Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  “Apparently he hated me.”

  “Appar—” He cut himself off. “Don’t you know for certain whether he did or not?”

  “He must have hated me, for that’s the only motive I can think of as to why he would want me dead.” Which was true.

  Paxton scrutinized her, his jaw again clenched. “I think you had better explain all, Alana. Tell me exactly what happened the day Gilbert died.”

  Memories came rushing in—the struggle, the fall. She closed the door on them. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning of Gilbert’s and my relationship. Maybe then things will be more clear to you.”

  “If that is what you want, I will allow it, but start somewhere and do it now.”

  His patience was waning, and Alana prayed she could convince him that Gilbert died by her own hand and no other.

  Her insides were churning, yet drawing a deep breath, Alana began speaking in a calm, steady voice. “I didn’t love Gilbert when I married him. Likewise, I don’t think he ever loved me. Our union was a selfish one on my part.” She waved her hand around her. “All this that you see and the land beneath and around it was my inheritance.

  “When Gilbert and the others arrived, I saw it slipping away from me. I thought that if we married I could ensure for my children, who would be half-Norman, half-Welsh, that none of this would be taken from them, nor would it be taken from their children and so on. I also hoped our joining would bring peace for my kinsmen.

  “At first our relationship was amicable. But it wasn’t long before Gilbert began to grow distant. He barely spoke to me. At the slightest thing, he became angry with me. I never knew why. As for my plans ensuring my posterity would never have to leave this land—well, like my marriage, those disintegrated as well.”

  “I explained why you probably didn’t conceive,” Paxton stated. “It was Gilbert not you, Alana. Tell me about the day he died. What transpired?”

  The doors opened again in her mind, the memories streaming forth. Along with them came the terror she’d experienced, as well as the fear and the anguish. Knowing she had no choice but to apprise Paxton as to what occurred, she forged ahead.

  “We had experienced heavy rain for several days on end. The morning of the day Gilbert died the rain had stopped briefly. He came to me, asking that we take a walk. I was surprised but concurred with his request.

  “After leaving the fortress, we went down by the river to the outcrop of rock that I showed you. We were standing there, watching the raging current, when Gilbert shoved me. I nearly fell but caught his sleeve. He forced my hand away. We struggled, but he was far too strong. I was suddenly falling toward the river. I—”

  Alana stopped as she recalled the horror of it all. She saw herself again tumbling through and beneath the waters, clawing her way to the surface, gulping in fragments of air, only to be dragged to the bottom again. The terror was eternal. Even now, almost a year later, she was quaking the same way she did when she had pulled herself from the violent eddy that nearly ended her life.

  “Alana?”

  Hearing her name, she blinked. She looked up to see Paxton was in front of her. Grasping her arm, he guided her to the bed, seating her on the mattress. He stood above her in silence; Alana glanced away.

  “Are you able to continue?” he asked at last.

  “Aye,” she said, her fears being replaced by her anger at Gilbert’s treachery.

  “Then do so.”

  Alana clasped her hands in her lap and squared her shoulders. All the while she was creating a fabrication, for this was where the lies would begin.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know how long I tumbled along or how I managed to keep from drowning. By some miracle, there was a limb stretching before me. I somehow grabbed hold of it and, with effort, pulled myself from the river.” That much was true. “I lay on the bank for a while when I heard—”

  “What side of the river?”

  Paxton shot the question at her, and Alana frowned at him. “This side. Why do you ask?”

  He waved her query away. “Go on.”

  “It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps. I saw it was Gilbert and, fearing he would shove me in again, I drew my knife. When he was upon me, I stabbed him.”

  Lies, she thought, knowing it hadn’t happened that way at all.

  In actuality, she lay there, weak and exhausted, but fearing Gilbert would find her, she crawled to the then existing footbridge, which wasn’t very far away. Literally dragging herself to the other side, she managed to pull herself into the wood where she hid, attempting to renew her strength.

