Splendor, page 33
An unruly lot, he decided. If not bent on destroying their enemies, they were bent on destroying each other. Not a single Welshman could be trusted. He wondered about the women.
Alana of Llangollen, Gilbert’s widow—what was she like? Treacherous? More to the point, had she been the cause of Gilbert’s death?
The last Paxton had heard from Gilbert Fitz William was on the eve of his friend’s union to the “lovely Alana.” That was how Gilbert had described his bride in his letter. Paxton would reserve his opinion of Gilbert’s widow until he met her himself.
For now, all he knew about Alana of Llangollen was that she’d been offered in marriage by her kinsmen to the new lord who had been sent to fortify the motte-and-bailey castle that had long since been abandoned beyond the fringes of the Welsh marches. It seemed she was a token of peace.
Over the years, his travels having taken him far and wide, Paxton never learned if Gilbert was happy with his marriage. The next he’d heard of his friend was not from the man himself but from Henry, who reported that Gilbert had drowned while attempting to save his wife from the raging torrents of the nearby river. Though he’d been sent to the fortress to make certain it remained in Henry’s possession, Paxton was asked to look into the events surrounding Gilbert’s untimely death. Henry didn’t trust the Welsh. From all he’d heard, Paxton was of a like mind with his king.
The gates swung open and the group was granted entry by one of the guards. Leading the way, Paxton guided his destrier, along the darkened passage beneath the gate tower and into the courtyard, whereupon he examined the wooden structures that framed the area. Next he scanned the inhabitants who’d halted their tasks to view the newcomers.
“There seems to be an inordinate amount of Welshmen manning the place,” Graham de Montclair commented as he rode up beside Paxton.
Paxton looked at his companion and fellow knight. “Aye,” he replied, “and one of them comes our way.”
“Good morn to you, sirs,” the man hailed, halting before the pair. “My name is Madoc. My mistress has sent me to bid you welcome. Once you’ve seen to your horses, she asks that you come into the hall, where refreshment has been made ready for you and your men.”
“Thank you for your courtesy, Madoc,” Paxton said while dismounting. He stepped in front of his steed. “Where is your mistress? I’d like to greet her personally, if I may.”
“She’s inside,” the man replied, jerking his head in the direction of the large building that stood opposite them. “She awaits you there.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I presume Henry has sent you, milord?”
Paxton surveyed the man. He appeared most eager for a response. “Do you pose the question for yourself or for your mistress, Madoc?”
“Since we rarely have visitors, my mistress assumed you were sent by Henry. I merely hoped to confirm such so I could inform her as to what capacity you have come.”
“I will address her myself on that matter,” Paxton replied. “For now, tell me: Who is in charge here?”
“That would be Sir Goddard. He’s not risen as yet, nor have his men.”
Paxton wondered at the laxness of those who were to defend the castle. Glancing around him, he noted it was the Welsh who protected the gates. “Then wake him,” he stated, “and tell him I am here. I’ll meet him in the hall.”
Handing the reins to his squire, the lad having dashed up beside him, Paxton motioned to Sir Graham. Together the pair crossed the yard toward the building where Alana of Llangollen said she’d greet them.
Tall and self-assured, he came through the door with a confident bearing, his companion behind him. Removing his helm, he ran his long fingers through his thick raven hair, its lustrous length brushing his broad shoulders. From where she stood at the foot of the stairs, Alana had no trouble distinguishing which of the two men was Paxton de Beaumont. Prideful, he was. Commanding as well.
His gaze scanned the vast room. When he spied her, he strode toward her, his movement fluid and decidedly masculine.
Praying he wasn’t as discerning as he appeared, Alana steeled herself for their first meeting. Shoulders squared, her mask in place, she waited.
“Alana of Llangollen?” he inquired once he was before her.
“Aye.”
He bowed his head, then looked her in the eye. Alana was at once fascinated by his deep blue irises and the long black lashes framing them. Oddly, her heart skipped a little as she met him stare for stare. She was stunned by her reaction.
“I am Paxton de Beaumont, knight and vassal to Henry, king of England, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine. I am also an acquaintance and friend of your late husband. Please accept my condolences. I was grieved to hear of his death.”
Deceptive tears were beckoned forth, and Alana gazed through their shimmering screen. “Thank you for your kind expression of sympathy. Although it has been six months, I feel Gilbert’s loss as though it were just yesterday. That I was spared and he…” She allowed the rest to fade, her voice becoming purposely choked. She breathed deeply, jaggedly, another ruse she’d perfected. “Unfortunately, naught can change what has happened. Come.” She waved her hand toward the table. “Food and drink await you after your long journey. I ask that you partake of our meager fare and accept it in way of welcome. But first, I offer you water so you may wash your feet.”
He frowned down at her. “Wash my feet?”
“Aye. It is our custom. That is how we show favor to all our guests.”
“An acceptable custom, it is, but I wouldn’t call myself a guest. The term is reserved for those who intend to stay only a short—”
A commotion sounded at the entry, and Paxton swallowed his words. Turning toward the disturbance, he surveyed the man who had found his way into the hall. Unkempt, his reddish hair knotted and dirty, several days’ worth of stubble shading his haggard face, he stood just inside the door, wearing naught but his braies and a mail shirt.
