Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  “He’s been asking about you and Gilbert… about your relationship.”

  Alana’s heart skipped a beat. It was just as she’d feared. He still discredited her accounting of how Gilbert died and was tapping Gwenifer for information. “And what did you tell him?”

  Her cousin shrugged. “That you had your differences, but that Gilbert seemed happy. Was that acceptable?”

  Alana supposed so—if, in fact, that was all her cousin had told him. “Aye,” she said, not wanting to make an issue of it. “Please, Gwenifer, do as I’ve requested and keep away from him. And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about Henry’s edict. I don’t want the others to know that I’ve been ordered to marry another Norman.”

  “I promise I won’t say a word.” Gwenifer rose from the chair. Fine lines creased her brow as she began to tap her upper lip with her forefinger. “This matter about Paxton culling information from me,” she said. “What if we were to turn the tables on him? What if I were able to extract some information from him? Whatever I learn, I’ll bring it straight to you. What do you think?”

  Alana sighed. “Thanks to Father Jevon, I believe we have discovered all there is to know.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Don’t tell me there is something else… never mind. Tell me!”

  “Well, you say Paxton is forcing you to marry him by threatening retribution against Rhys, correct?”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet, when I spoke to him just a short while ago, he told me that Henry issued the edict, but it was Paxton’s choice whether or not he married. His king allowed him the option.”

  “And?”

  “When I asked if he was going to marry you, he said he hadn’t decided.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t love you. But then you don’t love him. So that’s really of no consequence. I think that was all—for now.”

  Didn’t love you.

  As the words repeated themselves in Alana’s mind, she wondered if Gwenifer had asked him about his feelings point-blank. Or had he tossed that little tidbit out on his own?

  Ignoring the small twinge of pain near her heart, Alana decided she cared little who brought the subject up. Nor were Paxton’s feelings toward her of any importance. The only thing that concerned her was stopping this marriage.

  “If you were to remain on amicable terms with him, what good do you think it will do?” Alana asked.

  “I’m not fully certain. But I do know, if I’m made to keep away from him, we won’t have any inkling as to what he is up to. I doubt we gain anything that can be used as a threat against him. But I’m sure we can learn what his plans are and when he means to execute them.”

  Alana was hesitant. For all Gwenifer’s good intentions, her scheme might in the end have an adverse effect. What if Gwenifer again let something slip?

  Yet knowing Paxton’s own designs and schemes in advance might somehow give Alana the upper hand.

  She already knew that he hadn’t decided if he was going to wed her or not, which meant some hope still existed. She’d not be aware of his lack of resolve if it were not for Gwenifer.

  “Stay close to him,” Alana said, “but make certain you keep your own tongue silent.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  “There are rumblings within the castle, milady, that will not be quieted,” Madoc said. “Your cousin’s blatant actions toward the Norman are stirring a lot of unrest. If something isn’t done, I fear there will soon be anarchy.”

  Alana looked away from the cage, for she and Madoc were again at the mews feeding the hawks and falcons. Studying Madoc closely, she noted his face was drawn, and the lines near his mouth and eyes had deepened over the past four days.

  Knowing Madoc as well as she did, Alana could not deny he was worried that chaos would be upon them in quick order. But what was she to do?

  “Did you explain anew to them that Gwenifer is assisting me by gleaning information from him?” As she wiped her hands on a damp rag, the last bird of prey having been fed, she saw Madoc’s nod. “Why then are they so unwilling to accept that?”

  “Her getting information from him is not what rankles them,” Madoc said. “What they cannot accept is the way she’s going about it. All this laughing and smiling and looking into each other’s eyes—seems to me she could show some restraint and comport herself in a manner that states she possesses some modesty. Instead she practically tosses herself into his lap the instant his backside hits a bench inside the hall.”

  Madoc’s words were, to a certain extent, an exaggeration.

  Yes, there were moments when their laughter filled the hall, the sound capturing everyone’s attention. And there were times when they bestowed on one another an engaging smile, which elicited some pointed looks from Gwenifer’s peers.

