Paxton had refused to acknowledge her. Not even so much as a furtive glance came her way. Alana’s misery increased. More and more she felt the outcast. Her dejection deepened. Then she heard Paxton say to Graham, “Watch her. If she vanishes into this tangle of tents and bodies, we’ll never find her.”
At his words, something sparked inside her, which surprised Alana. Locked in her gloom, she thought sadness was the only emotion she could feel. She was wrong. That he would assume she was bent on running had nettled her, for in effect he was calling her a coward.
If her original intent was to escape facing Henry on a charge of murder, she would have cast the blame on Rhys, on her cousins, on anyone who might have seemed a worthwhile suspect. She certainly wouldn’t have incriminated herself by confessing to killing Gilbert.
“You malign me, sir,” she said, her eyes narrowing on Paxton. “I have no fear of confronting Henry, hence there is no reason for me to run.”
His icy blue gaze raked over her. “A fool’s words, fraught with bravado,” he returned. “Had you an ounce of sense, woman, you’d fear facing him, as you damned well should.” He attended Sir Graham. “Keep an eye on her, just in case she suddenly regains her wits and tries to flee. I shall soon return.”
Alana stared after Paxton as he rode off through the camp. Once he disappeared behind some tents, she looked at Gwenifer, who had guided her gelding to the spot where Paxton’s destrier once stood.
“Why is he being so cruel to you?” her cousin asked.
“The obvious reason is my admission to felling Gilbert. Beyond that, Gwenifer, I imagine he now rues the day he ever married me.”
Quick to dismount so that Gwenifer would not see the tears that had gathered in her eyes, Alana wished she could claim the same about Paxton.
Unfortunately, she could not.
A fiery rage roiled inside Paxton unlike any he’d ever known. It was contained only by the mantle of ice encrusting him.
Alana’s deceit was the spark that set the emotion aflame; her continued lies simply added more fuel. But the main source of his fury was the damnable oath he’d taken.
God’s wounds! Why had he ever made such a vow?
Before him sat the large tent that bore Henry’s banner. He reined his destrier to a halt a few yards from it, but instead of dismounting, he kept to the saddle and stared at the canvas monstrosity, pondering what course he should take.
Paxton believed Alana when she’d said Gilbert had shoved her into the river. She was lying, however, about having killed Gilbert herself. The true culprits were Rhys and possibly his sons. Paxton was sure of it. The problem was how to convince Henry of these things without drawing suspicion of a conspiracy.
Alana’s false claim that Gilbert had drowned made her a willing accomplice. The other strike against her was a solid reason as to why Gilbert would want her dead. Unless she could provide such a motive—one more fitting than she imagined her late husband hated her—Paxton feared Henry would dismiss her testimony as to Gilbert’s treachery. Instead his king might see her as a faithless wife who contrived to murder her husband. The results would prove disastrous. Alana would undoubtedly be hanged.
His oath.
Paxton knew he was bound by it. Yet of those who owed their allegiance to Henry and had made the trip to the Chester plains, only Graham knew about Alana’s confession. He could ask his friend to forget what was told him. Certain Graham would comply, Paxton could then return to the fortress with Alana, where together they’d begin their life anew.
Maybe.
There was the subject of trust, which now stood between them. She’d deceived him from the start about Gilbert, had played with his emotions, and had finally convinced him that her late husband had drowned.
She also had run from him on the day of their wedding, intending to go much farther than the ringwork if she could. He understood now it was because she feared he’d discover the truth: Gilbert was murdered.
Yet Paxton couldn’t help but wonder if the affection she’d shown him during all those wondrous days and nights that she’d spent in his arms and in his bed was no more than a ruse actuated so as to keep him off guard until she could flee him again. The possibility was strong, but was it realistic? Was he discrediting her simply because he feared it was true?
Even if the matter of trust could be resolved, there was this affair with the tattered scrap of tunic. Somebody other than one of those whom he suspected were the actual five players in this macabre event was also aware that Gilbert had been murdered. Whoever had placed the evidence on his bed wanted to make certain Alana’s duplicity was exposed. Considering that, Paxton doubted the person would rest until Henry also knew about Alana’s lies.
