Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  At her prolonged silence, their tempers had cooled. An easy smile graced Paxton’s once stern visage. He was obviously pleased that he’d won the point.

  Turning, Alana moved away from Gilbert’s grave; Paxton followed. Near a large oak, she stopped and pivoted around to again face him.

  He gazed at her a long while, then as though they’d never locked horns, he said, “Llangollen—doesn’t it lie south of here on the River Dee?”

  “It does.”

  “How far?”

  She leaned against the thick trunk, its rough bark pricking at her back. “Ten miles. And Chester is a little over ten miles to the east.”

  “If Llangollen is where you were born, how is it your father claimed the land here?”

  Another sensitive subject, Alana thought. Not to him but to her. It was one she’d sooner forget, especially the strife that followed Daffyd ap Cynan’s death. “My family has lived here for centuries,” she replied. “When my grandfather died, my father accepted his inheritance.”

  She refused to tell him that on Daffyd’s death, his two sons had warred mercilessly over their inheritance. Rhodri, the elder son, and Alana’s father, finally won out, but it was at the cost of his own brother Hywel’s life. To her, some things were best left in the past, and this was one of them. At least her cousin, Gwenifer, held no grudge, and for that Alana was thankful.

  “What prompted you to ask such a question?” Alana inquired.

  He shrugged. “Your name and our locale—they don’t match. Let’s say I was just curious.” He paused. “Your mother—I presume she is also deceased?”

  “Aye. She died when I was eight; my father when I was fourteen. She from a fever; he from an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “He was thrown from his horse.”

  “You have no other kin?”

  “Certainly. You’ve spoken to some of them. Most live here with me.”

  She hadn’t lied exactly. Just had neglected to mention her relatives beyond the river. Again she thought of Rhys, praying he stayed away.

  Paxton stepped closer. “You must have been a very young bride. Were Gilbert here, I’d accuse him of having robbed the cradle.”

  Alana couldn’t help but smile. “I shall take that as a compliment. However, when Gilbert and I had wed, I was older than most brides. Presently I’m in my twenty-first year.”

  “You look to be six-and-ten.”

  “Had he lived, Gilbert would now be seven-and-twenty. I presume, since you squired together, you are the same age.”

  “I’ll be six-and-twenty on the day of the Feast of All Holy Martyrs. Gilbert wasn’t as quick to learn as I. Though we were knighted at nearly the same time, overall it took him a bit longer to receive his spurs. I said we were competitive, didn’t I?”

  Wasn’t as quick to learn as I. The phrase stuck, and Alana vowed to remember it well. “You indicated you were rivals. But in defense of Gilbert, he was quite capable in his own right.”

  Capable of his own duplicity, Alana thought. And because of his deceit, he rested beneath the earth, cold, stiff, and rotting, the worms eating at his flesh.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Has your curiosity about me been quieted? If so, I have a few questions of my own to ask.”

  “Such as?”

  “You were interested in my parents. What about your own? Are they living?”

  “My mother is. My father died eight years ago. He was returning to our estate from the last Crusade, when he was apparently beset by a band of thieves. A passerby found him two miles from our home alongside the road. He was stripped of his possessions, lying nude in a ditch. His wounds were grievous but not so grievous that he could not have mended. But a cold rain had fallen on the region the night he was attacked. He took a congestion in his lungs. That was what did him in.” Paxton shook his head. “It always amazed me that he could travel half the world away to battle against hordes of heathens—even risked the plague!—and return to Normandy with nary a scratch, only to die from the croup.”

  “How very sad,” Alana said, thinking that life was forever filled with twists and turns, no one ever really knowing what might happen next. “Your mother—is she in Normandy?”

  “Actually she is now in Aquitaine. She has remarried and is very happy. My older brother is in Normandy, content with his wife and four children. The last I heard, they were all well.”

