Rhys grunted. “By her belligerent manner, I’d say she’s regained her nerve.”
“I’d not be snapping at you,” Alana said, “if you’d stop these incessant questions the way I’d asked you earlier. Please, Uncle, just let it be. I am weary and I don’t want to think about these past several weeks. Nor do I wish to talk about them.”
“Then we shall discuss something else,” Rhys said.
“And what is that?” Alana asked.
“Your marriage.”
Alana’s gaze skittered to Dylan. His face was a stoic mask. Had he told his father about Paxton and her, even after he swore he wouldn’t?
“My marriage?” she questioned, hurt that Dylan would betray her.
“Aye,” Rhys said. “’Tis time—”
“Father, is this really necessary?” Dylan interrupted. “In the short while since her arrival, you’ve hounded Alana perpetually. Can you not allow her some time to enjoy herself?”
“I do desire she enjoy herself,” Rhys insisted. “I also want her to be happy… free from this worry she says is weighing her down. That is why I think it’s time she remarried.” He turned to Alana. “I did not approve of your choice of a husband the first time you decided to wed. You are now aware you made a disastrous mistake. I warned you against Gilbert FitzWilliam. He was rude and crude, as all Normans are. The bastard was also treacherous to a fault, which you discovered. Consequently, when you marry again, the man you choose will be Welsh. You’ve denied my proposals that we join, and I accept your refusal. But you have been widowed long enough. You need a man’s protection. Therefore, I’ve decided you should marry Dylan.”
Relief washed through Alana, for Dylan hadn’t betrayed her after all. How could she have thought that he would? More importantly, how was she to respond to Rhys?
“Uncle, your concern is most gratifying. And Dylan would make a fine husband. But not for me. Though you may wish otherwise, I cannot marry him.”
“Why?” Rhys asked.
“Because after my first marriage, I swore I’d not join with a man again.” Which was true, yet her vow, through no failure of her own, had fallen by the wayside. But Rhys must never know that. “Gilbert was enough.”
“But—”
“Father,” Dylan said sternly, “Alana has spoken on the matter. Now let it rest and allow us to have a conversation of a more pleasant nature.”
Before her uncle could agree or disagree with his son, Alana took control and changed the topic. “So, Meredydd,” she said, smiling. “When I arrived, Dylan said you were in the wood. Were you hunting?”
The piece of lagana that Meredydd had broken from the larger cake of bread and soaked in the broth on his trencher hung in midair as he attended her with his doe brown eyes.
“Aye,” Meredydd responded at last, then poked the lagana in his mouth.
“Did you have any luck?”
He nodded as he chewed. “Aye,” he said once he swallowed.
Alana thought he was being most reserved, which wasn’t like Meredydd at all. Usually he talked continually. “What did you bag?”
Meredydd beheld his father. “He got himself a fine boar,” Rhys answered for his son.
“Would you like for me to help with its preparation?” she inquired.
“Nay,” Meredydd stated. “I bagged it, so I’ll fix it.”
Meredydd seemed irked by her questions. She glanced at each of their faces. They all appeared annoyed by something.
“What’s wrong with the lot of you?” she inquired. “Has my coming here caused a problem?”
“Nay,” Rhys answered quickly. “It has been a long day for us, and we need to be up before dawn. Once we finish our meal, I think we should retire for the night.”
With her uncle’s response, Alana noted the deepening lines on each of their brows, as well as around their mouths and eyes. Whether the marks were from the strain of fatigue or from another form of stress entirely, she couldn’t say.
She did know that the Welsh worked long and hard throughout the day, resting little, if any. Her uncle and cousins were no exception.
Though it appeared otherwise, warring was not their only task at hand. The hillsides leading up to the ringwork had been cleared of their trees. One area was pasture for the cattle they raised; two others were for the grain—oats in spring and summer, wheat in winter. A fourth, which changed from year to year, lay fallow.
