Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  Close to a mile downstream, they found it, snared by a tangle of limbs. What troubled Paxton was that it had ended up on this side of the river, not at all like Gilbert’s body had, against the opposite bank.

  Determined not to make too much of it at first, he’d carried the headrail to the jutting outcrop Alana had indicated as the place where she and Gilbert were situated that fateful day, wanting to see if the current bore it differently from there.

  Three times he’d dropped the cloth into the water; three times he’d retrieved it from the exact spot where he’d originally found it.

  By every indication, the river’s run kept all debris to this side of the bank. So, why had Gilbert been found across the way?

  Perhaps Graham was right. The headrail in no way compared in size or in weight to a man’s body. Besides, Gilbert may have been able to swim for some distance before he was sucked under, his futile attempt carrying him into another sluicing current, which would explain why he was given up on the other side.

  But as Paxton studied the violent swirl and tumble of the water, he believed the premise unlikely. The river’s force was greatest alongside the bank where he stood. Therefore one would conclude that whatever the element—whether it be a flimsy piece of cloth or a man’s body weighing twelve stones—it would surface in approximately the same spot where he found Alana’s headrail.

  Paxton had no way of proving that. Not unless he wanted to take his chances and plunge into the river from the outcrop to see where the current carried him.

  Far too drastic, he thought, knowing it was doubtful he’d survive.

  “Do you wish to attempt it again?” Graham asked.

  “Nay,” Paxton responded, wringing the excess water from the cloth. “Just as you’ve said: The results will be the same. There’s no sense in expending our energies when it will obviously be for naught.”

  “Good,” Graham chimed. “All this walking has given me an appetite. Let’s take ourselves back to the top, so I may raid the kitchens for something to eat.”

  At Paxton’s nod, the two men began ascending the hill toward the side gate. On the trek upward, Paxton’s thoughts remained on Alana.

  The voice—had she actually heard it? Or was that also a ruse?

  What wasn’t a trick was that she had well-nigh stepped off into the river. Had he been an instant later in descending to the grassy bank, one wink shy in grabbing her, she’d have gone in, to be swept away in the current. This time he doubted she’d have survived. Praise God that he’d caught her in time.

  On entering the fortress, Paxton found he was more confused than ever. Her tears, the voice, her near mishap, the current, the headrail—damnation! What was he to believe?

  He and Graham were almost to the doors of the hall when a shout sounded from the gate house; Paxton looked to its source.

  “A rider comes,” the guard called from the tower.

  Paxton glanced at Graham, then the two loped across the yard toward the main gates. Climbing the ladder to the walkway, each peered over the palisade. Paxton emitted a curse when he saw how the man swayed precariously while slumping forward in the saddle.

  “Open the gates,” he commanded, then retraced his steps down to the yard, Sir Graham following close behind him.

  Breaking from the fortress, the two men rushed toward the rider. While Graham grabbed hold of the stallion’s reins, Paxton caught the man as he toppled from the saddle.

  An angry tic pulsed along Paxton’s jaw when his eyes confirmed his thoughts. Bloodied and worn, the man in his arms appeared near death. Then Paxton watched as the man’s eyelids cracked open.

  “Attacked. All dead.”

  Sir Goddard rasped the words for Paxton alone to hear. Then the injured knight fell unconscious.

  CHAPTER

  4

  “Trouble is afoot,” Madoc announced.

  Alana sat up with a jerk and stared at her servant.

  Abiding by Paxton’s orders, given when they were in the courtyard on their return from the river, she’d gone to her chamber, washed her face, then taken to her bed.

  Until a moment ago, she’d been lying there pondering what it would take to convince Paxton that Gilbert’s death was accidental, albeit a lie.

  Though he was affected by her tears, their use might not be enough to fully allay his suspicions. And therein lay the snag. Just how much would she be willing to sacrifice in order to protect those who were involved?

  For a long while, the question weighed heavily in her mind. The answer never came to her, her deliberation ending when Madoc burst into the room.