  Not long afterward, she saw Gilbert striding along the opposite bank, and she drew her knife. Luck was with her, for he didn’t cross over but continued on downstream, apparently searching for her body.

  Once he disappeared, she pushed herself to her feet with the aid of the tree she was secreted behind and stumbled on through the wood. A watcher found her. Fortunately, he was on horseback. Drawing her up in front of him, he took her straight to the ringwork and Rhys’s protection.

  Gilbert may never have been punished for his heinous act. Had he been smart enough to secure himself behind the fortress walls, Rhys probably would not have been able to touch him. But it was Gilbert’s own stupidity that brought about his demise.

  For reasons Alana couldn’t quite fathom, nor could anyone else who was involved, Gilbert had made his way to the ringwork on foot. His rationale may have been to appease his wife’s relatives by showing his insurmountable grief over Alana’s sudden, tragic loss, thus preventing any suspicion to fall on him.

  If that was his plan, Gilbert had erred, and grievously so, for Rhys was aware of his treachery. And though Alana had not been there to witness Gilbert’s death, she had been told what had happened after the fact.

  A watcher had sighted Gilbert, sending word on ahead to Rhys through a companion. Leaving Alana in the care of several women inside the ringwork, her uncle and her three cousins set out to intercept Gilbert.

  They came upon him in the wood. Tears streaming down his face, he told his story of how Alana had slipped and fallen into the raging current, how he’d made a frantic search but couldn’t find her, how he could only assume his lovely wife had drowned.

  It was then Rhys accused Gilbert of perfidy, announced that Alana lived, told him he was aware of the truth and that Gilbert’s lies and betrayal would not go unpunished.

  Stunned by all that Rhys had told him, Gilbert sought to flee. But he found himself surrounded. He begged for mercy, but Rhys, Dylan, Meredydd, and Caradog were set on revenge.

  Their blades plunged repeatedly into Gilbert’s treacherous heart. When their anger had subsided, they carted Gilbert’s body to the same river that he claimed had taken his wife’s life and tossed him in.

  When Alana learned of Gilbert’s fate, she felt no remorse over his demise. But she did become fearful of Henry’s wrath once he learned of Gilbert’s death. That was when she’d insisted on returning to the fortress with the concocted story that Gilbert had drowned, praying that Henry would accept her accounting as true.

  Gazing at the woolen square in Paxton’s hand, Alana wondered how it had gotten here. Madoc had destroyed the tunic—at least he’d attempted to. The rain had started again, and he’d buried what he couldn’t burn. Someone else had known the truth all along. But who?

  “Alana!”

  Her trance was broken. “What?”

  “I asked how many times you stabbed him.”

  “I don’t know—a dozen, maybe more.”

  He pressed his lips together. “I don’t believe you.”

  He had to believe her, Alana thought. “Why not?”

  “I saw the river when it was stirring with a force so great that it is hard to believe anyone could survive its current. You told me the water was far worse on the day Gilbert supposedly drowned. You said that you and Gilbert struggled but he was too strong. You say also that ‘with effort’ you pulled yourself from th
e river. Thus, it is not conceivable for you to have inflicted that many wounds on a man who was none the worse for wear.”

  Think.

  “I waited until he was on his knees and pulling me over,” she said, the answer coming to her in a trice. “’Twas then I struck at his faithless heart. He died at once, for he nearly fell atop me.”

  “What of the other wounds?”

  “I wanted to make sure he was dead,” Alana stated with conviction. “The bastard tried to kill me! What would you have done?”

  Undoubtedly the same thing, Paxton concluded. But he still didn’t accept her story. At least not the part about her having killed Gilbert.

  He kept picturing the water and how it swelled and dipped with raw fury. After pulling herself from the fierce current, she would have been far too weak to manage so much as a scratch against Gilbert.

  Yet fear and the need for self-preservation could in itself muster energies that no one thought existed.

  Nay.

  She was covering for Rhys. He was certain of it. And unless he could refute her claims, there was little he could do to help her.