  As he’d spoken, his hand met the tree near her head. With each word, he leaned closer and closer. Alana was now staring straight into his eyes. They were so hauntingly blue, clear and unshadowed. She’d never forget their color nor the way their owner gazed at her.

  Those strange feelings erupted in her once more, and Alana’s breath grew short. “I should get back to the fortress,” she said, slipping away from the tree.

  Paxton caught her arm. “Before you go, I have one more request of you. I’d like to see where it happened.”

  By it Alana knew he referred to the supposed mishap that had befallen Gilbert and herself.

  “If taking me there is too difficult for you,” he continued, “I’ll understand. I ask only that you turn me in the right direction.”

  Her heart fluttered wildly, but this time in fear. Was he still questing for answers? Did he believe, even after six months, he might find some clue, some offering, that would inevitably point to the truth: Gilbert was in fact murdered? If he found something, would it in turn implicate her?

  Alana examined his face, seeking her own answers. Her trepidation subsided when she realized he would discover nothing at the site where she’d tumbled into the water. No blood, no signs of a struggle, naught that would suggest anything malicious had occurred. At least not to Gilbert.

  Paxton’s deep voice broke through her thoughts. “I can see the concept of accompanying me unnerves you. Just show me the way, and I’ll find the place on my own.”

  Unsettling memories of that fateful day had thus far prevented her from returning to the particular area alongside the river. She’d not guide him to the location now, save for one thing: Rhys could be, at this very moment, wandering the opposite bank, hunting for a feasible spot where he could cross over. If she spied him first, she could warn him off. Likewise, if he came upon them while they stood beside the river, she’d be able to wave him back in the wood. Either way, she couldn’t allow Paxton to go alone.

  “I’ll take you there,” she said.

  “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  “Yes. Seeing the place once more might at last help me put the incident to rest.” She raised her skirts and turned toward the river. “Come. It’s down the hill, and a short way up the bank.”

  Alana’s feet descended the steep slope with inherent familiarity. Halfway to the river, she looked back to see Paxton was well above her. He swayed from tree to tree, clutching at its bark, attempting to keep his footing as he gingerly tracked along the soft ground.

  One misstep, and he could end up on his backside. Worse yet, he might slide a short distance, only to find himself straddling a tree. Worst of all, he could take a straight shot down the incline and into the river, never again to be seen.

  To Alana, the prospects were humorous… save for the last one, of course. She didn’t want him dead, just away from her homeland. However, the other two possibilities she would readily allow.

  As she continued to watch his inept moves, she somehow kept her laughter from bubbling forth.

  What great warrior he? she wondered, a smile playing on her lips.

  Conversely, though, she took pity on him and amended the notion, knowing that he usually did battle in an open field and not the thickness of a wood. At another time, she would wait for him, permitting him to catch up. But not today. She had to get down to the river and see if Rhys was about.

  The sound of the raging torrent was deafening.

  Standing several feet back from the river’s edge, Alana tried to ignore the turbulent force as it rolled, dipped, and swelled, t
o flow violently past her. She scanned the opposite bank, relief filling her when Rhys was nowhere to be seen. Then it happened. The surging spray leapt forth, striking her in the face.

  Stunned, Alana stared at the roiling water. Like a living, angry being, it appeared to reach out to her, beckoning her forward.

  Closer.

  The voice was masked in the river’s roar, but Alana heard its call nonetheless. Closer, I say.

  Mesmerized by the gyrating motion, Alana heeded the summons. She stepped to the water’s edge and gazed at the eddy rushing by at her feet.

  Closer still, the voice coaxed.

  It was as though her foot belonged to someone else. From afar, she saw it extend out over the water, the swells stretching up to meet it.

  Come join me.

  Alana felt herself going forward when abruptly she was jerked back.

  “Christ, woman!” Paxton thundered, spinning her around. His fingers bit into her shoulders as he shook her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Snapping from her trance, Alana stared up at him. His face was ashen, while the tempest of some unknown emotion raged in his eyes. Was it anger?

