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The hour allotted to Sir Goddard to gather his belongings and make his departure was almost spent.
Stationed to one side of the courtyard, Alana watched the knight. His actions were brusque, his mood glum. Close by, a dozen men, whom Sir Paxton had also deemed unfit to serve at the fortress, behaved in a similar manner.
“’Tis good the bastard is leaving,” Madoc bit out near her ear.
“Aye,” she said. But she wondered if she should have agreed so readily.
She wanted the knight gone, yet her emotions were mixed. If the truth were known, she felt at an impasse.
On one hand, she was ecstatic that the loathsome man would soon be on his way. Conversely, though, she feared his replacement would be far more worrisome than Sir Goddard ever was.
Come to me a few weeks hence… I’ll wager anything you’ll not be as welcoming of my presence as you now are.
Paxton de Beaumont’s words were branded in her mind. She doubted he would be half as malicious in his dealings with her people as Sir Goddard had been, but she still fretted over how he intended to treat them.
Forceful and swift. Those were the terms he’d used to describe his form of justice.
He’d promised no barbaric acts, which Alana believed meant no beatings and no severing of hands. But he’d made it very clear: His adjudication would be effective and executed with haste. Did that mean, instead of torturing the alleged offender, he’d simply kill him?
Alana turned her gaze to the man in question and was entranced by what she saw.
Sunlight bathed his burnished hair, haloing his head in a blue-black light. The shimmering rays glistened off his mail hauberk, creating a silver aura from his shoulders to his knees.
A celestial host, she mused at first. Then remembering he was Norman, she dismissed the notion, equating him to one of Hell’s own demons instead.
Her senses restored, she studied him. Positioned a half-dozen yards from her, he appeared at ease, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
Only a fool would regard him as being heedless. Beneath his indolent facade, he remained alert, ready to react at the slightest provocation. He was powerful, his skills unmatched, a warrior of the highest caliber. Oh, how she prayed that he possessed compassion and understanding as well.
He must have been aware that she watched him, for he turned his head. Their eyes met, and the air between them quickened… sizzled with the same vitalizing energy of an approaching storm.
From observing nature’s fury, the rains coming often to her homeland, she knew the feeling to be exhilarating but dangerous.
The same as he.
The concept alarmed Alana, and she looked away, but didn’t act soon enough. To her total dismay, he came toward her, halting no more than a hand’s breadth from her.
“I take it you are eager to see Sir Goddard on his way,” he commented.
Alana dared not face him. The strange stirrings inside her, which she was at a loss to explain, had not subsided. She felt at her most vulnerable. One glance, and what confidence she held would be utterly destroyed.
And along with that frailty of emotion came the possibility that he might unearth her secret. He was far too discerning, and Alana knew she couldn’t chance his discovering her deception. Too risky, she thought, positive all would come to ruin.
“A twinkling of time would not be soon enough to have him gone,” she said, staring straight ahead.
“I cannot promise a ‘twinkling,’ but I can assure you he’ll be away from here shortly.”
As his response met her ears, several of Sir Goddard’s companions mounted their horses. The others were following suit. “He won’t be missed,” Alana returned, noting how the knight made a last minute check of his steed’s saddle. “The man is a beast.”
“Perhaps that is so. But after Sir Goddard is gone, you may find that you’ve spoken too soon.”
“Never will I believe that.”
“Never?” he asked. “You might think that now, but once you’ve dealt with me, you may in fact be wishing him back.”
Forgetting her resolve not to look at him, Alana turned around. Had she been right in her assumption? Would he be far more worrisome than Sir Goddard ever was? Though the warning was distinct, no such threat marked his features.
His mood was lighter than when he’d left the hall, for an easy smile touched his lips, dimpling each sun-bronzed cheek. “I thought that would get your attention.”
She blinked. “My attention?”
“Aye. You refuse to face me while we speak. Why?”
The answer was simple: He both fascinated and frightened her. Not that she would tell him such. Nevertheless it was true.