  Then he remembered something. “Tell me, Alana: If you killed Gilbert on this side of the river how did his body get on the other?”

  She met his gaze squarely. “’Tis simple. I rolled him into the water. The current carried him downstream.”

  He hoped he could trip her up, but he’d failed. Damnation! Why was she doing this? Why would she risk her life for someone like Rhys? The man had disowned her for Christ sake!

  Loyalty, he decided. It was the same kind of allegiance he would soon have to address in himself. He had to make a decision. He had no alternative. His oath had bound him to his king. And though he would attempt to defend her, plead that Alana’s actions were justified, Paxton knew it would be Henry who decided whether Alana lived or, God forbid…

  Died.

  “Are you sure this is your sworn testimony to me—that it was you, and you alone, who killed Gilbert?”

  “Aye. I swear it.”

  Paxton noticed that she didn’t even blink. He stood there quietly, staring at her.

  “What will you do with me?” she asked, the silence having stretched on for a time.

  “’Tis not my choice, Alana.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you were overlord here. Doesn’t that make you my judge?”

  “I wish it did. Before I came here I swore an oath to Henry. If I learned that Gilbert had died by any other means than by drowning, if I became aware that you were involved, I pledged I would take you to my king just as he ordered me to do. Knowing that, are you still willing to swear you killed Gilbert?”

  She pressed her jaw together and gazed up at him with eyes that appeared to be glazing with tears. “Aye,” she said at last. “I still swear it.”

  “Then prepare yourself for your journey, Alana. Tomorrow, we leave for Chester.”

  “Chester! Why there?”

  “Because that is where you’ll face Henry and, unfortunately, your fate.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Plains of Chester

  July 1157

  Alana was overwhelmed by the sight that lay before her.

  The once vast, open plain was naught but a sea of tents. Smoke from a thousand campfires curled toward a cloudless, late afternoon sky, while an untold number of men moved about the encampment with serious intent.

  It was obvious what was happening here. Even so Alana had to ask. From atop her gelding, she looked at Paxton, who rode beside her, and queried, “What is all this?”

  Paxton didn’t respond but stared straight ahead. His silence was in no way surprising to Alana. He’d been thus since they’d left the fortress in the pre-dawn hours that morning, well before her kinsmen had awakened. On their journey, he’d barely spoken to her, attending her little, if at all.

  His deliberate coldness struck a sharp ache in her breast. Had he plunged a knife into her heart, she doubted it would be anywhere near as painful.

  With her confession, she knew their relationship would change. In fact, she expected to be subjected to the effects of his anger: a scathing rebuke, a harsh denouncement of her and her ilk, perhaps even a physical blow. But after his initial flare of rage, he’d displayed no emotion toward her whatsoever.

  To her extreme anguish, he’d become glacial, distant. It was as though she no longer existed. Considering the uncertainties she faced, Alana felt lost, deserted, and completely alone.

  Though she’d vowed from the first not to show any outward signs of fear, Alana had to admit that she was frightened by what might lie ahead. It would be gratifying to have someone whom she trusted and loved standing there beside her to offer his comfort and his strength.

  That someone was Paxton.

  Yet, because of his quick dismissal of her, Alana was well aware she’d have no such encouragement. She’d been left to fend for herself. Knowing as much, she questioned whether he ever cared about her at all.

  Perhaps he did once, she conceded. But that was before he’d learned she’d murdered his friend.

  The group of twenty riders, which, besides Paxton, herself, Sir Graham, and Father Jevon, included Gwenifer and Madoc—both having been apprised of the situation by Paxton, then sworn to secrecy, whereupon they insisted they come along to testify on Alana’s behalf—were drawing ever closer to the encampment.

  Scanning the wide area again, Alana was determined to have a response from Paxton. “Henry plans to invade Wales, doesn’t he?” she blurted.

  “Aye,” Paxton stated, his tone clipped. “Soon he and his knights, along with most of those you see before you, will ride against Owain Gwynedd to reclaim the territory that the Welsh prince has usurped from him. A victory should be Henry’s in a matter of days.”

