Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  “Aye, sire,” Paxton said, knowing Alana’s fate was questionable. Once all was said and done, he hoped his king would be not only just but merciful as well.

  “Sir Goddard,” Henry addressed him, “I want you to tell me of the day Sir Gilbert died. Do so without embellishment, without slurs, without commentary as to what you think may have happened. Tell me only what you actually saw and heard.”

  The knight relayed the information according to Henry’s wishes, telling how Alana and Gilbert had left that morning, how Alana returned that night alone, how they searched for his body at the river without result, and how the next day they found Gilbert a mile downstream.

  “Did you see any blood on his tunic, any sign he’d been stabbed?” Henry asked.

  “Nay—only mud and grass stains. But we weren’t looking for signs of treachery. We were told he’d drowned.”

  “And what was the Lady Alana’s response when you brought the body back to the fortress?”

  “She cried and carried on as though she were grief-stricken. She insisted on preparing the body herself—she and her servant, Madoc. Afterward, Sir Gilbert was buried.”

  Madoc, Paxton thought. Naturally he would have been with Alana when Gilbert’s body was prepared. He knew exactly how Gilbert had died and by whose hand. But getting the man to tell everything that had transpired would be next to impossible. Madoc was far too loyal to his mistress.

  Even if he could convince Madoc to reveal the truth, were the man to go before Henry, his temper might erupt and his distaste for Gilbert, for Paxton, for any man who sought to conquer his homeland could be exposed. In such an event, his testimony would prove more of a hindrance than a help to Alana.

  “Sir Paxton?”

  “Sire?”

  “Is this Madoc fellow also in your company?”

  “Aye, sire. As is the Lady Alana’s cousin, Gwenifer.”

  “’Twould be good if I spoke to them also,” Henry said.

  Just then a messenger strode into the tent. Henry beckoned the man forward, whereupon he whispered in Henry’s ear. Henry nodded as the man stood aside.

  “I fear something of great import has come to my attention. My undertaking against Owain Gwynedd is my first concern, so I must end my questioning for this day. I will summon you and the Lady Alana on the morrow, Sir Paxton. Along with you, I want to see this Madoc and Gwenifer as well. Now good eventide.”

  “The same to you, sire,” Paxton said, bowing. He turned and exited the tent.

  “Does Henry wish to see me now?” Alana questioned.

  “Nay.” Paxton noticed the sun was close to setting. “An important matter has claimed his attention. He will summon us tomorrow.”

  Sir Goddard came from the tent; Alana stiffened when she saw him. Protectively, Paxton placed his body between the knight and his wife.

  “I always knew you killed him,” Sir Goddard declared. “You’ll soon get your comeuppance. I hope Henry gibbets you, then pikes your head. ’Tis what you and all your kind deserve.”

  His comments made, the knight strode off into the camp.

  “I cannot imagine why Henry would free such a vile man,” Alana said when Paxton again faced her.

  He nodded at her guards, then took Alana’s arm and began guiding her toward their tent. “He’s in need of knights to fight against your countrymen.”

  “Your king must be desperate indeed. With the likes of Sir Goddard at his side, ’tis certain he will not succeed. Owain Gwynedd will be the victor, just wait and see.”

  Her damnable Welsh pride, Paxton thought, his anger rising. He saw they were a half-dozen yards from their tent. With effort he held his tongue until they were inside, whereupon he spun her around and gripped her shoulders. “Henry’s quarrel with the Welsh prince should be the last thing that’s on your mind. When will you get it through that thick head of yours that you’re going to be hanged! Is that what you want? To die for another’s crime?”

  “’Tis not another’s crime,” she insisted. “’Tis mine.”

  The rage he was holding inside was near to erupting. “Always loyal to your kin, aren’t you? What about me, Alana? I’m your husband. Your allegiance belongs to me, first, last, and always. And it belongs to our child.”

  “Child?” she asked, startled.

  “Aye. Did you ever think that you may have conceived? We did make love, you know. And quite frequently. Therefore the possibility does exist.”