Who could it be?
One of his own soldiers who had previously been afraid to come forward? One of Alana’s kinsmen who was still angered by their marriage?
Madoc?
Gwenifer?
Aldwyn?
But what would be their purpose?
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Paxton de Beaumont. I thought I saw you ride in alongside the Welsh whore. What brings you here from the back of beyond?”
Recognizing the voice, Paxton looked at its source. “So, the snake has slithered from his hole,” he commented, his gaze narrowing on Sir Goddard. Of all people, the knight was the last he wanted to see. “I shall inform Henry that Chester Castle needs sturdier locks on the cells in its dungeon.”
“Don’t bother,” the man said. “’Twas Henry who set me free.”
“A momentary lapse, I’m sure,” Paxton said as he dismounted.
Sir Goddard blocked Paxton’s path and sneered in his face. “You didn’t have the authority nor the power to keep me imprisoned.”
“It was always Henry’s choice as to what happened to you. ’Twill be my choice, however, if you continue to stand in my way. Move aside before I lose my temper. You felt the effects of it once—or was it twice?” Paxton frowned. “Nay, I believe it was at least a half dozen times my fist met your face, all totaled. If you don’t want it to do so again, I suggest you make haste and depart.”
Sir Goddard stepped from Paxton’s path. “Whatever the great overlord wishes,” he jeered.
Already leading his destrier toward the tent, Paxton paid the man’s parting words little heed. He handed the reins off to one of the sentries, while he announced himself to another. The man ducked beneath the open flap into the tent. A bit later, he returned, bidding Paxton entry.
He hesitated.
Should he or shouldn’t he?
He thought of his oath, then of Alana. He clenched his jaw as his gut twisted. Like it or not, he had no option but to comply.
Paxton stepped into the tent.
“Why won’t you tell him the truth?”
Alana stopped her pacing inside the tent where she was held prisoner and turned to look at Madoc. It was the first time they had been alone together and able to speak freely since they had left the fortress.
In the hour since she’d last seen Paxton, a cart had arrived at their location inside the camp. Three tents were delivered, along with some pallets, compliments of Henry. The canvas structures—a small one for Gwenifer, a large one for Paxton’s men, including Madoc and Father Jevon; a medium-size one for her, and she presumed for Paxton—were quickly erected and set in order. Alana was immediately placed inside her tent, a guard posted just outside.
“Why won’t I tell him the truth? Because, Madoc, I will not allow anyone else to face Henry but me,” she said.
“Why?”
“If I claim I acted in self-defense, I have a better chance of receiving clemency. I will tell Henry everything that actually transpired, up to a point, but I will not bring Rhys and my cousins into this. The more people Henry finds are involved, the more likely he’ll think it was a conspiracy against his vassal.”
“You’re risking much, girl,” Madoc said. “If you don’t want to name the ones who really killed the bastard, at
least tell Gilbert’s king it was me. I’ve lived my life. ’Twould be a waste if you were hanged. You’re too young.”
Alana was moved by his offer. He had served her well over the years, just as he had done with her father. No one could be more loyal than Madoc. But she’d not allow him to stand in her place. “And what reason will you give for slaying Gilbert?” she asked.
“I could say I was defending you.”
“That would mean you were also at the river the day Gilbert died. I’m sure Henry will question why Gilbert would try to slay me in front of a witness. Suppose Henry asks you what your feelings were toward Gilbert—what will you say?”
Madoc sneered. “You know I despised him.”
“Yes, but will you tell Henry that? If you do, your fate will be sealed. Again Henry will take your words as proof of a conspiracy against his vassal. And if you lie, saying you respected Gilbert, your testimony will be refuted.
“Henry is said to be most cunning, and your temper, Madoc, tends to erupt with ease. You couldn’t possibly hold your tongue on how you feel about those who seek to take our land from us. You hate all Normans and you hate their Angevin king. Henry’s own temper is renowned. Once you have expressed yourself, as I’m certain you will, he’ll probably kill you then and there.