  “I—I don’t know,” she whispered, then looked at the water. Her headrail, which had been shaken from her, snaked along the surface, then disappeared as it was sucked under. Realizing what she’d nearly done, she felt the blood drain from her own face. She attended him again. “I heard a voice.”

  Confusion knit his brow when Paxton asked, “What voice?”

  “It came from the river.”

  “The what?”

  “The river. I heard it calling. ‘Closer,’ it said. Then, ‘Come join me.’ ” His eyes flickered with incredulity just before his harsh expression softened. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I believe your coming down here was a mistake. You weren’t prepared. The rushing water, your grief—they almost sent you over the edge—literally. Killing yourself won’t bring Gilbert back. Come.” He urged her away from the river. “Let’s make our way up to the fortress.”

  “Don’t you want to see where it happened?”

  “No. Not now.”

  “But you had such difficulty getting down here,” she protested.

  A sigh escaped his lips. “Can we see the place from here? If so, point it out.”

  “That jutting rock,” Alana said, her forefinger aimed at the outcrop, the water gushing around it. “They found Gilbert’s body a mile or so downriver, caught in some brush against the opposite bank.”

  He glanced at the torrent streaming by them. “Was the water as turbulent as this?”

  “Worse,” Alana said, knowing she’d never beheld such fury in the river as she had that day.

  “Come.” He took hold of her hand. “I’ve seen enough.”

  As Alana allowed him to lead her back up the incline, his footing far more secure than it had been on his descent, she wondered about the voice she’d heard. Had it been Gilbert beseeching her to join him, so he could take his revenge?

  Though Alana didn’t believe in ghosts, she nevertheless puzzled over the notion that her dead husband’s spirit had indeed been calling out to her. Deciding the plausibility of such was utter nonsense, she dismissed the concept altogether.

  In all likelihood, it was her own qualms crying out to her. Why she should feel any guilt over Gilbert’s death, especially when she’d never done so prior to this day, Alana couldn’t say. She was glad Gilbert had died. Why then had she been caught in the depths of a trance?

  The water—she’d not faced it in such turmoil since the day she’d experienced her harrowing fall, only coming and going when it was tolerably still.

  Maybe being confronted by its raging force had provoked recollections from the depths of her mind… recollections she wasn’t even fully aware of now. Perhaps that was what had induced the temporary madness she’d just suffered.

  Lifting her gaze from the trail, Alana looked at Paxton.

  There was an unnatural stiffness about him, his hard strides taking them, without effort, straight up the hill. He was clearly angry. But she couldn’t tell if the emotion was aimed at himself or at her.

  He’d saved her from certain death by catching her before she’d stepped off into the river. For that she was grateful. But his belief that she’d intended to commit suicide, her grief the reason, was ludicrous.

  Still, the misconception might work to her advantage. If she were able to convince him she truly mourned Gilbert’s loss, even to the point of wanting to take her own life, he may cease with his tormenting questions, his doubts about her at long last laid to rest. But in order to make this happen, she needed to gain his sympathy, his concern, his compassion.

  To that end, Alana knew her tears would serve as her greatest weapon. She was already adept at bringing them forth at the blink of an eye. The most hardened of men were known to have been brought to their knees on seeing a woman cry. Why should it be any different with him?

  Beware, a small voice cautioned. Your intention is that he console you, thereby ending his perpetual

  inquiries about Gilbert’s death. But what will you do if that solace is offered only in his arms?

  Alana felt his hand tighten around hers as he pulled her up the last few yards to the top of the hill. Onward they went, passing Gilbert’s grave, and up the short incline, to the side gate. All the while, his grip remained sure and firm, yet never hurtful, just as she imagined would be his embrace.

  The small voice, Alana knew, was her own, and the thought of a man holding her in his arms caused her to inwardly cringe. But what choice did she have when there was so much else to consider?