  Likewise there were instances where their eyes would meet and they would gaze at each other as though they were entranced. On these occasions, a low grumbling of disgust traveled through the hall.

  Alana had noticed these things, the same as her kinsmen had. But Gwenifer had done nothing so bold as to cast herself at Paxton. Not yet.

  As Alana reviewed Gwenifer’s behavior, it was now apparent that her cousin was being a bit too friendly toward Paxton.

  However, Gwenifer wasn’t totally to blame for her actions. Alana had allowed her cousin to conduct herself in whatever manner she wished, confident that sooner or later something of significance would come to light.

  Yet in the time since they’d agreed to the arrangement, Gwenifer had brought not one word of import to Alana. That Paxton preferred venison over rabbit wasn’t exactly newsworthy!

  Despite Alana’s disappointment, Gwenifer remained her one link to Paxton, her one hope that something of consequence could be learned. Even though she was faced with an insurrection among her kinsmen, she was unwilling to sever that connection.

  But she could quell Gwenifer’s exuberance toward the Norman with a quick word of warning. That in itself should be enough to ease the tension among her people. At least she trusted that it would.

  “I will speak to her,” Alana said. “But I want you to remind the others that she does what she does to help us all.”

  “I’ll talk to them again,” Madoc stated. “But, I caution you: They had better see some change in her, and see it soon, else she’ll be the one to suffer if they don’t.”

  Alana hadn’t realized her kin might actually turn on Gwenifer. “Go, Madoc, and pass the word. Let them know if they think to harm my cousin—their own kinswoman—I will not be the least bit pleased. Tell them that they must have faith in me on this. Hurry.”

  He kept to his place, eyes narrowing on Alana. “What do you hope to learn from the Norman that is so important to us all?”

  Alana was wondering the same herself. She hadn’t told Madoc about Henry’s edict. And apparently Father Jevon was now keeping his tongue between his teeth, for no one else appeared to be aware of it either.

  The truth was that if Paxton decided to force the issue, demanding that they marry, she could do little except comply. Running away might be her only reprieve. Though the notion of taking flight was tempting, she knew she couldn’t desert her kin.

  “I don’t know, Madoc,” she at last said. “All along my one worry has been that he will somehow learn the truth about Gilbert.”

  “Save for you and I, no one knows what really happened. Not here.”

  “As to just how he died, yes. But of the men who retrieved his body—what if one of them recalls noting something unusual?”

  “Like what?” Madoc asked.

  “The stains and cuts on the front of his tunic.”

  “Those were hidden by mud and grass when they pulled him, facedown, from the river. Besides, I burned his clothing, then buried the remnants when the rains started again. The evidence is gone. There’s no proof that he didn’t drown. You worry for naught.”

  “You may be righ
t. But if Paxton should come upon something, the only way we might be made aware of it is through Gwenifer. It’s not just my safety or yours that is at risk. Everyone here might be in jeopardy. His retribution could encompass us all.”

  “Including those across the river,” Madoc said, nodding.

  “Aye. That is why Gwenifer is keeping so close to him. Whatever she learns, she brings the information straight to me. Now go speak to the others, please.”

  “I will, milady. And this time, I will make them understand.”

  Alana watched as he scurried off to do her biding. Once he disappeared from sight, she wandered farther back into the yard, away from any activity, for she needed to be alone.

  The mental burden she carried was beginning to weigh far too heavily. If there were ever a time she wanted to flee from her responsibilities, run from the uncertainties she faced, it was now.

  Why couldn’t the world, as she knew it, be free from all this strife and friction, its inhabitants living in peace and harmony? Moreover, what was it that resided in the human soul which prompted this constant quest for power, this untamable desire to dominate?

  Alana wasn’t thinking solely of the Normans. The Welsh were equally as covetous.

  Without question, her countrymen were quick to band together against an outside invader, but when the threat was ended, they were fast at each other’s throats, always grappling for control.