  “What sort of trouble?” she asked, swinging her legs off the bed.

  “Come,” Madoc said, striding from the door toward the window. “’Tis best you see for yourself.”

  Meeting Madoc at the opening, Alana looked down on the yard to observe a man being carted toward the garrison by Paxton and Sir Graham. Her brow furrowed as she viewed the unconscious man more closely. Her heart froze when recognition took hold. “Sir Goddard?”

  “Aye. He’s back. If we’re lucky, he’ll die from his wounds. ’Twill save us the misery of having to suffer through his surly moods and his endless accusations.”

  Alana was filled with foreboding. “Where are the others?” she inquired of the dozen knights who had accompanied Sir Goddard from the castle.

  “Dead.”

  “Did Sir Goddard say who attacked them?” she asked, praying it wasn’t Rhys or her cousins. And if it had been, at the very least, she hoped the knight hadn’t identified them as being her kin.

  “That I cannot tell you. I was in the yard when a shout sounded from one of the guards in the gate house. Sir Paxton and Sir Graham rushed up to the wall walk. Just as fast, Sir Paxton ordered the gates opened, he and Sir Graham coming back down.

  “Inquisitive as to what was going on, I followed to the entrance. I heard Sir Paxton repeat to Sir Graham what Sir Goddard had said before he’d passed out. ‘Attacked. All dead.’ Those were the words Sir Paxton used.”

  “I must get to the garrison,” she said, turning from the window.

  Madoc caught her arm. “Milady, it would be wise if you were to stay here. I’ll go in your stead.”

  “Nay. I must go myself. Should he awaken I want to be there to hear all he has to say. I must learn whom he accuses. Pray, Madoc, it is not the person or persons I think.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Either he or one of my cousins… all of them, for that matter.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Madoc stated.

  “First go to the kitchens and collect the chest of medicinals. Our offering to tend to his wounds will give us a plausible excuse as to why we are there. I’ll meet you inside the garrison.”

  Madoc nodded, then Alana and he quickly left her chamber.

  Paxton was straightening from the pallet on which the unconscious Sir Goddard lay when he saw movement at the door.

  Alana… what was she doing here? She answered his silent query before he could ask it.

  “I saw you from my window,” she said, stepping farther into the room. “I thought you might need assistance in caring for him. Madoc has gone to fetch the chest of medicinals. He should be here shortly. In the meantime, if there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

  Her words surprised Paxton. The depth of her loathing for Sir Goddard was more than just appreciable… it was a living, breathing entity. Therefore, in offering such aid, she was either being exceptionally charitable or exceedingly false.

  “I’ve yet to check his wounds,” Paxton replied, curious as to the true motive behind her sudden show of benevolence. “But I would welcome an extra hand, especially if its owner is proficient in the art of healing.”

  “I’m not as skilled as Madoc,” she said, staying where she was. “He is the one you want. Until he arrives, I’d be willing to see what I can do.”

  Paxton tossed aside the chain mail hauberk that he and Graham had removed from Sir G
oddard prior to Alana’s entry and motioned her forward.

  Once at his side, she stared down on the injured knight. Her small jaw was clenched, marking her enmity. Hesitant at first, she slowly lowered herself to her knees. Paxton did likewise. At her instruction, he and Graham removed the knight’s bloody tunic.

  “He doesn’t appear to be in any serious danger,” she said after examining the wounds along Sir Goddard’s torso. Her slender fingers probed close to the deep gash at the man’s shoulder. “I’d say this one is the most serious of all, but not so serious as to cause worry. I don’t see any indication of poisoning. Madoc will be better able to tell if there is. If his wounds don’t fester, he’ll survive.”

  Paxton nodded, then watched as she again explored the area on Sir Goddard’s shoulder. If she were averse to touching the man, she certainly didn’t show any signs to imply such. Still, Paxton imagined it was difficult for her to do so, considering her dislike and distrust.

