Stealing Heaven

by Madeline Hunter

  Marcus abruptly turned their talk to other things The last thing he wanted to discuss was the wooing Paul had helped him plan h
  Unfortunately, Paul did not have to execute the strategy, Marcus did.

  It wasn’t going so well.

  He himself had no talent with such things. The kind of pursuit learned by poor boys in London was very different from what noblewomen expected. Later, during his visits to court, he saw how the game was played but felt stupid when he attempted it himself.

  Fortunately there had been enough ladies who made it easy, and did not require much wooing at all. Some actually seemed to find his lack of courtly skills charming. His lovers at Anglesmore had been much the same way, women who let him know they were willing and who did not expect him to plead and cajole.

  He preferred it that way. He liked bold women. Experienced ones. Women who did not expect to be talked out of their virtue with poetry and lies. The kind of women who accepted sensual pleasure as a joy, and who did not think it shameful. He had little interest in the ones who denied their desires. He had no patience at all with the ones who yielded but later fretted about having sinned.

  “It is time to take her to the town and show her off. The people are curious anyway, and you can buy her gifts,” Paul said, forcing the conversation back to the grand plan and reminding him of the next step.

  “Tomorrow, if the weather is fair, I intend to do that.”

  Marcus wasn’t sure that he actually said the response that ran in his mind. Just then Nesta walked by again, heading to the garden, and for that brief span of time she was the only thing that existed.

  He found himself strolling after her.

  Paul hurried to catch up. “What in hell are you doing?”

  “I am just going to tell her that I will take Genith to the town tomorrow.”

  Paul threw up his hands. “You are mad. I am sworn to a madman.”

  Marcus shook off the voice of doom at his ear. He wasn’t a madman. He was being very practical. The wooing wasn’t going well, but one word from Nesta and Genith would thaw.

  Nesta lined up little covered pots that looked to contain ointments. Then she plucked a rolled parchment from her basket, and unfurled it on the two boards pushed together to form a crude table. A tiny brush emerged next, and she settled herself on the sun-bathed bench, opened the tiny pots, and bent over his work.

  Marcus watched from under a tree near the ports Absorbed in her preparations, she had not heard him enter.

  He smiled ruefully at his predicament while I walked toward her. He had never wanted a woman in this relentless way before. Actually, he had never much wanted any particular woman at all before. Now he was suffering this hell because of the only woman for mill around whom he dared not touch.

  Nesta heard his approach, and glanced her acknowledgment before returning to her parchment.

  He stood over her and watched the tiny brush malprecise little strokes of color. He peered into the pots inks. “You have no blue.”

  “It is hard to come by.”

  “The monks at the Cistercian abbey probably has some, and also more parchment if you need it. Tomorrow I will take Genith to the town, and while there I will send to the abbey for both.”

  “I could use the parchment, but the blue is too e: pensive. I am accustomed to working without it.”

  She was finishing a design based on the one she ha carved into the dirt that night on their journey. It still did not include him, but he would buy her the blue anyway and to hell with the cost.

  “Are you succeeding with my sister? As I promised, have not whispered in her ear,” she said, as if guessing the excuse he had devised in order to stand beside her while.

  “I am knocking on a barred door. One made of ice, not wood. She is polite, but distant. I think that I bore her.

  “I doubt that you bore her. More likely you frighten her.”

  “I can’t imagine why. I am very mild with her. Besides, I don’t frighten you, even when I want to.”

  She looked up, and an arrow of flame shot through his blood when her gaze met his. “That is not true, but you and I are speaking of two different kinds of fear, I think.” She dipped her brush and returned her attention to the parchment. “As to my sister, why not allow Dylan to sing tonight? It will soften her much. She told me you had promised to consider it, but you have not done so and now she thinks that you do not care about her pleasure.”

  She was correct there. He didn’t really give a damn about Genith’s pleasure. Furthermore, the fact that the bard was still unpunished was no credit to either his strength as a lord or his duty to his king. He did not want songs in the hall reminding him of his weakness.

  “It would also please me to have Dylan sing.” Nesta looked up again, and favored him with a mesmerizing smile.

  A brushfire of desire swept him in reaction to that smile. The corner of his sense that did not succumb, however, sharpened with suspicion. She was toying with him, despite surely knowing that he barely resisted grabbing her. Considering their isolation in this garden, she must have a good reason to dare it.

  “If it will please both you and Genith, I can hardly refuse.” He made a retreat before she had him forgetting his duty entirely and behaving like a fool. Or a madman.

  Two days later, Nesta broke her fast quickly and hurried outside. Carts and wagons filled the yard. Every morning farmers brought in provisions to feed the large household and to trade among themselves, am she had formed a habit of frequently joining them.

  She circled around, stopping to chat with the Welsh men and women who were regular participants of these morning markets. It had not taken her long to determine who might be an ally. In ten days she had learned much about the sentiments of the people, and who was complacent with England’s yoke, and who was not. Those who disapproved of Genith’s marriage had let it be known in subtle ways.