  Surprise still lit her face. “I’d been disappointed so many times with Gil—well, I hadn’t thought… I’m barren. There is no child,” she said with certainty.

  “You don’t know that,” Paxton countered. “You withhold the truth, believing that you’re protecting Rhys and his sons, when in reality you’re being selfish. You didn’t kill Gilbert, but you’ll be killing my heir if you continue with this pretense.”

  “Nay,” she said on a moan. “I cannot conceive.”

  In the dim light within the tent, he saw tears glistening in her eyes. “’Twas Gilbert who could not sire a child. I can. Think about it, Alana. Think about all those long nights we spent in each other’s arms. Remember the ecstasy we shared. Besides our child, do you want the pleasure of our lovemaking to be lost to you as well?”

  “I don’t want to lose any of it,” she whimpered.

  “Then why do you persist with the lie?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t. Explain.”

  “’Tis because Henry might think that we all conspired against Gilbert. Not just Rhys, Dylan, Meredydd, and Caradog, but everyone at the ringwork, everyone at the fortress. You saw the army that is here. What is to say Henry won’t send a portion of his warriors to destroy all my kin? Why should so many die when one can stand in their place?”

  If he could only get her to confess to Henry that she hadn’t been the one to wield the knife; swear also that she was unaware of Gilbert’s death until after the fact, his king might see fit to show her clemency.

  “So, you do admit that Rhys and his sons are the culprits,” he declared.

  “Nay! I killed Gilbert.”

  Paxton wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. “You stubborn little fool. The scenario I see is far different from the one you’re trying to paint.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Alana, I recall how you ran to your uncle on the day we made love in the glade. I imagine you did the same the day Gilbert died. I see you pulling yourself from the river, crossing the once existing footbridge that Sir Goddard told me about. Somehow you made the lengthy journey to the ringwork, maybe with the aid of one of the everpresent watchers who are stationed throughout the wood. When Rhys learned of Gilbert’s duplicity, he and his sons set out to find your faithless husband in order to avenge the attempt on your life. He accomplished the feat, too, didn’t he?”

  Her eyes widened before she shook her head in denial.

  “Didn’t he?” he persisted, shaking her at last.

  “Yes!” she confessed. “But if you tell Henry such, I shall say you are the liar.”

  His frustration had met its limits. “You still insist on dying for the greater good of all, do you?” Though the light was dimming, he noted how she obstinately lifted her chin. “Then here is a memory you may take to the grave with you. When the noose is tightened around your neck I want you to know exactly what you’ll be losing forever.”

  Paxton pulled her to him; his mouth covered hers in a hard, angry kiss. The rage inside him was barely leashed. He’d be damned if she’d die before he had her one last time.

  His tongue plunged between her lips as he cupped one breast and kneaded it. He thought she would fight him. Instead he heard her moan. She was kissing him. The passion inside her at least equalled his, if not surpassing it altogether.

  Drawing back, he helped her strip from her clothing. His own followed. Then sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her to the large pallet that had been sent with the tent.

>   He laid her on the rough bedding and settled his knees between her outstretched thighs. “Remember what you’re losing, Alana,” he said, his fingers priming her.

  Then he was inside her, his hips moving. Each thrust went deeper and deeper, she matched his rhythm, eagerly.

  He lifted her hips, bringing her closer. “Remember,” he whispered before his lips again met hers in a heated kiss.

  The fire and fury inside him conjoined. His blood seared through his veins. Alana arched beneath him, her spasms of ecstasy enticing him. Damn her for wanting to leave him. The thought streamed through his mind as his whole body jolted with his climax.

  His heart still thundering in his ears, Paxton rolled away from her. He lay there, his eyes searching through the shadows to stare at the canvas ceiling. Not a word was said, and Alana soon turned her back to him. Paxton felt the heaviness in his chest grow even more cumbersome.

  Anger and desperation had driven him to take her the way he had—hard and fast. He doubted he’d hurt her—at least not physically. Emotionally? He didn’t know.