  He was admiring her forbearance when Sir Goddard awakened from the realm of the sleeping dead. The knight grabbed Alana’s wrist, crushing it in his hand; she gasped.

  “Get this Welsh bitch away from me,” Sir Goddard commanded, “lest I also end up in my grave.” Alana fell back on her bottom when he thrust her from him. He moaned from the exertion. “’Twas her kin who killed my companions. Keep her from me, I say.” With another groan, the man again lost consciousness.

  Though Sir Goddard’s words had been somewhat garbled, Paxton hadn’t missed a one. Turning his gaze on Alana, he asked, “Is he right? Were your kinfolk the culprits?”

  “Nay,” she answered, rubbing her wrist. “His loss of blood has made him delirious.”

  “That could be so. But he could also be very much aware of his attackers’ identities. If you know something, it would behoove you to tell me now. Because later, should I discover that you have been hiding the truth, you’ll wish you had never held your tongue.”

  “You saw Sir Goddard and the others leave. Did anyone depart the castle after them?”

  Paxton knew that they hadn’t. “No one followed,” he conceded.

  “You have your answer then,” she said. “I imagine when he says they were my kin, he is referring to the fact that they were Welsh. That in itself is not surprising. With your presumptuous encroachment on our soil, it stands to reason that my countrymen would want to expunge you from it. You are the ones who are infringing here, not us.”

  She came to her feet.

  “Now if you will excuse me,” she stated, “I shall return to my quarters. Madoc will care for him. Or, better yet, you may care for him yourself. Sir Goddard doesn’t trust us. Nor do you. Should something happen to him, we’ll be the ones who are held at fault. I hereby withdraw my offer of assistance. A pleasant good day to you.”

  Paxton had risen from his knees at the same time Alana did. The bitterness of her words still rang in his ears as she marched toward the door. She nearly collided with Madoc when she reached the opening. Taking the casket of medicinals from his hands, she set it on a nearby table.

  She looked back at him, pointing to the small chest. “Whatever you need to tend to his wounds is in there,” she announced before she turned away. Waving her servant ahead of her, she disappeared from sight, Madoc with her.

  “Do you think Sir Goddard is, as she suggested, delirious?” Graham asked. He had also come to his feet and now stood shoulder to shoulder with Paxton. “Or do you believe he is correct when he said her kin were involved?”

  Staring at the empty doorway, Paxton shrugged. “It is difficult to say. But just as it is always wont to do, the truth eventually manages to surface, whether we like it or not. I suppose, my friend, time will one day give us the answer.”

  Worry was Alana’s constant companion. She slept with this feeling of distress; moved through the daylight hours with it sitting on her shoulder. The fear that something terrible might happen never left her.

  Since the hour Sir Goddard had been brought through the gates, close to a fortnight ago, the tension inside the fortress had expanded to the point of near explosiveness. The knight, not having taken the poisoning into his blood, would survive, and the threat of retribution was now spent. Even so there was cause for concern.

  Sir Goddard’s claim that the troop of knights had been attacked by Alana’s kin as they made their way toward the plains of Chester quickly passed from mouth to ear throughout the castle. As expected all trust between Henry’s men and her people had soon abated.

  Alana had no way of knowing if the assertion were true, for she’d yet to hear from Rhys. But whether it had been her kinfolk who had fallen upon the group or another rebellious band, who were altogether unknown to her, didn’t really matter. Paxton’s stand was that the perpetrators were Welsh. That was all he needed to know.

  From her vantage point at her chamber window, she examined the man in her thoughts. He stood on a raised platform overlooking the palisade and the new construction beyond.

  The day after Sir Goddard had found his way back to the castle, Paxton ordered that a ditch be dug around the perimeter. Once completed it would gird the entire stronghold.

  Currently crushed rock was being hauled up from the riverbed, the water having subsided to an easy flow, whereupon it was dumped into the small section that was finished, to serve as a base for the massive wall that was to be erected.