  One of them, a burly, swarthy farmer named Iolo with whom she had become very friendly, was here to day. She worked her way to the wall where he waited with his wagon. When she finally reached him she made a display of inspecting his chickens while she spoke.

  “The designs are on their way?”

  “Aye, my brother will seek out the man in Bala a you instructed, to sell his. The other went north with wine merchant.” He pressed two coins into her hand “A pity you should see the least profit of anyone.”

  “With so many sales between me and the tapestry weavers, it is always thus.”

  Nesta stepped closer while she poked a fowl. “You will come again tomorrow morning, as promised?”

  “I’ll be here, my lady. Over by the keep, with mea and hides from my brother’s farm.”

  Nesta returned to the hall, and sought out Marcus. He was sitting with his man, Paul. She stood by the table until he turned his attention to her.

  “My sister says that although the town is small, one can find wares from all over there, even from Flander and Castile.”

  “Many merchants who come to Wales travel north through these parts and stop there.”

  “I should like to go see it for myself tomorrow. I have been too long within these walls. It would please Genith to come again too, to show me the better shops. May we have your permission on this?”

  He contemplated her with an enigmatic expression. “I will be visiting the farms tomorrow, so I cannot accompany you.”

  She already knew that. “Surely another can escort us. It is for our own pleasure, so we can admire the goods as women do. We will not stay long.”

  “I suppose that a knight will be protection enough, since you do not go far.”

  She turned to go, but paused and looked back at him. She began to express her gratitude for his allowing Dylan to sing the last two nights, but her voice died on her lips.

  Her glance had caught his gaze scrutinizing her from head to toe, then lazily traveling back up a
gain. She suddenly felt naked.

  His gaze met hers. Except for their confrontation the first night here, he had done well in hiding his interest these last ten days. It was always there, however, shimmering through the air like the heat from a hearth, alerting her to his presence and to the looks she did not see. The hidden attention had left her unsettled enough, but now the mutual temptation silently roared between them.

  She felt her color rise, and hurried away. She had been experiencing an inexplicable hesitation over her course of action. Marcus had just reminded her that there really wasn’t any choice for many reasons, including the unholy passion that kept pulling them toward each other.

  “Are you writing it as I told you?” Nesta peered over Genith’s shoulder while her sister scratched her quill o the parchment.

  “Aye, aye. This is stupid, though, and I don’t know why I bother.”

  “I do not want him blamed.”

  Genith scratched out a mistake, and continued. “I d not much care if he is.”

  But I do, Nesta thought. Genith’s letter to Marcus explaining that her decision was not because of him who had behaved most courteously, might not help very much. Hopefully, however, it would keep Stratford and the King from directing too much anger at him.

  Still, he would be in the thick of it. That concerned her more than she wanted it to. None of this was really his fault. He only did the King’s bidding. It did no seem fair that he should answer for things he could no affect.

  Well, it wasn’t her fault that he would. Still, she wanted to protect him as much as possible, in the small ways available to her.

  “Be sure you include that you feel compelled to fulfill our father’s wishes. Make that very plain.”

  “It is plain enough, three times over.” Genith straightened and put down the quill. “Read it yourself while I help with the packing.”

  Nesta snatched up the parchment. It was a new sheet, one of several that had arrived this morning from the abbey along with some inks. When Marcus tool Genith to the town, he had not forgotten to send for it as he had promised.

  Satisfied with Genith’s letter, Nesta knelt beside her chest to finish her own packing. Garments had already been tucked in the sack, but now there were harder choices to make.

  She examined the few personal items that she had brought from Scotland. The box of inks and brushes and quills would have to come, but that left little room for anything else. She should stuff in a few veils and one decent headdress, so she would not look too much a peasant when she met people of good blood. The ancient gold armlet and her father’s ring, all that remained of her family’s status, would both be necessary.

  She tucked the items into the sack, and it bulged like a sausage. Regretfully, she reached among the objects that would not fit, and lifted a stack of parchments. The notion of leaving them behind pained her.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she plucked at the yarn that bound them and read the top one. It was the first she had received from her father after going to Scotland. How excited she had been when it came, tucked in the bag of a jongleur headed for Argyle. She had gladly paid the coin her father had promised as a reward, and savored the words over and over until she knew them by heart.

  That first letter had been gentle and endearing, but also critical of her decision to accept her marriage. She hadn’t cared about that, but only that contact with her father had not been lost forever.

  She had found a way to write back, and so other letters had come, full of his lyrical sentences full of grand dreams. She could tell from his references that not all of his missives completed their journeys, but several scrolls had found their way to her every year.

  She pulled the final one from the bottom of the stack. After she went to the convent the tone of the letters had changed, and the dreams had become plans.

  She had understood what lay within the cryptic messages, but this last one had been quite explicit.

  No merchant or jongleur had been entrusted with this letter. One of her father’s men had journeyed from Wales to place it in her hands. Her father had been ill when he sent it, and died before it reached her.

  His last words. His dying command. That he had never seen her response with her promises did not make any difference.