  Thinking Paxton was a bit overconfident in his assumption, she frowned at him. “If your king is foolish enough to believe the same as you’ve said, he is in for a rude awakening. Mark my words: In Owain Gwynedd he will meet his match.” She again looked to the encampment that was now only a hundred yards away. “You knew from the start Henry was planning to invade my country, didn’t you?”

  “Aye. That is why Henry returned to England from Normandy. And that is why I knew to bring you here to face him.”

  While Alana held the reins to her gelding, Paxton had tied a leather lead to its bridle. His action stated that he didn’t trust her to ride quietly. He expected her to bolt at any time. Just why he thought she’d be foolish enough to charge off into the wood, with so many to give chase—including him—she couldn’t say. As he now slowed his destrier from a canter to a trot, then into an easy walk, he tugged on the lead, making certain she followed suit.

  When they entered the camp and began making their way toward its center, Alana’s senses were at once assailed by the delectable aroma of roasting meats and rich stews as they turned on their spits or simmered in their caldrons over the open fires for the untold suppers that would be served that night.

  Her appetite had abandoned her after Paxton’s accusations and her erroneous confession, and she’d had nothing to eat since well before noontide yesterday. And that was only a small nibble of cheese.

  In objection to her self-imposed fast, her stomach grumbled loudly; her mouth watered almost painfully. But by the heaviness in her chest that dipped deep into her belly, Alana doubted she’d eat much, if anything at all, on this day either.

  A woman’s playful squeal rose into the air. Alana turned toward the sound. A plump wench was sprawled across a soldier’s lap, his hand working its way beneath her skirts.

  Alana wasn’t surprised by the sight, for wherever such a large army had amassed, there were the everpresent camp followers.

  Though sometimes wives or entire families, who desired to be near their husbands or fathers, were among them, ofttimes the largest following were women of questionable reputation.

  Besides the one she’d thus far spied, Alana saw there were s
everal other women making bawdy advances toward a like number of soldiers. A few were attempting to entice an entire group. In all cases, the men appeared more than eager to pay a coin for the slatterns’ services.

  A particularly attractive young woman, who was indeed the exception to the others in both her looks and in her cleanliness, had caught Alana’s attention, mainly because she’d just been swept up into the arms of a handsome knight and carried into his tent. The flap closed with haste behind them.

  Alana wondered if Paxton, when finding himself in similar circumstances—far from home and prior to a battle—had ever eased his needs by way of a camp whore. More to the point, would he have the same inclination since he was married?

  The thought that he might be unfaithful, bedding one woman after another with delightful ease, upset her terribly. But, then, if Henry were to exact punishment on her to the fullest degree, which was Alana’s greatest fear, he’d be free to do whatever he wanted, whenever he pleased. It would, after all, be rather difficult for her to make protest about his actions from the grave.

  Alana sighed. Fretting over Paxton’s past and future actions seemed rather fruitless. It was probable her husband believed he could do whatever he chose, here and now. For any obligation he might have felt toward her as his wife, as well as any hope that he would one day love her the same way she loved him, had surely disintegrated the instant she confessed to killing Gilbert.

  A deceitful, murdering bitch—that was how he no doubt saw her. That was why he’d become so cold, so distant. He could no longer abide being near her.

  Alana didn’t blame him for feeling as he did. Were their situations reversed, she’d most likely react in much the same manner. From the start, she knew her world would come tumbling down around her. The truth always had a way of making itself known. With Paxton hating her as he did, Alana could genuinely say she cared little if she lived or if she died, the latter being a strong possibility, depending on Henry’s mood.

  The gelding came to a halt beneath her. Emerging from her thoughts, Alana saw they had weaved their way to a less populated area of the camp. She looked at Paxton whose gaze was fixed on an area just past her. Sir Graham had urged his horse up alongside her, where he’d reined in. She now sat between the two men.