  What did it matter? She was bent on destroying herself, destroying their future, destroying their child, if she had conceived. Foolishly, she refused to have it any other way.

  Weary of thinking, Paxton allowed his mind to go blank, but after a while, he began to wonder if Alana’s strategy might not be the best one after all. If she admitted that Rhys and her cousins killed Gilbert, Henry may indeed see it as a conspiracy. If she claimed self-defense, Henry might in fact believe her and show leniency.

  But what was Gilbert’s motive for wanting her dead?

  Sir Goddard had described Alana’s and Gilbert’s marriage as an unhappy one, but not from lack of Gilbert’s trying. It was Alana the knight blamed for the misery the couple shared. Though Paxton had been able to discredit the knight, he knew if the testimony that was yet to come from Madoc and Gwenifer showed a similar pattern of discontent, Henry may see the killing as an act of a disagreeable wife who wanted her husband dead.

  Growing restless, Paxton raised up from the pallet. He leaned over to view Alana. Her eyes were closed, soft sounds of slumber whispering through her lips. Rising, he donned his braies, then snatching his tunic from the ground, he covered Alana’s naked form. Next he crept, barefooted, from the tent.

  The chilly night air washed over him. Paxton drew several cleansing breaths. On releasing the last, he hunkered down beside the entry of the tent to idly pluck at the grass.

  The scrap of tunic, which now was in Henry’s hands—who placed it on the bed, and why?

  Paxton searched his mind for an answer. Not a name came to him. Then he pondered Gilbert and men in general.

  Why would a man want to kill his wife? Because he hated her, as Alana had suggested? Or, which Paxton saw as the more likely choice, because of another woman?

  Was that Gilbert’s intent: He wanted Alana dead, so he could marry someone else?

  Gwenifer, perhaps?

  From all he’d gleaned, Paxton knew the pair was quite friendly. Likewise, he doubted she was a virgin. Could Gilbert and Gwenifer have been carrying on an affair behind Alana’s back? Did they scheme to kill Alana together? A possibility, Paxton decided. But to prove such was another matter entirely.

  Conjecture was not hard evidence. If he accused Gwenifer, she’d deny the charge. Without tangible verification, Paxton couldn’t show she was lying. Besides, considering the minor argument he and Alana had over whether or not Gwenifer was chaste, Alana would probably side with her cousin, insisting there was naught but friendship between the pair.

  Paxton found he was back where he’d started. Staring across the way at an unattended campfire, he felt his frustration rising anew. His mind again a blank, he watched as a man stumbled into view.

  The newcomer was aimed at the campfire. He paused to drink deeply from a skin of wine. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, the man continued on, then plopped onto the ground before the fire, his back to Paxton. He drank from the skin again. Lowering the container, he weaved a little, then seemed to nod. He jerked himself awake.

  Drunk, no doubt, Paxton thought as he started to look away. A shriek caught his ear. He looked to the campfire anew. Paxton bounded to his feet and ran toward the man who had set himself afire.

  Instead of dropping to the ground and rolling to extinguish the flames, the man was spinning round and round, his horrendous screams filling the air.

  The sound drew others from their tents. Several onlookers ducked back inside, then reappeared with blankets in hand.

  By the time Paxton reached the hapless man, he was totally engulfed—a human torch! Knowing it was the same death Rhys had meant for him, Paxton shuddered.

  Water from a bucket was tossed onto the flames; Paxton grabbed a blanket from a stunned bystander’s hand. He charged forth, knocking the man to the ground, then snuffed the remaining fire, but he feared it was far too late.

  Pulling the blanket away, Paxton almost retched at the stench of burned flesh. Holding his breath, he eased the man onto his back. The sight was indeed grisly. Suddenly Paxton realized he knew the man. The near-lifeless eyes that stared back at him belonged to Sir Goddard. Mercifully came the death rattle. The knight would suffer no more.

