Pray that his rage was never turned on her, she thought, afraid of the aftereffects. Just as Sir Goddard had crumpled under the blow of Paxton’s fist, she also would not fare well.
“Cover yourself,” he said.
The coldness in his voice stunned her. She watched him with care as she pulled her skirts down past her knees. Afterward she slid from the sacks and stood on wobbly legs, facing him.
“Do you blame me for this?” she asked, noting how he avoided meeting her gaze.
“Nay. I blame myself.” As though it pained him, he turned his eyes to hers. “I should have known he’d try something like this. If I’d been a second later in coming—God’s wounds!” he exploded. “I can’t bear to think what would have happened to you. He didn’t—”
Alana’s fingers covered his lips. “No. Nearly, but you came in time.” She stepped closer and slipped her arms around his waist. The action obviously surprised Paxton, for he seemed not to know what to do with his own arms. In truth, Alana had surprised herself as well.
She pressed her cheek to his broad chest. The steady beat of his heart was in itself comforting to her. “Thank you for saving me.”
With a soft groan, Paxton returned her embrace. “You’re welcome,” he whispered huskily. “More welcome than you’ll ever know.”
It was then that the trembling set in. Alana began to shake uncontrollably while her teeth started chattering. This had happened to her once before, just after she’d dragged herself from the swollen river.
She didn’t want to think about that day nor to think about what had almost happened now. All her physical and emotional reserves were suddenly drained, and she desired only to find her bed, so she could rest and regain her stamina.
Apparently Paxton understood her need, for he said, “Let’s get you to your chamber and into a warm bed. You’re clearly reacting to the terror of the moment, along with the panic you sustained when you thought no one would rescue you.”
Gently he set her from him, then supporting her, nodded in the direction of the door.
Clinging to him, Alana allowed him to guide her across the room. When they came nigh to Sir Goddard, her tremors became more pronounced. Paxton pulled her to him, assuring his protection.
“What is to happen to him?” she asked, surveying Sir Goddard with care.
“If by some chance he manages to survive the night, he’ll be gone from here just after dawn, tomorrow.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You’re not planning to kill him, are you?”
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
“Set the notion aside. He’s not worth your anger nor the loss of your honor.”
“What then would you have me do?”
“Send him into the wood, alone,” she said, forgetting her sworn obligation to protect her kin. “He’ll soon meet his own doom.”
If Paxton had caught her slip of the tongue, he didn’t show that he had. Perhaps he’d overlooked the implication. Better still, maybe he’d missed it altogether.
Deliberating on which of the three it might be, Alana was relieved when he declared, “Your suggestion sounds tempting. I’ll consider it closely.”
He kicked Sir Goddard’s limp leg from their path as they passed by him. Whether from the wine, from Paxton’s debilitating fist, or from a combination of the two, the man was oblivious to the blow.
The knight had better hope he remained such, Alana thought. For by the hard tic in Paxton’s jaw, she was certain Sir Goddard hadn’t suffered the last such punishment from her rescuer.
And sunrise was yet a long way off.
Shortly after dawn the next morning, Paxton watched as the huge gates were swung wide on their hinges. Beside him, Sir Goddard was trussed to his saddle, ready to make his departure.
Just as he’d promised, Paxton had considered Alana’s suggestion about turning the knight loose into the wood alone. In the end, though, he decided to send the man to the Chester Castle with instructions that Sir Goddard be held there. When Henry arrived to begin his campaign against Owain Gwynedd, he could deal with the bastard. With luck, Sir Goddard would feel the full wrath of their king, his crime against Alana avenged.
Looking up at the knight, Paxton noted the man’s posture was slumped, his demeanor subdued. Several bruises showed on Sir Goddard’s face, the marks an exact match to Paxton’s fists. His jaw hardened and his eyes narrowed as images of Alana struggling ineffectually against the sot flashed through his mind.
Never had he felt such rage toward any human prior to yesterday’s events. Even now, he could feel his fury rising. The desire to kill the odious brute mounted inside him. One furtive glance, one simple word, and his control, held only by a fine thread, would snap.
“Hear me, and hear me well,” Paxton said through clenched teeth. “You leave here alive only because I have allowed it. You go to Chester, where you will await your fate. Hope, sir, that your judge is merciful. If he is not, you have no one to blame but yourself.” Paxton hadn’t mentioned Sir Goddard’s arbiter by name, for Henry’s movements were to be kept secreted. “Hear this also,” he continued. “If by some off chance you go unpunished for your crime and are set free, never come this way again. Understand?”
Sir Goddard grunted an incoherent reply.
Paxton couldn’t tell if the garbled sound was emitted as a sign of agreement or if the croak was from the man clearing his throat.
It mattered not.
Should the bastard reappear, it would be his last such act of defiance.
With one final glare at Sir Goddard, Paxton turned toward Sir Graham, who was seated atop his horse, waiting.
“Once you reach Offa’s Dyke, leave the others behind.” His voice was kept low so only Graham could hear him. “From there, you and the two who will accompany you are to escort Sir Goddard to Chester. See that he is incarcerated, with orders that he be held for Henry. If he gives you any trouble on the way, slay him and leave his body to the scavengers. I’ll expect you back here in three days… definitely no more than four.”