Rhys and his sons spent hours in the field, tending their herd, weeding the grain. Inside the ringwork, whether on the buildings, their tools, or their weapons, there were always repairs to be attended to. Their labors were constant and neverending, as it was for most of her kin.
Thinking it might be her own guilt that was causing her to imagine things, Alana decided to accept Rhys’s explanation. In truth she was a bit tired herself. A good night’s rest would probably lighten all their moods.
Alana harkened to the patter on the roof. “Listening to the rain outside has made me sleepy as well,” she said. “If we’re finished eating, I shall clean up our plates while you spread the pallets.”
At everyone’s nod, she collected the trenchers, then taking them across the way, she washed and dried them, storing them away. When she returned to the hearth, snuffing the candles as she went, she found the pallets were circled around the fire, all of them occupied.
Noting Dylan had saved room for her on his own pallet, she lay beside him. Soon the room’s chill forced her to huddle closer to him.
Between the crackle of the low fire near her feet and the raindrops pelting the roof, she soon found herself being lulled to sleep.
As her eyelids grew heavier, so did her heart. For her thoughts were on Paxton. She wished he was the one who lay beside her and not Dylan.
In another life, in another time, maybe there would have been hope for them. But in this life and in this time, with so much standing between them, no hope existed. Happiness would forever elude them.
It was regrettable, Alana admitted, sleep swirling in around her. But lamentably true.
Paxton squinted against the sudden burst of light that streamed into the room when the door was thrown open. Three shadowy figures ducked inside. A flint was struck; a torch blazed to life.
Closing his eyes, Paxton turned his head aside. So accustomed was he to the dark that the brightness hurt his eyes.
This morning marked the second day of his ordeal, or so Rhys had termed it.
Thus far he’d suffered several well-placed blows to his face and an equal number of kicks to his ribs. He’d not eaten nor had he been given water.
He was granted a bucket wherein he relieved himself when the need arose, an amenity given to Paxton so he would not defile their storage hut.
Cracking his eyelids, he peeked at the men. Rhys, Meredydd, and the youngest of the brothers, Caradog, were the ones who had entered this time.
“Well, Norman,” Rhys said. “I see you are up bright and early. I came by to tell you that you’ll not be put to the test today. A pity, for I had such great plans for you. During this respite, I suggest you gather your energies, assemble your thoughts, and make things right with your Maker. Tomorrow, shortly after dawn, you’ll be meeting your end.”
What was the delay? Paxton wondered. They didn’t intend to torment him, so why didn’t they just slay him here and now? Through narrowed eyes, he studied Alana’s uncle. “Am I to know by what means that will be?”
“I had hoped to spare you the worry,” Rhys returned with a rancorous laugh. “But if you insist on knowing, I see no reason to keep it from you. For swine, such as yourself, there is only one suitable conclusion. We plan to roast you, and Meredydd will light the pitch.”
Paxton’s stomach lurched. Alive and burning—no form of torture could conceivably be as grievous.
The Welshman was aware of that and had devised the mode of Paxton’s demise, hoping to administer as much agony as humanly possible.
Paxton had always imagined himself going dow
n in battle, his sword in hand, his king in mind.
But never this. Not death by fire.
“You hate me that much,” Paxton remarked.
“Not you, personally, Norman. Just your kind. Had you stayed beyond Offa’s Dyke this wouldn’t be happening to you. But you trespassed on our soil, and now you must pay the penalty. Tomorrow you’ll know the folly of Henry’s greed as well as the folly of your own.”
The door opened and closed, Rhys and his sons exiting.
Again in the darkness, Paxton pondered his plight.
Greed—one of the seven deadly sins.
Had he been wrong in wanting a fiefdom, wrong in desiring Alana, wrong in thinking he could have both?
According to Rhys, he was.
And, as it stood, Rhys had the last say.
Alana was busy preparing the dough for the lagana, which was baked daily.