“Nay, Madoc, I will not let you perjure yourself. I am the one who must face him. And I shall do it alone.”
And alone she’d be, for she doubted Paxton would speak on her behalf.
Oh, why had he come into her life? She’d never felt such pain as this before, loving him as she did, knowing he didn’t feel the same. The ache in her breast was unbearable. Would it never end?
Only with her death, she surmised.
She heard voices outside the tent. The flap lifted, and Paxton stepped inside. He glanced her way, then his gaze settled on Madoc. “Leave us, please,” he said.
His tone was somber, and Alana felt a trickle of fear run through her.
“You can’t allow this to go forth,” Madoc declared, his eyes narrowing on Paxton. “She—”
“Madoc!” Alana admonished, certain he was about to tell all. “Leave us, as my husband has asked.”
“Nay,” Paxton declared. “What were you about to say, Madoc?”
With her eyes, Alana pleaded with her servant not to divulge anything that would betray her. His lips pressed tightly together, Madoc presented her with a hard stare in return.
“’Tis nothing,” Madoc announced, then turning on his heel, he stomped from the tent.
“Did you wish to speak to me about something?” Alana asked, once she and Paxton were alone.
“I have just come from seeing Henry. I am to take you to him shortly.”
The declaration triggered a sense of alarm inside her, Alana quashed the feeling, knowing she had to remain calm. “And what was his reaction when you told him I confessed to killing Gilbert?”
“He wasn’t surprised by the admission, but he wasn’t pleased by it, either.”
“Are you saying he was angry?”
“I’ve seen him angrier.” Paxton cocked his head and studied her. “You said you weren’t afraid to face him. If that’s true, why the concern over his mood?”
Alana’s heart was starting to race, her trepidation rising anew. “I’m not afraid of facing him,” she stated. Maybe if she kept saying the same aloud, she’d soon convince herself it was so. Then maybe not. “I simply wanted to know what I’m up against.”
“Being hanged,” Paxton said flatly.
She stared at him. Hearing his declaration made the possibility seem more real. She swallowed what she thought was her heart. “You doubt he will believe my story.”
“Since it is a lie, you can be assured he won’t believe it.”
“’Tis not a lie!” Alana insisted.
Paxton was on her in a trice. He grabbed her arms, pulling her to him. “Your persistence in perpetuating this falsehood is naught but foolishness, Alana,” he said, his hard gaze boring into her. “Your life is at risk. Or are you too dim-witted to understand that?”
“Do you care?”
Her question took him unawares. “What?”
“Do you care if I live or die?”
“What nonsense is this?” he asked, still stunned. “Certainly I care. The last thing I want is for you to die.”
“Why?”
His frown deepened. “Because you’ve done nothing that warrants your being hanged.”
It wasn’t the reply she’d hoped would come. And though she chanced hearing the words that would devastate her completely, Alana had to know. “What about us, Paxton? What if Henry decides to show me leniency, will you still want me as your wife?”
“Our vows stated ‘until death do us part.’ And thus it shall be.”
“That’s not an answer,” she snapped. “I want to know if you’ll ever forgive me for playing you false about Gilbert’s drowning. Will there ever be affection between us again?”
His gaze skimmed her face. “In all honesty, I don’t know. The trust has been broken. Whether it can be repaired remains to be seen.”
Alana’s heart sank. Why was she doing this to herself? In all likelihood, she was going to be gibbeted. Did she have some perverse desire to torture herself all the more?
“I do know, Alana, if you don’t tell the truth, there won’t ever be the chance for you to see what the future holds for us.”
There was still hope, she supposed, for he hadn’t closed the door on their future. But the inflection in his voice didn’t sound promising. Maybe it was because he held more certainty about her fate than she did. “You want me to say Rhys killed Gilbert, is that it?”
“Only because it’s true.”
