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  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, only two weeks ago on his return from Normandy, had reported to Paxton that Gilbert had drowned while attempting to save his wife from the raging torrents of a nearby river. Considering Gilbert’s skill as a swimmer, the account had made both Paxton and Henry take pause.

  In fact, Paxton’s expedition across the marches was threefold.

  First, he was to make certain the fortress remained in his king’s possession, for unknown to the Welsh, Henry planned to invade their country, determined to rout Owain Gwynedd, a Welsh prince whose bold exploits nettled Henry to no end.

  During the Anarchy, a time in which Stephen de Blois and Henry’s mother, Matilda, vied for the throne of England, much of northern Wales was wrested back from Norman control. With Stephen dead, and Matilda’s son now England’s indisputable ruler, Henry purposed to reclaim the land that had been lost over the past twenty-two years, and he intended to do it soon.

  The second reason for Paxton’s journey was that he’d been asked to investigate the events surrounding Gilbert’s untimely death. Henry didn’t hold much fondness for the Welsh. He trusted them not. From all he’d heard about the breed, Paxton was of a like mind to his king.

  The third, and most tempting—well, he hadn’t decided yet if he’d accept Henry’s offer or even if he’d follow his king’s advice. But just in case he chose the course suggested by his king, he had a priest at hand, along with Henry’s decree, signed and sealed. All Paxton need do was deliver it into the proper hands.

  At last the gates creaked open, the group granted entry by one of the guards. Leading the way, Paxton guided his destrier through the wide portal, along the darkened passage beneath the gate tower, and into the courtyard, whereupon he examined the wooden structures that framed the area, including the small chapel. The buildings were surprisingly in good repair. Next he scanned the inhabitants who’d halted their tasks to view the newcomers with wariness.

  “There are an inordinate amount of Welsh manning the place,” Graham de Montclair commented as he rode up beside Paxton.

  Paxton looked at his companion and fellow knight. “Aye.” He again scanned the yard. “And one of them comes our way.”

  “Good day 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 await 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 jerked his head in the direction of the large building standing opposite them. “She waits for you there.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I presume Henry has sent you?”

  The Welshman’s expression indicated he was most eager for a response, but Paxton countered with a query of his own. “Do you pose the question for yourself or for your mistress, Madoc?”

  “Since we don’t often have visitors, my mistress assumed you were sent by Henry. I hoped to confirm such, so I could inform her in 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 peeked at the sun’s angle. Marking it was well past noon, he wondered at the laxness of those who were to defend the castle. He glanced around him to note 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, Paxton motioned to Sir Graham. Together they crossed the yard toward the building where Alana of Llangollen said she would meet them.

  Tall, self-assured, he came through the door, his companion behind him. Removing his helm, he raked his long fingers through his thick raven hair, its lustrous length settling against 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 head held in what Alana deemed an arrogant fashion, he surveyed the vast room, from ceiling to floor, and wall to wall. He appeared unimpressed, the accoutrements within the hall apparently not conforming to his tastes. But then, if he understood anything about the Welsh, he’d know they gave themselves not to excess but to modesty.

  It was then he spied her.

  His gaze fast upon her, he strode toward her, his movements fluid and masculine.

  Praying he wasn’t as discerning as he appeared, Alana steeled herself for their first encounter. Shoulders squared, her mask in place, she waited.

  “Alana of Llangollen?” he inquired when he stood before her.

  “Aye.”

  He bowed his head, then regarded her closely. Alana was at once fascinated by his deep blue eyes and the long black lashes framing them. Her heart skipped a little as she met him stare for stare. Her reaction both confused and surprised her.

  “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 up at him through their shimmering screen. “Thank you for your kind words of sympathy. It has been six months, but I feel Gilbert’s loss as though it were yesterday. That I was spared and he…”

  She allowed the rest to fade, her voice becoming choked. She drew a jagged breath, another ruse she’d perfected.

  “Regrettably,” she continued after a suitable pause, “naught can change what has happened.”

  “Regrettable indeed.”