  Again inside the courtyard, Paxton’s shouted command to grant them entry having been obeyed, he stopped their progression midway between the gate and the hall.

  “Henceforth, you’ll not be allowed by the river unless someone goes with you… that someone preferably being me,” he stated. “I’ll not risk another episode like the one we just experienced. Is that understood?”

  When he referred to her near accident, something flashed in his eyes, the same something that had sparked in them while they were beside the river. Unable to discern exactly what the glimmer was, she decided to test him. “Had I gone in, there would have been one less of my ilk for you to worry over. In fact, I’m surprised you intervened, considering you believe I killed Gilbert.”

  “I told you my reason as to why I doubted the account of his death, but after seeing the force of the water, I can now say his skills were ineffectual at best. It’s a miracle you survived. The saints protected you that day, milady. Today as well. Next time, they may turn a blind eye.

  “In response to your amazement that I saw fit to intervene, I did so because I do not wish to see you placed next to Gilbert this soon. You are far too young and have years of life ahead of you. Therefore you are forbidden to go to the river without me. In fact, given your precarious state of mind, I just might allay my worries by placing a guard on you at all times.”

  So, he was concerned, Alana thought… afraid she would doubtlessly take her own life. That’s what had flashed in his eyes both times: alarm. Her near tumble into the river had given him a scare, one like no other he’d ever experienced. Would her plan work?

  “I’m not addled,” she shot back, mock tears springing forth. “I told you I heard a voice. The river—maybe it’s angry because I didn’t die alongside Gilbert.”

  “Or maybe you feel guilty because you survived and he didn’t.” He touched her cheek, then captured her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Alana, don’t torture yourself this way. Gilbert is gone. You can’t change what has occurred. Let it go and allow yourself to heal.”

  Reprehensible was the word Alana chose to describe how she felt about deceiving him this way. His gaze recounted that he was genuinely affected by her tears, that he abhorred the idea she might seek self-destruction over life without Gilbert. What a truly horrible person she was. However, if she we
re forthright with him, the consequences promised to be heavy, for she doubted he’d believe her. Therefore, she had no alternative but to play him false.

  “’Tis hard,” she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  He watched it fall, then whisked it away. “I know, but you must try. Promise me you’ll do that much.”

  Again praying God didn’t smite her, Alana sniffed, then nodded.

  “Good. Now seek your chambers and wash your face, then allow yourself a rest,” he said in a fatherly fashion. “I’ll see how you’re doing shortly.”

  Alana offered no protest when he turned her toward the hall. Her head bowed, she made her way across the remainder of the yard, certain her plan had taken hold.

  Sympathy, concern, compassion—he had shown her all of these. Another stint or two of tears and she’d win him over completely.

  With a much-desired victory this close at hand, Alana wondered why she felt so very untriumphant.

  A woman’s tears were his downfall, especially when they flowed from eyes as lovely as Alana’s.

  Stalking along the riverbank, Paxton remembered how his heart had wrenched when that lone crystal droplet had welled over to slip down her soft cheek. At the time, he’d felt for her and was sorely tempted to take her into his arms. There, in his protective embrace, she could wail away her sorrow, his words of reassurance soothing her, until her grief was spent.

  If that had been his intention, why, then, did his suspicions still linger? Probably because he knew some women’s tears to be false.

  “How many more times do you insist we do this?” Sir Graham asked above the water’s roar, as he trekked along behind Paxton.

  “For as many times as it takes.”

  “We’ve done this thrice, and the results remain the same. Besides, that scrap of cloth in no way resembles a man’s body. Not in weight and not in size. I say we’re wasting our time.”

  Paxton stared at the sodden piece of linen that he’d plucked from a snarl of brush by the water’s edge. On Alana’s entering the hall, he’d called upon Sir Graham to accompany him back down to the river. Once there, they went in search of her headrail, Paxton having shaken it from her head after he’d prevented her from stepping off into raging torrent.