“Where is this Paxton de Beaumont?” he questioned loudly.
Paxton noted how the man weaved on his feet. Surely this wasn’t Sir Goddard? If so, the knight was a sad testament to his profession. “Here,” Paxton called across the way.
Staggering toward Sir Graham, the man spun none too steadily in Paxton’s direction. His bare feet crushing the fragrant grasses covering the floor, he crossed the span separating them. “Are you Paxton de Beaumont?” he asked on reaching his target.
The man’s stale, wine-laden breath struck Paxton square in the face. He stepped back and studied the disgusting sot. “I am,” Paxton replied, noting that the man’s eyes were red and watery. “And I suppose you are Sir Goddard?”
“Aye,” the knight replied. “Did Henry send you?”
“He did.”
The man jerked a nod. “More stomachs to feed,” he grumbled. “Come with me, and I’ll show you where the garrison is lodged.”
“You have separate quarters?” Paxton asked.
Sir Goddard snorted. “Aye.” His eyes narrowed on Alana. “’Tis the only way to assure we’ll not be murdered in our sleep.”
Paxton spied the man’s belligerent look. He gazed down at the woman who stood at his elbow. Her long-lashed, dark eyes, which he thought were most alluring, remained fixed straight ahead. “Do you have reason to fear for your lives?” he asked the knight.
“’Tis well known that not a Welshman can be trusted.”
“Even so, the entire yard is filled with their ilk. Why is that, especially if you feel they are untrustworthy?”
“’Twas Sir Gilbert’s doing. And hers. They’re her kin. Had the fool sent them all back into the wood, where they belong, he might still be alive.”
Paxton noticed Alana hadn’t moved, nor had her expression changed. She was indeed lovely. An incomparable beauty, in fact. But that didn’t mean she was incapable of treachery. “Are you saying they had something to do with Gilbert’s death?”
“Not them. ’Twas her,” Sir Goddard proclaimed, swaying on his feet. “Had he not gone into the river after her, we wouldn’t have pulled his body from the waters a day later. ’Tis her fault that he’s dead.”
Paxton marked how Alana stiffened. Then her eyes narrowed on the man.
“As always, Sir Goddard, you are feeling the effects of your night of drink,” she accused. “Likewise, your hatred of my people has once again made itself obvious. Tell Sir Paxton why you have not sent us into the woods. Go on. Tell him.”
Sir Goddard glared at Alana. When no response came forth, Paxton said, “Tell me why the Welsh are still here.”
The man shifted his gaze. As he did so, he lurched sideways. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Oh, but you’re mistaken, sir. I want an answer, now.”
“By whose authority do you order my reply?”
“By Henry’s authority. And by my own.”
Sir Goddard’s eyes widened. “Your own? Don’t tell me you’re the new overlord of this forsaken piece of land?”
“This piece of land and everything upon it,” Paxton replied, “including you. Now answer my question, before I have you bound and hung, headfirst, over the palisade.”
The man curled his lip. “There’s no mystery to it. They remain as laborers, so as to keep the place in order. ’Tis not befitting for a knight to toil at such menial tasks.”
“I presume they are paid for their work.”
“They are fed and have a place to sleep.”
“And are they allowed to come and go at will?” Paxton inquired.
“If you’re asking if they are held prisoner behind these walls, the answer is no.”
“I beg to differ with you,” Alana stated. “Nary a man has left this place without some mishap befalling him once he’s passed through the gates.”
“If you’re speaking about young Owain, he was punished for his thievery.”
“He took no more than two days’ supply of food to hold him until he reached his dying mother’s side,” she returned. “You sought not justice in your punishment. Instead, because of your twisted logic, you enacted naught but a grievous cruelty.”
“’Twas justice,” Sir Goddard insisted.
“By whipping him, then severing his right hand? In my judgment, such punishment goes beyond what is morally befitting the supposed crime.”
“He deserved what he got,” the knight snarled.
“Why? Because he is Welsh?”
Paxton had heard enough. “Sir Goddard, as of this moment, you are relieved of your duties at this fortress. Find your way back to your quarters and begin packing your belongings. I’ll expect you gone from here in an hour.”
“With pleasure,” the man stated. “You’re welcome to this wretched place and its ill-born inhabitants. ’Tis a cursed land. Why Henry seeks to lay claim to it is above me. I offer you a word of caution, Paxton de Beaumont: Keep the slut far from you, lest you also end up dead.”
Paxton watched as Sir Goddard rolled on his heels and wobbled toward the door. Feeling a light pressure against his arm, he dropped his gaze to the small hand touching him. He looked into Alana’s eyes.
“Thank you for sending him away,” she said. “Ever since Gilbert’s death, he’s been exceedingly barbarous and spiteful. Truly, I’m grateful Henry has appointed you as the new overlord.”
Eager to inspect the rest of the garrison and decide which men should depart with Sir Goddard and which should stay, he eased her hand from his arm. “In a few weeks, Alana of Llangollen, you may feel differently about that.”