  There was a harshness to his tone, and Alana wondered if he mistrusted her manifestations of grief in both word and aspect. She measured him, but his face was an unreadable mask. Alana remained wary.

  “I hear you’ve brought a priest with you,” she said, again curious as to why he’d done so. “Is that true?”

  “It is. Does his presence trouble you?”

  “Of course not,” Alana announced, thinking he’d sounded rather defensive. “It’s just that we are not often visited by a priest. I thought if he is willing, he could say a mass for Gilbert, something that was not afforded him when he died.”

  “I’m positive Father Jevon will agree. I’ll speak to him about your request, but it will have to be done later. Presently, I believe he is inspecting the condition of the chapel. At least, that was where he was headed when I last saw him.”

  Alana clenched her teeth. She might be mistaken, but by what she’d gathered from Paxton’s statement, even the priest believed they were a crass lot, disrespectful of the Lord’s house, hence his frantic dash to the chapel.

  If Father Jevon expected the place to be little more than a hovel swathed in cobwebs and caked with dust, he’d be very disappointed. The building and its furnishings, though sparse, were in superior order. Thus, the pompous priest could say his prayers without fear of begriming his robes.

  Alana constrained her rising anger at these Normans, understanding she must be gracious. “Thank you,” she said in response to Paxton’s offering to arrange a mass. She glanced at the table. “Come. After your long journey, I’m certain you are in need of refreshment. Food and drink have been prepared for you. 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 on her. “Wash my feet?”

  “That is our custom. It is how we show favor to all our guests.” She tilted her head to study him. “You seem uncertain. Does the concept of such a pra
ctice displease you?”

  Far from it, Paxton thought. Though he’d prefer to sink to his neck in a hot bath, he wasn’t in the least put off by the notion of merely washing his feet.

  “I consider your custom to be most acceptable, but I wouldn’t call myself a guest. The term is reserved for those who intend to stay only a short—”

  Paxton swallowed his words as a commotion sounded at the entry. Turning toward the disturbance, he assessed 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 inquired loudly, swaying on his feet.

  Paxton’s jaw hardened. 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, who stood a few yards inside the doorway, the man spun none too steadily in Paxton’s direction. He set his course, his bare feet crushing the fragrant grasses covering the floor. Halfway to his destination, he weaved around the central hearth where he batted at the smoke curling outward and upward toward the beamed ceiling. “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 from the repulsive sot. “I am,” Paxton replied, noting the man’s faded blue eyes were bloodshot and watery. “And I suppose you are Sir Goddard?”

  “Aye. 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.”

  Paxton was astounded by the statement. “You have separate quarters?”

  Sir Goddard snorted. “Aye.” His eyes narrowed on Alana. “’Tis the only way to ensure we’ll not be murdered in our sleep.”

  The man’s belligerence wasn’t missed by Paxton. He examined the woman who stood at his elbow. Her long-lashed, dark eyes, which had captivated him from the first, remained fixed straight ahead. “Do you have reason to fear for your lives?” he asked the knight.

  “’Tis well known not a Welshman can be trusted.”

  “Still the entire yard is filled with their ilk,” Paxton countered. He didn’t disagree with the knight’s statement, just questioned the man’s reasoning. “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 woods, where they belong, he might be alive today.”

  Paxton noticed Alana hadn’t moved nor had her expression changed. She was indeed lovely. An incomparable beauty, in fact. Paxton would be the first to admit that, based on her comeliness alone, most any man would be pleased to have her as his wife, including himself. But that was not to say she was incapable of treachery, something he was determined to discover. “Are you saying her kin were responsible for 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.”

  The allegation, its insinuation sharpening Paxton’s attention, brought a quick reaction from Gilbert’s widow. She stiffened, spearing Sir Goddard with a condemning look.

  “As always, 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 curled his lip at Alana. Deep-seated malice sparked in his eyes. Paxton felt certain there was more to the man’s malevolence toward Alana than her heritage. When no response came forth from the knight, he instructed, “Do as the lady has bidden you and tell me why the Welsh are 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 and I want it now.”