Once again she found herself captivated, his lazy-lidded eyes reminding her of a clear morning sky. It was then she heard what she thought was the roll of thunder.
The sound swelled in her ears, and the ground vibrated beneath her feet.
“Milady!” Madoc shouted.
Alana glimpsed the charging horse, its large hooves biting into the earth, clods of mud slinging into the air.
Just as she thought she’d be run down, Paxton thrust himself between her and Sir Goddard’s steed. As the beast was reined in, its shoulder struck Paxton full in the chest. He grabbed hold of the bridle and steadied himself, checking the horse’s tossing head at the same time.
Offering no apology for the scare he’d given either of them, Sir Goddard stated, “We are ready to take our leave.”
“Then be gone with you,” Paxton grated, releasing the harness. “You should be at your destination by tomorrow night.”
“We’ll be at Chester Castle sooner than tomorrow night. That I can promise you.” Sir Goddard looked to Alana, then back at Paxton. “I suggest you sleep with your sword nigh, else you might find yourself slumbering for all eternity.” He turned his horse and set it into a canter toward the gate tower.
When Sir Goddard and his companions had passed through the opening, the gates closing behind them, Alana breathed a relieved sigh. She would thank Paxton for coming between her and what would have been certain death had the horse trampled her, but she decided not to.
On extending her appreciation once before, his retort had been clipped and unfriendly. By the looks of him now—his jaw set, his eyes cold, his body rigid, Sir Goddard’s cautioning words no doubt the reason—she believed if she voiced her gratitude his rejoinder would be delivered in much the same manner as it had been when they were inside the hall.
“The fare that was laid for you on your arrival grows stale. Do you wish to partake of some refreshment?” she inquired, thinking she was on safe ground.
“Have those who traveled with me been fed?” he countered, his tone formal.
“Except for the priest, aye. I’ve yet to see him, but I imagine he’s still in the chapel. As for the others, their bellies are full, their plates and cups empty.”
“Then clear the tables. The priest can eat later.”
“But you must be hungry. Or, at the very least, thirsty.”
“I’ll take my sustenance at supper. Right now, I have more important matters to attend to.”
He spun on his heel and crossed the yard, Alana staring after him.
“What do you think he’s about?” Madoc asked once Paxton had entered the door of the building that housed the garrison.
“I’m not certain.” An uneasy feeling was growing inside Alana. “But pray, Madoc, his haste has only to do with his wanting to acquaint himself with those who have remained and the workings within the fortress itself and not about Gilbert. Especially not about his death.”
“And you saw or heard nothing unusual before or after Sir Gilbert was pulled from the river?” Paxton asked.
The man shook his head. “Nay, sir. The Lady Alana was distraught… so pitifully woeful, the same as anyone would be when stricken with such a sudden shock.”
“Her tears—were they genuine?”
“As far as
I could tell—aye, I’d say they were.” The man paused briefly. “I need to add that, despite her apparent grief, she insisted on preparing the body for burial herself. Considering the agony she was suffering over her loss, I thought it to be a loving gesture.”
Feeling frustrated, Paxton rubbed the back of his neck. “Aye. One would think so.” He straightened from the small table where he leaned a hip against its scarred wooden top. “Thank you for your help. You are dismissed.”
Watching the young soldier as he made his way from the room, Paxton decided he’d learned nothing of consequence. From the time he’d entered the garrison, he’d set to questioning each man about the day Gilbert died. One by one, they gave the same accounting. It was no different with this man.
The door closed behind the last of the twenty who Paxton had found fit to continue serving at the fortress. Unfortunately, he still lacked proof that the circumstances of Gilbert’s death were anything more than what his widow had related to Henry: an accidental drowning.
Yet Paxton remained wary.
Though Sir Goddard was an unkempt drunk, the man wasn’t a complete fool. Something had to have given him the impression that his life and the lives of each of Henry’s men were in jeopardy… that Gilbert’s death was not as it appeared.