“I must warn my uncle,” Alana said to Madoc hours later. The pair stood just inside the doorway to the hall.
“Let one of us go in your stead,” her servant insisted. “’Tis far too risky. Unlike his foregoer, he hardly touched his wine. He may still be awake. If you’re caught trying to slip through the side gate, he’ll become suspicious.”
She glanced through the opening at the building where the garrison was housed, Paxton de Beaumont and his men having retired there for the night. No light shone from its windows. “I’ll not get caught. And I must speak to Rhys about other matters as well.”
“Then let me come with you,” Madoc countered. “The night wood is no place for a young woman alone.”
“Have you forgotten my heritage?” she whispered, still inspecting the yard. “I can run these hills and forests as good as any man.” She shook her head. “Nay, Madoc. I must go by myself.”
“Once you reach your uncle’s, stay there and do not return. This one is far more astute than was Sir Goddard. If he learns the truth—”
Alana’s fingers fell across Madoc’s lips. “I have to return,” she said. “Whether Henry says otherwise or not, this land is my inheritance. It belongs to me and you and everyone else who resides here. I’ll not desert what is mine. Nor will I leave my friends to fend for themselves against these dogs.” She again glanced at the yard to see that no one was about. “I’ll be back before the dawn.”
Fearing Madoc would issue another protest, Alana was out the door, heading for the side gate. The sky was cloudy, masking the moon’s glow. The better for her, she thought, knowing her trained eye could see twice as far in the dark as any Norman. The air smelled of rain. She prayed the skies didn’t open until she’d crossed the river and back.
Rhys—she had to get to him so she could warn him and her cousins that Sir Goddard was no longer at the fortress. The knight had been lax, mainly because he kept his face constantly in his cups. But his replacement was every bit the warrior that Sir Goddard had failed to be. Paxton de Beaumont and his men, along with the twenty others he’d chosen to stay, could fend off her countrymen with ease, no matter how numerous they were.
Not that Rhys planned to attack, but she must apprise him to stay on the opposite side of the river, far from the stronghold, which overlooked the valley and the heavy wood. They could no longer meet as they once had, as they’d planned to do tonight. The risk was far too great.
On silent feet, Alana traveled from the sheltering shadows of one building to the next. Halfway along the side of the last structure, she spied the gate. Seeing that no one guarded the outlet, she broke into a run. Just as she cleared the building, a hand snagged her arm, pulling her up short. Though she nearly screamed at full voice from the sudden scare, no more than a soft cry escaped her lips. She stared at the man who had grabbed her.
Paxton de Beaumont.
“What are you doing?” she asked, attempting to shake from his hold.
“It would seem that is my question to you.” He glanced at the gate, then back at her. “Where were you planning to be off to at such a late hour? Does your lover await you in the wood?”
Glaring up at the tall knight, Alana momentarily clenched her jaw. Hardly. She’d die before she lay with a man again. “I was going to Gilbert’s grave.”
“His what?”
“His grave,” she lashed back. “It lies just beyond this gate, in a clearing in the wood. Sir Goddard would not allow me to leave the fortress. So at night, when he’d fallen drunk on his pallet, I would make my way to Gilbert’s resting place to offer a prayer for his soul.”
Paxton remained silent for such a long time Alana feared he didn’t believe her. The tension drained from her when he said, “I’m not Sir Goddard. I suggest you remember that. When the sun has risen, we shall both go to Gilbert’s grave, so I may offer a prayer for him as well. For now, you will return to the hall. To make certain you do, I will go with you.”
As she was escorted back the same way she’d come, Alana thought of her uncle. Somehow she had to get word to him. Madoc, she decided, certain that from now on she’d be watched constantly. Not Madoc, she concluded, realizing Paxton de Beaumont was too clever by far. Someone else would have to take the message. Someone he’d not suspect. Maybe Owain.
They halted outside the doors to the hall. Alana waited for the new lord to release her arm. He held her fast and gazed down at her. “Is there something else you wanted?” she inquired after what seemed an eternity.
“A truthful answer from you.”
Alana lifted her chin. “What is the question?”
“Did Gilbert drown? Or did you murder him?”
Look for
Everlasting
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JOAN BRAMSCH
CHARLENE CROSS is the award-winning author of Lord of Legend, Deeper Than Roses, A Heart So Innocent, Masque of Enchantment, and Almost a Whisper.
“In my early childhood,” Charlene says, “dragons, knights, and princesses filled my hours of daytime play,
my nights of blissful slumber. I was a dreamer, a champion for the underdog, a believer that good always triumphed over evil. Adulthood hasn’t tarnished those beliefs. Although I’m very much a realist, I am equally a romantic. I still need to believe in those magical words: ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ As a writer, I hope my characters will capture your heart and make you a believer as well. If, as you read, a smile touches your lips or a tear comes to your eye, please let me know. Only then will I discover if I’ve succeeded in my quest.”
Charlene resides in Missouri’s picturesque wine country with her husband, Ron — her real-life hero — and their three children. She is currently at work on her next book, Everlasting, to be published soon by Pocket Books. She welcomes your comments, and you may write to her
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