  Paxton spread the blanket over Sir Goddard, covering him from head to toe. He came to his feet. Though he’d never wished that sort of death on anyone, it was apparent to Paxton that Sir Goddard, for all his maliciousness toward others, had in fact received his due.

  He turned away and headed toward his tent, desperately needing the comfort of Alana’s arms.

  It was late afternoon of the next day, and Alana stood listening to Madoc’s testimony as it was given to Henry. Gwenifer was beside her. Father Jevon and Sir Graham were also in the tent, while Paxton was situated only a few feet behind her.

  Last night, after he’d taken her to the pallet, their passions erupting hot and fast, he’d left her, thinking that she slept. On his return, he’d come to her, his body shaking. Not until this morning had he told her what he’d witnessed, explaining Sir Goddard was dead.

  He held the horror inside, telling her only that he wanted her. The second time his lovemaking was tender and caring yet there was a fervor in his kisses and caresses that said he desired her like no other. Still, he never said the words she so wanted to hear. Much to her regret, Alana supposed she never would.

  Drifting from her memories to the present, she heard Henry ask of Madoc, “Did your mistress and Sir Gilbert argue?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Who instigated the argument?”

  “Why Sir Gilbert did. He was always cold and critical of my mistress. No matter what she tried to do to please him it wasn’t good enough. A body can take only so much. Then they have to defend themselves.”

  “Did Sir Gilbert ever raise his hand to his wife?”

  “I saw him do so once.”

  “Did he strike her?”

  “Nay,” Madoc admitted. “He just got that hard look in his eyes, lowered his hand, and walked away.”

  “There were no children from this marriage, correct?” Henry asked.

  “Nay,” Madoc answered.

  “Do you know if they shared a bed?”

  “’Tis a rather personal question to be asking,” Madoc said with a frown.

  “I’m trying to establish if the Lady Alana refused her late husband his conjugal rights,” Henry returned.

  “’Tis still personal.”

  “Answer anyway,” Henry stated.

  “They didn’t sleep together, but he went to her often enough. He wasn’t with her long, but it was long enough to ease himself.”

  “And what is your opinion of Sir Gilbert, Madoc? Did you respect him?”

  “Had he treated my mistress better, I might have. But he was rude to her. ’Tis hard to respect a man who treats his wife that way.”

  Henry crossed his arms over his chest and rolled back on his heels. “What do you think of Normans, sir?
”

  Alana held her breath.

  “I try not to think about them at all,” Madoc replied.

  “When you do, what crosses your mind?” Henry countered.

  “’Tis not polite to state the words in mixed company,” Madoc responded. “Therefore I won’t say.”

  “Spoken like a true Welshman,” Henry stated.

  “That’s what I am. And proud of it.”

  “I believe you, sir,” Henry said. “Tell me about the day Gilbert FitzWilliam died.”

  “The heavy rain we’d been experiencing for several days straight had stopped, and Sir Gilbert asked my mistress to take a walk with him. ’Twas early morning when they left the fortress. The next I saw her was that night when she returned alone.”

  “Did she say anything to you about what had transpired?”

  “That Gilbert had shoved her into the river.”

  A half-truth, Alana thought, knowing she’d said far more than what was just reported. Madoc was hedging.

  “She didn’t say she killed him?”

  “Nay,” Madoc said, truthfully.

  “Who prepared the body once it was taken from the river?”

  “My mistress and I.”

  “Then you saw the wounds?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did she say she killed him then?” Henry asked.

  “Nay.”

  “Didn’t you ask?”

  “Nay.”

  “Seems strange that you would see the injuries and not inquire about them.”

  “Maybe to you. My responsibility is to serve her, not to question her. The bastard got what he deserved for trying to kill her. I helped clean him, dress him, and bury him. That’s the way it was.”

  “Perhaps,” Henry said. “Then perhaps not. You may stand aside, Madoc.” His gaze shifted. “Alana of Llangollen, please step forward.”

  Though she tried not to show it outwardly, inside Alana was trembling. She moved to stand before Paxton’s king, whereupon she curtsied. Afterward, she looked him square in the eyes.