Too late Paxton wished he’d questioned the knight more fully before sending him on his way to Chester and to young Earl Hugh, under whose command Sir Goddard served. He’d now have to ferret out the answers he sought on his own. And he would start his search with Alana of Llangollen.
A hollow gurgling noise disrupted the room’s silence. Paxton’s hunger was unmistakable. “What hour is it?” he asked, his gaze pinpointing Sir Graham.
The knight stepped from the corner where he’d been standing quietly. “It’s nearly dark. I imagine our supper awaits us. I say we make our way to the hall before there is naught left us but crumbs.”
“Your suggestion is sound,” Paxton returned, his stomach declaring its emptiness again. “Lead the way, sir.”
Hunger driving them, the pair exited the room, then the building. As they made their way across the courtyard, Paxton heard the hum of voices coming from the hall. On entering, the aroma of roasted meat filled his nostrils; his stomach rolled with the ferocity of a lion’s roar. He and Sir Graham found a seat.
While Paxton set to nourishing his body, the issue of Alana’s innocence or guilt kept plaguing him. Not just because he hoped to avenge his friend, but because of the opportunity that could be lost.
The third reason why he had crossed the marches—and to Paxton, the most enticing reason of all—was the promise from his king that he and his issue would be made permanent overlords of this fortress, of this portion of land on which it sat, and of all the inhabitants for miles around. But the pledge came with one stipulation: Paxton must gain for Henry the sworn allegiances of all those Welsh whom he would oversee.
His status was that of a knight-errant, his services bought by Henry. With there being no hope of his ever receiving an inheritance of his own, the notion that he could be the master of a vast region, along with part and kind, appealed greatly. Yet the area of his promised domain was here in Wales. And the Welsh had no inclination toward being tamed. Least of all by a Norman.
Paxton recalled those moments with Henry, just a fortnight ago, when the offer had been extended. Then, as now, he’d been troubled by whether the Welsh would accept him as their overlord, and Henry as their king.
Worried that he might not be able to fulfill the requirements set forth, he must have allowed his uncertainties to show. Henry didn’t miss his dubious look. His eyes narrowing, Henry had scoffed at Paxton, asking if he had not the wit nor the fortitude to subdue such a cloddish lot as the Welsh.
“You know I have both the intelligence and the nerve,” he had countered, taking umbrage at Henry’s barb.
“Then hear me, Sir Paxton,” Henry had said. “You have served me well, and I wish to reward you. We both know the Welsh are unpredictable, and that what I have asked will not come without effort. Therefore, as your king, I shall attempt to make it easier for you to receive that which you most desire.”
With a quick wave of his hand, Henry had signaled to a robed cleric, who in turn dipped his quill into the inkwell, then waited to put words to the parchment.
Clearing his throat, Henry had then announced, “By royal decree, you will become the new husband of Alana of Llangollen. All properties, whether belonging to her late husband, Gilbert FitzWilliam, or given to her by inheritance from her deceased sire, Rhodri ap Daffyd—which, according to the moldering bastard’s claim, is the land where the old Norman fortress presently sits—will pass into your possession on the day of your nuptials. Once she is your wife, it shouldn’t be too hard to gain the allegiance of her people.”
Paxton had objected to Henry’s prescribing that he should wed the woman who may have slain Gilbert. Besides, he’d doubted Alana of Llangollen would accept any such edict as binding. She was, after all, Welsh.
Henry had bristled at Paxton’s stated opposition. “The day she married Gilbert she made herself my subject,” he’d snapped. “She will obey me, or she will pay the penalty.
“As for Gilbert’s death, we don’t know if it was as she said: a drowning. Or if it is as we suspect: a vicious murder. If she suits you, I suggest you marry the woman. If she doesn’t suit, marry her anyway. The only time you need lie with her is when you wish for her to conceive a legitimate heir. Should it be pleasure you seek, and she doesn’t satisfy, find yourself a comely wench and take her as your mistress. If, in the future, you do discover that Alana of Llangollen was indeed instrumental in her late husband’s death, bind her over to me, and I shall deal with her treachery myself.
