had kept it close to him. Tonight, he’d use the flask’s contents for the first time.
Pouring some oil into his hand, he worked the lubricant into the ends of each strand of the whip in an attempt to soften the leather. For Alana’s sake, he hoped his efforts took the bite away and left her skin unbroken. But he feared his pains would only slightly lessen the severity of her wounds. No doubt, there would still be scars.
The concept angered Paxton, for he was thinking of Alana’s uncle. If the man was the cause of the group’s not showing up, if Rhys was knowingly allowing Alana to be punished because of his own bloodlust, Paxton swore he’d take revenge on the bastard. Whether they were three hundred, five hundred, or a thousand strong, he’d have his due. This he swore.
As he kept to his task, he glanced at the darkened window, wondering if Alana was yet at its opening.
In battle, he’d felled some of the fiercest opponents, but in all his life he’d never so much as raised a hand to a woman.
Could he?
The question plagued him, had done so from the moment he’d given his edict. But tonight it did so with a vengeance.
His extra efforts aside, one thing was certain. After tomorrow, should Gilbert’s death be proved an accident, and if Paxton were to ask for Alana’s hand in marriage, she’d refuse him. Not even Henry could force the issue. Her hatred would be too strong. And so would her kin’s.
The offer his king had made him was doubtlessly lost to him. Just the same, he had to stand by his word. Alana’s punishment would go forth.
He had no choice.
But did he have the nerve?
The answer, Paxton knew, would come shortly past sunrise on the morrow.
His robes slapping against his legs, Father Jevon skipped alongside Alana as she was escorted from the hall by two of Paxton’s men.
“Are you certain, my child, that you don’t wish to make a confession before you are taken to the post and bound? Even God’s blessing may ease your pain in this time of trial and tribulation.”
The priest had been haranguing at her about her immortal soul from the time she’d been taken from her chamber to the present, and Alana was fast becoming annoyed. It was as though he expected her to die from the beating. If her wounds festered, she knew it was possible.
Once again, as it seemed wont to do from the instant she’d awakened just before dawn, her fear rose inside her. Quickly, she tamped it down, allowing her anger to take precedence. Her indignation and rage would serve as her mainstay. It was the only way she’d get through this.
Her gaze pinpointed the thin man whose complexion was so pallid that he appeared next to death himself. “I have nothing to confess,” she lied. “As for a blessing, bestow it on your Norman brethren. They are the ones who will need it once this is all said and done.”
Father Jevon ignored her words. A litany of Latin flowed from his lips as his hand waved in the air, in the sign of a cross.
Alana barely heard his utterances, for her attention was on the crowd that had gathered.
Her people stood around the yard’s perimeter. Eyes glistened with tears in faces of stone. Anger churned beneath the surface of the Welsh who looked on. Aldwyn was also there, his face nearly as pale as the priest’s. With their swords drawn, Paxton’s men acted as a barrier between her kinsmen and herself, ready to fell any man, woman, or child who broke past their ranks.
Alana’s gaze jumped to Paxton, who was positioned near the whipping post that
had been erected in the center of the yard a short while ago, the implement of punishment clutched in his hand. His expression was unreadable.
Didn’t he realize the depth of her kinfolks’ animosity nor the path their enmity would take once the whip struck?
Alana understood fully the outcome, and her fear leapt to the fore once more.
A bloodbath, she thought. And the carnage would befall Welsh and Norman alike.
Paxton would, in all likelihood, be the first one slain, her people’s fury driving them in aggregate straight at him. If any of her kinsmen were lucky enough to survive, they would then suffer the full potency of Henry’s wrath, which would be an awesome thing indeed.
Whether now or later, Alana couldn’t allow her kinfolk to be slaughtered. Nor could she abide the thought of seeing Paxton torn limb from limb.
To prevent these things from happening, she had to impress on all those concerned that she wasn’t afraid, then she had to brave her punishment without flinching, without crying out. A monumental task, she knew. Yet, should she show the least little sign of distress, the result would be chaos.