  Fools all, Alana decided. For no matter who the perpetrator might be—Saxon, Norman, Welsh—the conflict in her homeland was neverending.

  Weary of deliberating about mankind’s weaknesses, she put such thoughts from her mind and strolled aimlessly toward the herb garden.

  Before she reached the spot, she heard someone shout Paxton’s name. The call sounded angry and had come from the vicinity of the hall. Alana didn’t hesitate. Lifting her skirt, she set off in the direction where the cry had broken the air.

  When she rounded the building’s corner, a loud din of voices drawing her, she came to an abrupt halt, for she was startled by what she saw.

  At the entrance of the hall stood Paxton. Behind him was Gwenifer and Sir Graham. Before the trio was a line of Normans, their weapons ready. They served as a shield between the castle’s overlord and the mob of Welsh that confronted him.

  Alana’s eyes searched the belligerent crowd. She saw Madoc among them. Aldwyn, too. Their actions told her that they attempted to calm her kinsmen as they urged them to disperse.

  Her heart sank. What she’d hoped to avoid had actually come to pass. Not wanting to see either side suffer any harm, she dashed forward, intending to put a stop to the brewing madness.

  Unfortunately Alana insinuated herself between the crowd and the men-at-arms at the worst possible time. She didn’t see the rock that was hurled, but felt its force as it struck the side of her head.

  “Milady!”

  Madoc’s cry echoed in her ears as sparks showered inside her head. Somewhere beyond the haze encompassing her, she knew she was falling, even thought she heard Paxton swear with explosive intent. But she couldn’t be sure. For at the very instant she landed, face first, in the dirt, everything went black.

  Paxton strode through the center of the hall, around the hearth, then on toward the stairs, an unconscious Alana held fast in his arms.

  A vigorous expletive erupted inside his head as he gazed down on her wan face.

  Her left cheek was caked with dirt and bruised from the tumble she’d taken. Her headrail had fallen away when he’d lifted her limp form from the ground, and he could now see her dark hair was wet and matted with blood at the site of her injury, just above her right ear.

  She’d been hit hard and had gone down like a sturdy tree ripped from its roots by a fierce wind. The thud, when her body had hit the ground, had reverberated through the yard, the crowd having gone silent when they realized she’d been struck.

  Paxton remembered the collective look of horror on their faces, saw how they had paled in response. They regretted their actions now. Would probably give anything to erase that one moment in time. But they couldn’t. And Paxton vowed that if he ever learned the identity of the individual who cast the stone, which he understood was meant for him, he’d kill the bastard.

  The stairs and gallery were behind him, and Alana’s chamber door loomed just ahead. “Open it,” he said to Madoc. The man had been scampering along behind him, followed by Sir Graham and Gwenifer.

  Madoc did as bade, and Paxton walked across the threshold, carrying Alana to the bed, where he settled her in the center of the mattress. He edged a hip onto the bed beside her.

  “Alana?” He lightly smoothed his hand across her brow. His knuckles trailed down her uninjured cheek. “Wake up.”

  There was no response, not even a flicker of her eyelids.

  He looked at Madoc, who was poised close to his shoulder. “Get the chest of medicinals.”

  “Is it bad?” Madoc asked.

  “She has a cut and a nice-size knot. When she awakens, she’ll no doubt have a severe headache. Other than that, ‘tis hard to say. Now do as I ordered.” Paxton’s gaze skipped to Gwenifer, who hugged the door frame. “Go with Madoc,” he commanded. “Get some clean cloths and bring some hot water from the kettle by the hearth.”

  Gwenifer didn’t move. “What brought this on? What made them behave in such a manner?”

  Everyone knew she referred to the crowd. “’Twas your behavior—yours and his,” Madoc snarled as he marched to the door. He stopped only inches from Gwenifer. “Cavorting with each other the way you are—they don’t like it. ’Tis worse with him than it was with Sir Gilbert. Should have been you who got stoned.” Madoc shoved past her and was gone.