“All but the latter is a suggestion. If you don’t elect to marry her, that is your choice. I thought it would be helpful if I were to intercede, thus my decree. However, as I’ve just stated: If she is behind Gilbert’s death, she is to be brought before me so I may sit in judgment over her. The offense will not go unpunished. On this point, I will have it no other way. Is that clear?”
Paxton had answered in the affirmative, then Henry had made him swear an oath that, if the proof of her guilt were found, Alana would be given over, even if she became Paxton’s wife.
His king’s offer was tempting, and Paxton wanted nothing more than to be lord and master of his own estate. But the condition remained: The Welsh must swear allegiance to Henry. Without Alana of Llangollen at his side, Paxton saw the quest as being almost impossible.
Yes, he could bring them to their knees by force, continuing to rule over them by the threat of the sword, but the prize he so coveted would soon become tarnished under a constant battle of weapons and of wills.
Which brought him to the piece of parchment that was twice folded and hidden in a leather pouch tied to his belt.
Though Alana was quite beautiful and most appealing, the prospect of them ever marrying seemed far-fetched. They had differences aplenty, a huge discrepancy being their heritages.
But the main obstacle was trust.
Unless he was fully assured of her innocence, Henry’s decree—stated more formally on paper than from the king’s own mouth—would remain tucked away. Likewise, the priest could keep to his prayers, while delivering, daily, a morning mass.
Lifting his gaze from his plate, which was close to being depleted of its fare, he scanned the hall, searching for the woman in his thoughts. To his surprise, he found her among the servers.
For the longest time he watched her, impressed by the fact that she didn’t place herself above her countrymen. She filled the cups, replenished the trenchers, working as industriously as those he considered to be beneath her. He noted too that she kept to the opposite side of the room, far from him.
Reflecting on how she first refused to look at him during their conversation in the yard, Paxton wondered why she shied away from him. Did he unnerve her that much?
He coul
dn’t imagine he’d done anything to elicit such a response. Unless…
“Do you still believe Gilbert’s death to be an act of murder?” Sir Graham asked after tossing off the last of his wine. “From what we were told, nothing indicates such.”
The statement drew Paxton’s attention. Just as with him, Sir Graham had also eaten in silence, his blond head bent studiously over his plate. Obviously, his companion’s thoughts had been centered on the last several hours and the twenty men who had paraded in and out of the garrison.
Paxton waited until the knight’s cup was refilled. When the flagon was moved toward his own cup, he placed his hand over its rim, shaking his head. “No, it doesn’t,” he said after the server had moved on. “But if someone wanted to hide the truth badly enough, that someone could quite possibly succeed.”
Graham’s green eyes widened. “How?”
“Tears of bereavement have been known to soften many a man’s heart, even if they are false.”
“Then you think his widow was faking her grief… that she is the culprit?”
“My suspicions lean that way.”
“Suspicions are not proof.”
“Perhaps not,” Paxton said, his gaze again finding Alana. “Call it gut instinct, if you like, but I say she’s hiding something. If she didn’t murder Gilbert, she knows who did. One way or another, she’s involved, and I intend to prove that she is.”
“I must warn my uncle,” Alana whispered to Madoc hours later.
The pair stood just inside the doorway to the hall. Circled around the hearth, the castle’s inhabitants slumbered on the floor behind them.
“Let one of us go in your stead,” her servant insisted, his voice kept low. “’Tis far too risky. Unlike his foregoer, he hardly touched his wine. He may still be awake. If you’re caught trying to slip through the side gate, he’ll become suspicious.”
She glanced through the opening at the building where Paxton de Beaumont and his men were chambered, all of them having retired there for the night. No light shone from its windows. “I’ll not get caught. Besides acquainting Rhys about the present situation, I must speak to him about other matters as well.”
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