Knowing she lacked the superior strength that was needed to accomplish her aims, Alana accepted Father Jevon’s blessing, then uttered a prayer of her own. Soon she found herself beside the whipping post, staring Paxton in the face.
“Are you ready?” he inquired flatly.
“As ready as I will ever be,” Alana said. “Are you ready?”
He didn’t respond but nodded at the two men who had accompanied her from the hall. Taking her arms, they turned her toward the post and bound each wrist with strips of leather to the cross beam. The two men then stepped away.
Looking over her shoulder, Alana saw Paxton had moved close behind her. His hands were then high on her back. She swallowed hard as he rent the sackcloth down past her waist. The cool morning air coursed across her bare flesh when he spread the torn cloth wide; she shivered.
Alana’s heart thundered wildly, and she said another prayer, waiting for Paxton to step away. Save for his taking the whip from beneath his arm, where he’d tucked it, he kept to his place.
Strained silence was all that either of them could manage. Alana shivered again, for he was so close that she felt his breath fan across the top of her uncovered head, its warmth trailing down her exposed back.
Oh, misery of miseries, why was he prolonging the act?
As Father Jevon droned on and on with his litany, she drew a steadying breath and gathered her courage. “Be on with the deed,” she commanded. “Or has our new overlord lost his mettle?”
The question dangled between them.
Her tone was purposely berating, and Paxton understood her intent was to prod him into fulfilling his promise to punish her. He was the first to admit his spirit wasn’t in this. How could whipping her change the fate of Graham and the others? It wouldn’t.
Yet something had occurred to him while he’d watched her walk from the hall to the post, something that hadn’t come to mind previously. What if the message she’d sent via Aldwyn to Rhys was not designed to warn her uncle against attacking the group but was meant to spur him on instead?
If that were so, he’d be justified in chastening her.
But he didn’t know if what he’d conjectured held any credence whatsoever.
“I thought Normans prided themselves on not being cowardly. Or are you the exception?”
Alana’s words made Paxton wonder if she were impatient to be abused. “Nay. I simply have no taste for beating a woman.”
“You gave the edict, then announced I’d be punished if the group didn’t return. Will you now forswear your vow?”
“I cannot.”
“Then be done with it,” she said and turned her face to the post.
Paxton stared down on her sable brown hair and the lone braid that trailed along the center of her back. He could delay no more. Taking hold of the braid, which was like silk to the touch, he tucked it over her shoulder, then stood aside.
Untamed emotion rioted through him as he shook loose the whip’s softened tentacles. His gaze swept the area. Spying the look of hatred in the myriad of Welsh eyes that were firmly fixed upon him, he clenched his jaw. He understood their hostility, for he felt it himself. He detested what he was about to do to her, loathed himself for doing it. But it had to be done.
Slowly, he looked to Alana’s smooth back. His hand gripped the whip’s leather swathed handle until his knuckles whitened under the force.
Ten lashes and her flawless skin would be forever scarred.
He drew back his arm, and there it stalled.
A curse exploded through his lips.
The whip was falling from his hand when the shout sounded from the gate tower.
To Paxton’s utter relief, the cry announced the group’s return.
CHAPTER
8
“What the hell delayed you?”
Graham had ridden through the gates before the others and had just dismounted from his steed when Paxton’s words attacked him. He was clearly stunned by the hostile greeting.
“’Twas the Lady Alana’s cousin,” he replied, his eyes gauging Paxton with care. “We came upon her attendants and her yesterday, well past noontide. The cart carrying her coffers and other belongings had lost a wheel and couldn’t be repaired. By the time we made litters to transport the lot, dark was nearly on us. In lieu of risking another mishap, we camped for the night.” He looked around Paxton’s shoulder. “What goes on here?”