  Paxton heard the man’s accusing words, noted Gwenifer’s stricken expression as she digested them.

  “They hate me,” she whispered.

  “Nay,” he said, not moving from Alana’s side. “They hate the fact that you’re associating with a Norman.” He looked to Graham. “Go with Gwenifer and assist her in bringing the cloths and water.” His gaze moved back to Gwenifer. “Sir Graham will offer his protection while you get the things I require.”

  Graham turned and withdrew from his position midway between the door and the bed. Once he was beside Gwenifer, he took hold of her arm. “No harm will come to you,” he said, then urged her from the room.

  The instant they were gone Paxton again beheld Alana. If anyone should be made to bear the blame for what had happened to her, it was he.

  In his quest for answers about Gilbert, he had encouraged Gwenifer’s advances. Had deliberately done so while being fully aware that at some point the Welsh would revolt.

  It had rankled them that one of their kinswomen should dare to consort with their enemy before their very noses. He knew the risk. Despite that knowledge, he’d forged ahead, eager to seek Gwenifer’s attention, welcoming any information she could offer, inviting trouble as he went.

  Alana must have recognized the effects of his and Gwenifer’s companionship. Why then didn’t she attempt to cease their, as Madoc so aptly put it, cavorting?

  It mattered not. The damage was done. Rightly Paxton condemned himself, for it was Alana who was made to suffer.

  Sighing, he reached for her braid, then unplaited the strands. Afterward he combed his fingers through the dark tresses, spreading them over the pillow that was hidden below the wadmal bedcover.

  Again gazing at her face, Paxton saw beneath the dirt streaking her cheek the telltale marks of a bruise. His gut twisted as he damned himself and his own foolishness.

  This incessant search for answers where none existed had to end. Gilbert’s death was as Alana had stated: an accidental drowning. No more would he try to prove otherwise.

  The decision came to him as he felt her scalp and measured the size of the bump that was rising there. Alana moaned at the action; Paxton watched as her head rolled away from his hand.

  Her lashes fluttered, and he soon found himself l
ooking into her captivating eyes. “How do you feel?” he asked, lightly stroking the uninjured side of her head.

  She glanced around her, then stared at him in confusion. “What am I doing here?”

  At the same time she posed the question, she caught the fact that his hand was in her hair. As though repulsed by his touch, she pulled away and tried to sit up. She groaned as she clasped her head and fell back onto the pillow.

  Paxton fought the urge to shake his head in selfdisgust. Did she truly despise him that much? “I suggest you stay lying down,” he said. “If you keep yourself still, your head won’t pound to the extreme that it just did. Do you remember being hit by the rock?”

  “I remember,” she grumbled while gingerly feeling the lump. She pulled her hand away to look at her fingers. “God’s wounds! I’m bleeding.”

  “Aye. But the wound is not serious.”

  “Easy for you to say when it’s not your head that’s split open and aching like the devil.”

  “The stone was meant for me,” he stated, ruing that she was the one injured instead of him.

  “Aye. ’Tis not that hard to figure who was the actual recipient of their hatred.”

  “Woman, you amaze me,” he said, a frown marking his brow. “If you recognized the extent of their anger, why the hell did you throw yourself in the middle?”

  “Had I known the rock was coming, I wouldn’t have,” she snapped. She shot him a glare. “Why are you hovering over me like some witless nursemaid? Go see to Gwenifer.” She shoved at his chest, attempting to dislodge him from the bed. “By all that has happened, she may be in need of your protection.”

  He caught her hands, securing them against him. “Sir Graham is with her. Besides, it is not her health that concerns me but yours.”

  “My health is fine. I’m stout and hale!” she proclaimed, jerking her hands from beneath his. “Now take yourself from my chamber so I may lie here in peace.”

  “I’ll depart from your side only when Madoc returns with the chest of medicinals. Not before.” He paused. “You know, Alana, mayhap you should accustom yourself to being near me. One day soon, you and I will be sharing this chamber. In fact, we’ll be consummating our marriage in this very bed.”