Through the open doorway, she glimpsed her uncle and her two cousins as they exited the storage hut. She thought to call out to them, requesting they bring more flour, so she could make several more cakes for Dylan and herself. But, from this distance, and because she was inside the hut, she doubted they would hear her.
By the time she had wiped her hands and had reached the entry, she saw they were well down the path, headed in the direction of the gate.
She really didn’t want to face her uncle at the moment. He wasn’t pleased that she would be leaving them soon. She sighed, remembering how last night when he’d brought up the subject of marriage again, she’d informed him she wouldn’t be staying but moving on to Anglesey.
Just as she had expected, Rhys had grown red-faced, insisting she’d not go. Equally as determined, Alana insisted she would.
The Welsh were not afraid of expressing their views, no matter what their class, and she and her uncle were practically nose to nose in their discussion when Dylan pulled his father aside.
The two men had stepped from the hut for some private conversation. On their return Dylan had presented her with a reassuring nod. Then Rhys allowed that she could go, Dylan accompanying her on her travels.
Though he’d consented, he still wasn’t happy about her decision. His moodiness on rising this morning told her it was best she tread lightly while he was around. But no matter his humor, she’d made her choice. At dawn tomorrow, she and Dylan would embark on their journey.
Looking across the way, she decided she’d not trouble anyone about the flour, especially when she could do the deed on her own. After finding a suitable container, she was out the door, whereupon she pointed herself in the direction of the storage hut.
The heavy rain had ended yesterday afternoon, a fine mist supplanting it. To the west, she could see the clouds were thinning. With luck by tomorrow they would again see the sun.
Alana was now at the door of the storage hut. Placing the crock at her feet, she lifted the wooden bar from its braces and set the thing aside. As she reached for the latch, she was grabbed by the shoulders from behind. She gasped as she was spun around.
“Dylan? What in God’s name are you doing?”
“’Tis my question to you,” he said, still holding her firm.
Alana stared at him, confused. “I used the last of the flour and was going to get more to make some extra bread for us for our trip.”
“Take yourself back home,” he ordered, nudging her in the direction of their hut. “I’ll get the flour for you.”
Wondering why he was so emphatic about doing the task himself, Alana hesitated.
“Go on,” he said, then gave her a small push. “I’ll be there apace.”
“As you wish,” she said, then started to wend her way back along the path toward her uncle’s dwelling.
Halfway to her destination, she glanced at Dylan over her shoulder. With crock in hand, he had his hand on the latch, ready to enter the hut, when a frantic voice called out to him.
Alana looked to the source of the cry. It was one of their elder kinsmen. He was flailing around in the middle of a shock of bundled and bound sticks, which was to serve as firewood for all in the ringwork. Apparently he’d pulled one batch from the cart when the whole came tumbling down on him.
Dylan set the crock aside and loped off to offer his assistance.
Alana watched as her cousin pulled the man from beneath the avalanche. He wiped the mud off himself, Dylan aiding him, then the pair began dividing and stacking the bundles of wood that lay scattered on the ground.
Deciding that Dylan’s new project might take longer than her patience could bear, Alana marched back up the path, grabbed the crock, and released the door’s latch.
Light flooded into the hut as she pushed the panel wide. Alana ducked inside and froze in her tracks.
In the shadows, across the way, she saw a man huddled against a barrel. He was nude, filthy, and bound hand and foot. He was both squinting at her and shivering against the blast of cool air that had come through the door with her.
“Paxton?”
The crock dropped from her fingers as she rushed toward him. She fell to her knees beside him. Taking his head in her hands, she examined his face which was shaded by the start of a beard.
“My God!” she exclaimed at spying the bruises and cuts on his cheek, on his jaw, and at the corner of his mouth. “What have they done to you?”
“Unlike you, they certainly didn’t offer to wash my feet,” he rasped.
“If they’d regarded you as a guest, they would have,” she returned while attempting to loosen his bonds. Rhys—she felt like murdering her own uncle. “You followed me, didn’t you?” Her fingers were still working at the leather bindings without success. “Damn your Norman eyes, why didn’t you stay…?”