“Do you think your plan will work?” Sir Graham asked. “I’d hate to be left out there in some wood like the others who were slain.”
Paxton shifted his gaze to the two dozen Welshmen who were to accompany the four knights on their journey. He’d chosen the lot, hoping to avert another tragedy. “It should work. They know the consequences if they fail to bring you back alive.”
“Which in itself is naught but a hoax, right?”
Paxton shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. The threat hangs above their heads. They have no way of knowing if I’ll follow through or not.”
“Well, just in case they didn’t fully grasp what you said the first time around, I’d appreciate it if you would repeat it to them again, so there is no misunderstanding.”
“If you have qualms about going, I’ll take your place.”
Graham shook his head. “Nay, you’re needed here. Besides, like my two fellow knights, I volunteered. No one is forcing me to go. Though why we don’t let her kinfolk dispatch the bastard, here and now, is something I’ve yet to determine.” He waved Paxton from his side. “Go on. Give your speech. I’ll feel far better once you have.”
Paxton reached up and clasped Graham’s forearm. “God’s speed to you. Make certain you watch your back.”
“That I will,” Graham responded, releasing Paxton’s arm. “Your speech, sir.”
Paxton moved to the center of the yard. “Heed me… all of you!” he called, his gaze sweeping the Welsh, Madoc included.
The man’s presence among the group was in way of additional assurance toward Graham’s and the two other knights’ safe return. Given Madoc’s loyalty to Alana, Paxton doubted the man would allow any underhandedness to occur.
When Paxton had everyone’s attention, he said, “I will repeat my orders to you so that everything is made quite plain. You are to escort these men to Offa’s Dyke. Once there, you will keep to your positions while Sir Graham, who is in
charge of this expedition, and his companions take Sir Goddard on to Chester. On their return, you will escort the three of them back to the castle. Whether it is going to or returning from the marches, you will protect these knights with your very lives. If Sir Graham and his men do not return here as hale and stout as the day they departed, the Lady Alana will suffer—greatly, at that—for your carelessness.” He locked eyes with Madoc. “If you do not wish to see her harmed, I suggest you take your duty to heart. You are to be back here in three days. Is that clear?”
A collective rumbling of ayes, along with an equal number of nods, ran through the group.
“Good,” he announced. “Now be off with you.”
The troop of men began filing through the yawning gates, the four knights at the center. As Paxton watched them go, he prayed Graham and his men would come to no harm. Sir Goddard he couldn’t care less about. Still the edict had been given for all four of them.
And if Graham and the two men who had volunteered to accompany him did suffer from some mischief, whether it was theirs or another tribe of Welsh running these hills, would he then follow through on his threat against Alana?
There were others besides those riding with the four knights who had heard his discourse. A good commander always kept his word, never broke a vow. Therefore, he realized the only acceptable course would be to exact punishment on her.
The gates were now closing.
Paxton drew in a deep breath.
Pray God they returned in the allotted time, he thought. And pray that his comrades remained safe.
He sighed heavily. The last thing he wanted to do was scar Alana’s soft back with the biting sting of a whip.
But a flogging was far better than the alternative…
Which was death.
He was very clever, Alana decided, as she turned from her chamber window, the last of the men having passed through the gates.
She’d heard everything, his words rising distinctly in the crisp morning air.
As she began to listen, she was at first startled by his directive, frightened by what it could mean. Then she understood the significance of it all.
Her own people acting as escorts for the four knights ensured there wouldn’t be a repeat of the slaughter that befell the first group after they’d left the castle, especially when the Welsh were ordered to guard the Normans with their lives.
Paxton’s added threat against her safety was also an ingenious maneuver. The intent was that they would not fail her. Yet Alana wondered if any of these measures would work.
Rhys was unaware of Paxton’s promise to take retribution against her should Sir Graham and the others be injured or killed. Though Alana doubted her uncle would harm any of his own race, in his eagerness to liberate his beloved Cymru of all Normans, he might feel it necessary to attack the group.
His wild cries and his menacing actions would no doubt scatter the less stouthearted among those who protected the four knights, their flight leaving the Norman warriors at Rhys’s mercy. She could only imagine what would happen to her then.
Yesterday, Paxton had shown her compassion by giving her comfort after he’d freed her from Sir Goddard’s clutches. In three days, however, he might be forced to inflict on her his own form of reprisal.
Having witnessed Paxton’s rage while it was imposed on Sir Goddard, Alana wondered if her punishment would be as swift and unerring. Would it also be as brutal?
Turning, she looked through her window at the trees beyond the river. She hoped for once Rhys tempered his lust for Norman blood, otherwise she’d be made to suffer for what Paxton would doubtlessly term as Welsh atrocities.
Alana wasn’t just worried about herself. She was concerned about Sir Graham and his two companions. Sir Goddard she cared not a whit about. Then there were those who were sworn to protect the knights—her own kin.
Remembering their solemn expressions as Paxton delivered his decree as to their conduct, she knew they’d taken him at his word, had accepted that she would be severely disciplined if anything happened to the Normans in their care. With that treatise hanging over their heads, they would indeed stand against Rhys, fighting unto their deaths.