  She read it over several times, hearing her father’s voice saying the words. She branded her mind with the marks his hand had made. Her gaze lingered on the last lines that expressed his love for her and Genith.

  It was too explicit. A smart man would comprehend what it contained. She did not need to take it, but she dared not leave it.

  She rose to her feet and carried it to the hearth. She lifted the roll to her lips and kissed this last physical vestige of Llygad ap Madoc. Blinking back tears, she threw it into the flames.

  Swallowing her sadness, she tucked the sack under the bed and closed the chest. Eventually she would get its contents back. The day would come when Marcus would permit that.

  Genith was instructing the servants on her packing. A veil of green silk, a little carved box, and a mirror of polished metal were lined up on the bed. At Genith’s gesture, a servant reached for them.

  “You cannot take the luxuries he bought you yesterday,” Nesta said.

  “You said one sack only, but these are small and will not take up much space.”

  “It is dishonest to keep his gifts even as you repudiate him.”

  Genith stroked the veil and pouted. “You are taking the parchment.”

  “Only so I can write to you, and I will leave a coin for it.” Nesta pointed to several garments that had been discarded. “Take these, not the silk. Choose for practicality and warmth. Be sure to hide the sack under the bed when you are done.” She strode to the door. “Get to bed as soon as possible. I will return shortly.”

  She hurried down to the hall where most of the household still gathered. The adults sat in groups, talking and listening to the music flowing from Dylan’s harp. Children ran wild, playing games and tumbling about. Nesta settled herself among three ladies married to some of Marcus’s knights.

  Marcus sat at the high table with their husbands. The oldest man there, he still appeared very young tonight as he joined a boisterous conversation that had the men laughing and grinning.

  The happy chaos filling the hall kept lapping over him, and he tolerated the interruptions as few lords would. When some boys’ flying bean sack hit him in the head, he merely tossed it back and watched their play with an expression that suggested he would not mind joining them. When a small child climbed onto the table and crawled down its length, Marcus simply plucked the boy into his arms and kept talking until the apologetic mother fetched him.

  Dylan’s lyrical harp added more merriment to the chamber, but his performance this night was subdued. He only sang a few songs and mostly just played his instrument. On evenings past he had chatted with those around him, and Nesta had exchanged a few words with him each night. Now, however, he appeared disinterested in the household activity.

  As the ladies engaged Nesta in spirited conversation, she watched Dylan carefully. The bard’s expression looked very sour. On occasion his deft finger; grew clumsy on the strings. Finally he paused right in the middle of a melody and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  Some servants noticed. An old woman hobbled over and peered curiously at his face. The woman gestured for the guard who had brought the bard up from his chamber.

  Dylan rose unsteadily, grasping his harp to his chest The guard moved to help him, but suddenly another man was standing there. Marcus had noticed Dylan‘: condition too, and had come to investigate.

  Nesta ran over. “He appears ill.”

  “Very ill, since it is the first time he has not scowled at me since we met.” Marcus motioned to the guard “Take him down, and get him another blanket and some ale.”

  Dylan barely reacted. Accepting the support of the guard, he began shuffling away.

  Marcus’s hand reached out to stop them. He gentl
y relieved Dylan of the burden of the harp. “You will drop it on the stairs in your condition. It will be waiting for you where it always is.”

  The guard led Dylan away.

  “Perhaps he is too ill for that cellar,” Marcus said. “If I spared him from the noose, I don’t want him to die from the damp.”

  “I think that he will be fine in his chamber, since you are sending a blanket.”

  “You think moving him up here too great a charity. Nesta?”

  “Having gone below, I doubt he wants to move at all.

  Also, if he is really ill, it might be best not to have him near others who might catch the malady.“

  Marcus considered that. “I will have a fire pot brought down all the same. The weather is turning cold.”

  He walked back to his men, and Nesta narrowed her eyes on the harp that he carried.

  Her plan had worked perfectly, except for that one detail.

  Chapter 8

  Very few sounds broke the stillness. Several fowl heralded the first light with clucks and squawks, and a dog barked in the outer yard, but no human noise came from the long shadows emerging in the dull grey world outside Nesta’s window.

  Nesta watched and waited. Behind her Genith breathed gently on the bed, and the servants were dead to the world. She guessed that they did not toss fretfully because they knew that she did the worrying for them.

  She herself had not slept much. She had remained in the hall longer than she had planned, relishing the joyful noise. How much she envied those people, with their simple lives and pleasures. It reminded her of her girlhood, and the security of having a place in the world, of being one stone in a wall built over generations.

  It had not only been the merriment that kept her in the hall. She had also stayed to watch Marcus. Pinned in place by a bittersweet melancholy, she had not been able to tear herself away from his presence. Her wistful mood had led her to see more of him than she ever had before.

  Despite how his very person proclaimed his status as lord, there had been something about him that reminded her of the squires who gathered around him. Those boys sensed that they had an ally in him, and that he understood their explosive emotions. He was a god to them, and they found excuses to stay near him and curbed their worst excesses to please him.