  “By whose authority do you order my reply?”

  “By Henry’s authority. And by my own.”

  Amazement showed on Sir Goddard’s face. “Your own? Don’t tell me you’re the new overlord of this forsaken piece of land?”

  “This piece of land and everything on it,” Paxton announced, “including you. Answer my question before I have you bound and hung headfirst over the palisade.”

  A discontented snarl erupted from the man before he said, “There’s no mystery to it. They remain as laborers 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 interrupted. “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 Aldwyn,” Sir Goddard bit back, “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 a penalty goes beyond what is morally befitting, especially when in fact there was no crime.”

  “He deserved what he got,” the knight snapped.

  “Why? Because he is Welsh?”

  Paxton was aware that by Henry’s own edict thievery was to be severely dealt with. Sir Goddard had acted in accordance with the rule, yet under the circumstances, some compassion seemed in order.

  The lad was not a soldier, therefore duty wouldn’t have prevented him from attending his mother as she passed from this life to the next. Likewise Paxton doubted the castle stores were in such a critical state that two loaves of bread and a brick of cheese would have been missed.

  The only conclusion he could draw was that the knight had been deliberately cruel. The suggestion that the maiming occurred because Aldwyn was Welsh appeared to ring true.

  Because of the knight’s actions, animosity and dissent were roiling inside the castle walls, creating a constant threat of revolt. Knowing he couldn’t chance such an occurrence, Paxton came to a decision.

  “Sir Goddard, as of this moment, you are relieved of your duty 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-borne inhabitants. ’Tis a cursed land. Why Henry seeks to retain it under his authority is beyond 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 heel and staggered toward the door. Feeling a light pressure against his arm, he focused on the small hand that had settled there. An instant later, he found himself staring into a pair of entrancing eyes… eyes that held for a man an exciting promise, the reward of which was ecstasy, delirious and wild.

  His reaction was spontaneous. Lust seared his veins, sparking fire in his loins.

  Surprised by his response, Paxton understood Gilbert’s attraction to the Welsh beauty. With her woman’s form covered from head to toe in a headrail of homespun linen and a tunic of caddis wool, her allure was in no way overt. Nevertheless, beneath her modest, grief-stricken facade, she was a temptress, a seductress. Was she a murderess as well?

  Her soft voice broke
through the haze of desire clouding Paxton’s thoughts as she whispered his name. He forced himself to heed her words.

  “Thank you for sending Sir Goddard away. Ever since Gilbert’s death, he’s been exceedingly barbarous and spiteful. Truly, I’m grateful Henry has appointed you as our new overlord.”

  Keep the slut far from you, lest you also end up dead.

  Sir Goddard’s warning attacked him anew, and Paxton was eager to be away from this bewitching siren before he found himself forever caught under her spell.

  Or, like his friend, he lost his life.

  The open doorway beckoned to him. It was time he inspected the rest of the garrison and judged which men should depart with Sir Goddard and which of them should stay.

  While he eased Alana’s hand from his arm, intending to take his leave, his mind conjured forth a gruesome picture of what could have been Gilbert’s pallid, lifeless form when pulled from the river.

  The truth.

  One way or another Paxton aimed to have it.

  “Today, Alana of Llangollen, you may be grateful Henry has made me your new overlord,” he responded, his tone grating. “But know I have not been sent here to ease your burdens. Far from it.”

  He admired how she withstood his abrasiveness. She hadn’t so much as flinched. But he wasn’t through.

  “My authority is all encompassing,” he continued, his inflection equally as emphatic. “Everyone here will observe my commands. As to Sir Goddard, in the long run, you may find I am not barbaric like he is, but let it be known: Should the situation warrant, my form of justice is every bit as forceful and as swift as his.” He captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger; her full attention as well. “Grateful?” he queried. “Come to me a few weeks hence and tell me your feelings then. I’ll wager anything you’ll not be as welcoming of my presence as you now are.”

  With that, he strode from the hall.

  CHAPTER