The thought of having one side of her family battling against the other nearly undid Alana.
She had to get word to Rhys… to Dylan… to someone across the river.
But how?
A familiar name came to mind. She disliked the thought of using him, yet she had little choice.
Spinning on her heel, Alana headed for her door, going in search of Aldwyn.
“What are you doing?” Paxton asked.
“Skipping stones,” came the reply.
Frowning, Paxton watched as the lad picked up another smooth rock. He then cast it with his left hand across the surface of the river. Paxton counted six skips. Not bad, he thought.
“Mind if I try?”
“’Tis your choice.”
Paxton found a similar stone as to the one just thrown. Positioning himself, he hurled the thing, sidearm, at the water.
Three skips and it sank.
“You could use some practice.”
Paxton heard the smugness in the lad’s voice. “Agreed,” he said, “but it has been years since I tried this.” He picked up another stone. “When I was your age”—Paxton estimated the lad to be about fourteen—“I averaged ten skips. My record was seven-and-ten.”
“Pah! No one is that good.”
“I was.”
Paxton tossed the stone. It skimmed the water’s surface twice, then faltered and disappeared. With that the competition was on.
After six rounds of the pair casting their stones, Paxton losing every time, he asked, “What’s your name, lad?”
He need not have done so. By the boy’s missing right hand, he knew the answer. In fact, their meeting beside the river didn’t happen by chance.
From the wall walk where he stood, Paxton had seen Alana speaking with Aldwyn. Their conversation was brief, their countenances serious. A short time later, Aldwyn had slipped through the side gate. Paxton had followed. Thus their present interaction.
Aldwyn stated his name, then cocked his head. “I’d think you’d have more important things to do than skipping stones.”
“Not today. The construction is on hold at present.” Paxton shrugged. “It being such a fine day, I thought I’d just dally about.” He cast another stone, watched it skip, then looked at Aldwyn. “Why are you at the river?”
“Building my strength and dexterity,” he answered, skipping another rock. “With the loss of my right hand, I had to learn to do everything with my left.”
Paxton nodded. “I imagine it has been difficult.”
“At first, it was. I was fumbling with things all the time. I’d get angry and wanted to give up. But Alana made me practice. She was always after me to try different things. When I got good at one, she had me move on to something else.”
“Such as skipping stones?”
“Aye. She’s challenged me to a contest. Told me just a little while ago that I’d better practice. Said she’d hate to embarrass me by beating me, she being a female.”
Paxton smiled to himself.
So, his suspicions were for naught. The two having their heads together was nothing more than Alana’s wanting to goad the lad into improving himself so that in the future his disability would in no way deter him.
In that instant, Paxton’s respect for Alana grew. Where many would look upon the lad as a beggarly cripple, shoving him aside as they went, she had taken a different tack. In Aldwyn she saw potential. She believed in him, and she wanted him to believe in himself.
By the way Aldwyn cast the stones, the last one skipping across the water ten times, Paxton knew the lad would fare quite well. He possessed determination, and was quickly becoming skilled with his left hand. And Alana was the driving force behind both accomplishments. Aldwyn could not have asked for a better friend.
After tossing a few more s
tones, Paxton said his good-byes, then started back up the hill. Halfway to the top, he turned to look down on the dark-haired, dark-eyed lad whose courage he admired.
Paxton stared at the spot where he’d stood only a few minutes before. A puzzled frown creased his brow, for he saw naught but the rippling waters and the grassy bank.
Aldwyn was gone.
Nightfall had come, and just like the curtain of darkness that had descended on the fortress, the moods within had grown equally as black.
With supper over and her chores finished for the day, Alana strolled the dimly lit courtyard, wanting to be away from the oppressiveness inside the hall.
She was concerned, and with good cause.
Paxton’s promised reprisal against her should Sir Graham and his men come to harm had precipitated a change between Welsh and Norman alike. Though neither side trusted the other, caution always being the preferred course of action for both parties, never were they this wary, this suspicious, nor this restive, not even on Sir Goddard’s return with the news of the slaughter.
As she made her way toward the side gate, the leaning of her direction having become a matter of habit from months of sneaking out into the night wood, Alana questioned whether she should attempt to lift her kinfolks’ spirits by telling them that they could put their fears aside.
Around midmorning, Aldwyn had returned from his appointed task, apprising her that he’d gotten word to one of the watchers who was positioned in the woods not far across the river from the fortress. With Alana’s communication delivered, the man had set off toward the old ringwork, promising that Rhys would be informed of the situation immediately.
Yet Aldwyn’s recount of the man’s hasty departure, along with his added aside about how the man had gone waxen in appearance on Aldwyn’s repeating her message, had given Alana reason to wonder if her uncle was preparing to ride against her kin and the four knights. At the time, she could only pray that the watcher had arrived prior to Rhys’s striking out in pursuit of the group. Or, ultimately, and more importantly, that word was gotten to her uncle before he attacked.
Uncertain if her prayers had been answered, she hesitated in raising her kinsmen’s hopes, only for them to be dashed a few days’ hence.
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