Behind Paxton, and at his instructions, Alana was being loosened from the post by the two soldiers who had escorted her from the hall. “If you’ll recall, I gave you three days in which to return from your expedition, else the Lady Alana would be punished for what would be conceived as your demise. I even allowed you an extra day to make certain I didn’t act without cause. This marks the morning of the fifth day, Graham. I nearly striped her back because I thought you were dead.”
“I can see that,” the knight stated, his tone contrite.
“Then explain your need for the additional day,” Paxton demanded, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“I had trouble convincing those at Chester that they should incarcerate Sir Goddard and hold him until further notice. When sober, he is quite eloquent. In fact, he gave a rather credible impression of his being a worthy knight who’d been accused wrongly. It became a matter of my word against his. Hence it took me an added day to make everyone see that not all is as it appears.”
“How did you accomplish the deed?”
“I didn’t do a thing. Sir Goddard once again fell into his cups. He sealed his own fate. He now sits in the castle dungeon with naught but water to slake his thirst.”
Paxton glanced over his shoulder at Alana to see she was rubbing her wrists. “Graham, I could throttle you,” he said, turning back to the knight. “Believe me, had Alana felt the force of the whip, you’d now be gasping for air. You knew you were a day late. Why then did you stop to help this cousin of hers? At the very least, you could have left some of the men behind, while you and the rest came on ahead.”
Graham looked at his feet. “Regrettably, I didn’t think.”
“You’re damned right you didn’t think!” Paxton blasted. “As long as I’ve known you, you have never been remiss in your duty. I cannot imagine what would cause you to behave…”
Paxton’s words faded as he caught sight of the young woman who was now riding out from under the shadows of the gate tower.
“Arresting, isn’t she?” Graham asked.
Indeed she was, Paxton conceded in silence. In fact, he was awestruck by her beauty, which even he had to admit surpassed Alana’s notable fairness. Considering this, he nearly forgave Graham for his negligence.
Nearly was the most that Paxton could offer his friend.
As knights, both he and Graham had sworn an oath, pledging always that their duty would come first. Thus, no woman, no matter how lovely she was
, should be afforded the power to distract either of them from fulfilling their obligations.
If anyone understood this it was Paxton. Yet he’d been indecisive about punishing Alana, so much so that the whip had slipped from his fingers prior to the call proclaiming the group’s return. How then could he fault Graham when in his own way he also had failed?
“Unhand me!”
The sound of Alana’s voice induced Paxton to turn around, whereupon he saw her struggling against the holds of the two men who had freed her from the post.
“Release her,” he commanded.
He was rewarded with a scathing glare, then lifting her chin, she snatched up a handful of her sackcloth gown. “Gwenifer!” she cried as she dashed toward her cousin’s mount.
“Cousin? Is that you? Merciful Lord you look a sight. What is happening here?”
The words flowed from Gwenifer’s lips as she alit from the gelding with help from one of her attendants. She immediately clutched Alana to her.
“Where is this rogue Norman who has replaced Gilbert as your new overlord?” Gwenifer asked on drawing back. She looked around, her gaze stopping not far from Paxton’s foot. “What is that… a whip? Alana, tell me: What is going on here?”
Paxton saw Alana’s mouth open, but before she could respond, her cousin pressed her aside.
“You there!” Gwenifer called, wagging a finger at Paxton. “Are you the one who’s in command here?”
“Watch how she walks,” Graham whispered near Paxton’s ear as Gwenifer moved their way. “An angel cannot be as graceful.”
Paxton marked the fluid movement of her body, especially the sway of her hips. Though they were covered with a fine linen chainse, a tansy-yellow silk bliaud, a bloodred camlet mantle, then atop that a hooded woolen cloak of sapphire blue, she wielded them in a way that was certain to attract a man’s notice.
“Aye, she proceeds with a certain elegance,” Paxton admitted, “but she chatters too much.”
“Mayhap, but her voice is more musical than a harp,” Graham countered on a sigh.
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