“Suppose I told Henry my uncle killed Gilbert… that he did so to avenge the attempt on my own life—are you able to assure me that Henry will not see it as a conspiracy, especially since I, being in full possession of my senses, lied to him, telling him that Gilbert had drowned?”
“I cannot give you such an assurance.”
“Why?”
“Because you have yet to present a motive as to why Gilbert would want you dead.”
Alana knew that. She just needed confirmation. “Then the truth is as I told you: I killed Gilbert.”
Clenching his jaw, Paxton shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he released her. “’Twill be as you’ve said.” He strode to the entry. “Come, Alana.” He motioned to her while lifting the flap. “Henry awaits you.”
CHAPTER
21
Paxton was livid. And with good reason.
When he and Alana had entered Henry’s tent, they had come face-to-face with Sir Goddard. The knight had been summoned by Henry to give testimony about Gilbert’s death, and Alana had been instructed by Henry to wait outside, with the explanation that she would be called directly. Under guard, she’d complied.
To Paxton, it seemed strange that she couldn’t face her accuser—which he knew was exactly what Sir Goddard would be—so that she could disprove whatever was said in error. Though his wife wasn’t being given the chance to defend herself, Paxton decided he’d act in her stead.
“Are you able to give me an idea what Sir Gilbert and the Lady Alana’s relationship was like?” Henry asked the knight, who stood beside Paxton, both men facing their king.
“Aye,” Sir Goddard replied, “I can tell you about Sir Gilbert’s relationship with his wife. ’Twas not pleasant. She was a veritable shrew, constantly nagging at him. They always argued, mainly because she instigated the row. Considering his lot in life, Sir Gilbert tried valiantly to keep the peace between them. He was most patient with her. I never saw him raise his hand to her—not once. Had she been my wife, I wouldn’t have been so kind.”
Paxton’s gut twisted on hearing those words. He doubted any of it was true. But how could he refute the knight’s claims? He had no firsthand knowledge as to what had actually transpired between Alana and Gilbert to give testimony to the contr
ary. But there was one thing he had witnessed.
“Sire,” he said, intervening, “this evidence comes from a man who is naught but a slovenly drunk, lax in his duty as a knight. He has spoken most vilely of the Lady Alana since I first met him, mainly because she is Welsh. And I am able to attest that he tried to defile the Lady Alana. I pulled him off her myself, then exiled him to Chester Castle to await trial and sentence for his misdeeds. This man’s testimony is no doubt fraught with lies.”
Henry’s gaze snared Sir Goddard. “What have you to say to Sir Paxton’s charge that you attempted to rape his wife?”
“His wife?” Sir Goddard asked. “She wasn’t his wife at the time. And I didn’t attempt to rape her. ’Twas the other way around. The slut tried to seduce me.”
Paxton’s restraint snapped. He grabbed Sir Goddard by the tunic, his fist raised. “You lying bastard,” he said between clenched teeth. “’Twas rape and you know it.”
“Cease!” Henry shouted. “Release him, Sir Paxton—now!”
Paxton’s fingers uncurled from Sir Goddard’s tunic. He shoved the man from him. “He lies, sire,” Paxton said, again attending Henry.
Henry raised his chin. “Your testimony, Sir Goddard, is suspect. I know Sir Paxton. He is a man of honor. If he says you attempted to rape the woman who is now his wife, I believe him. You were released from the dungeon at Chester Castle because I am in need of knights to ride with me against Owain Gwynedd. You will still do so. But if you manage to survive the battle, I will see that you are punished for your offense. And do not think to flee, sir, for you will be guarded even on the field of battle. Is that clear?”
“Aye,” Sir Goddard grumbled.
Henry turned to Paxton. “You honored your oath to me and brought me word that the Lady Alana confessed to killing her late husband, albeit as she claims in self-defense. She will stand before me soon. What I am trying to acquire here is an understanding of Gilbert’s and her relationship, along with the events leading up to his death. So unless you have personal knowledge of these things, I ask that you not speak. Your wife will have the opportunity to defend herself. I am interested in justice, not revenge, Sir Paxton. Remember that.”
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