  This new barrier promised to climb significantly higher and be far thicker than its present counterpart. Piece by piece, the old wooden structure would be dismantled, impenetrable stone rising in its place.

  Alana sighed. Though the changes were being implemented in order to fortify against the Welsh, it was her own people who labored at the task.

  So far they worked arduously and without complaint. But one word, one misstep from either side and things could easily erupt in disaster. She just prayed that tempers held—hers and Paxton’s included—so the tenuous truce between all those concerned wouldn’t be broken.

  Paxton let loose a shrill whistle, then waved his arm. Alana knew it to be his way of signaling that this day’s work was done.

  As usual, though several hours of daylight remained, he didn’t press her people beyond their limits, insisting they toil until they fell in their tracks. He was wise in this respect, knowing that a weary man produced less in way of his labors. Alana was thankful he was so perceptive.

  The first of the laborers began entering through the gates, carrying their tools with them. Unlike the Normans, the Welsh, who as a whole refused to give themselves over to gluttony, partook of only one meal a day, usually in the evening. Therefore Alana knew there would be hungry stomachs to feed.

  With one last cursory glance at Paxton, who was climbing down from his high perch, she headed for the door and the hall.

  A short time later, Alana was busy refilling the cups as she made her way along one of the tables, where a simple meal of lagana—a broad, flat cake of bread—broth, and chopped meat was being consumed.

  Milk brimming inside the goblet, she set the filled cup beside the empty trencher and close to the man’s hand, its owner slumping over his plate. She started to withdraw, but gasped when he caught her wrist.

  Frowning down on him, she gazed at his covered head. He slowly turned, peering at her from beneath his hood. Alana’s heart nearly stopped.

  “Dylan… what are you doing here?”

  “I’d think that was obvious, Cousin.” His handsome features were further enhanced when a lazy smile broke beneath his mustache. “I’m here to see you, of course.”

  “But how did you get in here? The guards—how did you ever manage it?”

  “With so many laborers moving about outside, it wasn’t hard to join in with them. I fear, though, I’m not as industrious as they… or should I say: not as seasoned?” He released her wrist and turned his palm upward. “I’ve got blisters, and they hurt like the devil.”

  Staring at the broken, bloodied skin, Alana felt for him. “Oh, Dylan,
how could you do this to yourself?”

  “Easy. I don’t work with my hands… not if I can help it. Being older and wiser than my brothers, I leave the hard chores for them.”

  “One day they shall catch on, and when they do you’ll suffer for it… worse than you are now.” She glanced to the table where Paxton sat. He and Sir Graham were deep in conversation. Probably discussing the new construction, she decided, relieved his concentration was elsewhere and not on her. “Your hands need attending to,” she said, again looking at her cousin.

  “Even more importantly, we need to talk.”

  “Meet me in the kitchens, and we shall do both.”

  While Alana continued down the line, refilling the cups, Dylan rose from his seat and made his way from the hall. After the pitcher was empty, she followed the same path her cousin had taken, with the excuse she needed to get more milk, the Welsh seldom partaking of wine.

  Dylan was lounging against a table, a hip perched on its top, when Alana entered the kitchens. “Don’t dawdle,” she commanded, switching the pitcher for the chest of medicinals that was kept on a shelf. “Come. Let’s find a place where we’ll less likely be heard.”

  Sequestering themselves in a storeroom, Alana took hold of Dylan’s hand and turned it toward the candle that burned close by. “Give me your other hand,” she ordered. When he complied, she inspected the broken blisters on it. “I suppose you joined with the other workers because your father wanted you to check on me?”

  “Do you assume I’d simply throw myself into their labors because I thought they needed a helping hand?” he asked incredulously. “Indeed, my father sent me. It’s been two weeks since he’s last seen you. He’s been worried about you, the same as I… the same as Meredydd and Caradog.”

  “How are they?” she inquired of her uncle and her other two cousins as she opened the chest. “Are they well?”