A shadow fell across them, and Alana turned to see who had entered. The man’s back was to the light, and she couldn’t make out his face.
“Who goes there?” she questioned, unknowingly thrusting herself between Paxton and the intruder.
The door closed, throwing everyone into blackness. She heard the striking of a flint. A flame leapt to life atop a candle. Alana was both relieved and angered all at once.
“What is this about, Dylan?” she asked, coming to her feet. “Why are you holding him prisoner? What ever possessed you to do such a thing?”
“He wandered into our territory. Meredydd believed he’d bagged himself a prize. Father did also.”
Alana remembered how on her first night here Meredydd had burst through the door, urgently needing to speak to Rhys. Afterward Meredydd, Rhys, and Dylan had gone out into the driving rain. “He’s been here all along, hasn’t he?”
“Aye—since shortly after you arrived.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“’Tis the same reason I didn’t tell my father that you and the Norman are married. I was sworn to secrecy.”
“What does your father plan for him?”
Dylan moved toward her. “Alana, you don’t want to know.”
“They intend to roast me, swine that I am.”
Alana’s head snapped around as Paxton’s voice rose from behind her. He was sincere. A knot formed in her stomach; her heart sank as panic rose inside her. This cannot be happening!
Slowly she turned back to face Dylan. “And you mean to let them?”
“I have no say in it.”
“Well, I do,” Alana avowed, the fight flowing into her with a vengeance. “You’ll not allow this, do you understand? You will help me get him away from here. I shall never forgive you if you let this atrocity that your father has devised to come about. Never.”
“What do you propose I do?” Dylan asked.
“When is he to be…” She swallowed, unable to say the word.
“Tomorrow, after we leave.”
Alana felt the blood drain from her face. “That is why your father was so willing to see me away from here.” She caught his arm. “My God, Dylan, you cannot permit this horror. Please, you must help me save him.”
Dylan searche
d her face at length. “All right. I’ll help. But I cannot promise we’ll succeed.”
Alana was again on her knees, trying to loosen Paxton’s bindings. “Assist me in freeing him, will you?”
Dylan hunkered down beside them. “Nay,” he said, stilling her hands. “If Father comes in here again, which I’m certain he will, all must be as he expects. The Norman must stay as he is. Otherwise my plan won’t work.”
“But he’s cold.” She looked at Paxton. “Have you had water or food?” He shook his head. Alana’s eyes were again on Dylan. “You can feed him, can’t you. Certainly he needs water.”
“He’ll have both,” Dylan said on rising. “Alana, you have to leave here. If Rhys should discover us, he’ll put the Norman to death before your eyes.” He took hold of her arm, urging her upward. “Come.”
Alana’s gaze ran over Paxton’s face as her fingers lightly touched his lips. “Have faith,” she whispered, then came to her feet. At the door, while Dylan scanned the area outside to see if anyone was about, she turned back to Paxton. “I didn’t know. Truly, I didn’t.”
Noting Dylan was waving her into the yard, she hurried from the hut and moved along the path, a sharp ache near her heart.
Blessed Saint David, please watch over him. Protect him as you’ve always protected me.
The silent prayer, which streamed toward the heavens, was not uttered for the Norman dog who had come to vanquish her as his enemy, but for the man who was her husband… the man who was so near to winning her love.
Paxton’s gaze was fast on Dylan as he rubbed his wrists in an attempt to regain the feeling in his hands. The leather bindings lay on the clay floor, Alana’s cousin having cut them away a few seconds prior.
“Why should I trust you?” he asked, uncertain if this were some sort of trap.
True, he’d been given food and water to replenish his diminishing strength. But that didn’t mean Dylan was reliable. Once Paxton was out the door, a dozen Welshman might beset him, their blades driving deep into his flesh.
“Especially since you see me as your enemy?” he finished.
“You are my enemy… you and any foreigner who breaches our borders with the intention of claiming our homeland as their own.”
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