Stealing Heaven

by Madeline Hunter

  She sat down calmly, but Marcus noticed that the hand that uncovered the ink pot was shaking. He watched the clumsy fumbling with the brush that belied her indifferent words. He felt the confusion and fear in her that could not hide behind her careful pose.

  She began to continue her design, but a careless movement sent the ink pot’s little top clattering to the floor. It rolled over to his feet. He picked it up, placed it beside the pot, and walked away.

  He had made no promises, but he would not be touching her again soon. With the way things stood, if he was right about her complicity in the rebellion, to do so would be as contemptible and stupid as he had once said it would be.

  A man should not bed a woman he might one day have to hand over to the executioner.

  Nesta was careful to do nothing to fuel Marcus’s suspicions during the next days. She had no doubt that he would lock her in her chamber if he had cause, and so she gave him none.

  She avoided Marcus whenever possible, and soon the raised eyebrows regarding them lowered. They saw each other mostly at meals. Those long hours were hard, because she sat near him and saw the questions in his eyes when he looked at her.

  Sometimes it was the gaze of the King’s man that she saw, wondering what role she played in the rebellion.

  More often it was the smoldering regard of the young knight with whom she had shared an illicit passion. The intensity of those stolen glimpses would leave her flustered and dazed, and far too aware that passion denied could be more heady than passion fulfilled.

  She had told him that she had made that night into a magical memory, but that had been a hopeless lie. The memories lived in her with a reality that she both resented and relished. They occupied her mind, as did the impossibility of ever reliving those moments with a man who opposed all that she lived for.

  Marcus suspected just how much in opposition they would be. The confrontation in her chamber had made that clear, just as it had revealed that the passion was not dead. It could not be ignored and would stand between them as a lure to damnation. For certainly a person who forsakes who she is for any reason, even love, can only know hell afterward.

  She continued visiting the little market that formed in the yard every morning. A week after her return, she was there soon after dawn to sell Iolo her latest tapestry design.

  Iolo appeared excited. He tucked the parchment into his tunic and handed over the coins. “My lady, I’ve something to tell you…”

  Nesta hushed him with a subtle slice of her hand. Marcus was in the yard, and had noticed their exchange. He strolled up behind Iolo and eyed the coin in Nesta’s hand.

  “Only a few pence, Nesta? You labor hard for very little.”

  “I am in Wales, not London or Edinburgh. Most likely five men will take their profit before my designs find their way to a weaver. This one may not go far at all. There are those who buy them to tack on their walls for decoration, but they will not pay a weaver’s price then.”

  “I don’t suppose that there is a letter for Carwyn Hir folded in with the design?”

  “Of course not. I told you, I do not know the man.”

  Iolo’s color rose when he heard Marcus’s challenge.

  Marcus noticed. He held out his hand. “May I see the design one more time? It was my favorite one. I especially admired the countenance of lust that your brush made.”

  “This is not the one with the virtues. I sold that to a passing merchant days ago.”

  Iolo groped in his tunic and produced the design anyway. Nesta crossed her arms and tapped her foot while Marcus unfolded the parchment.

  No note fell out. No scrap fluttered to the ground. She enjoyed Marcus’s surprise.

  “Did you think I would pass a letter right under your nose?”

  Marcus refolded the design and handed it back to Iolo. “Pity that you did not. I asked you to contact him.”

  “Do not wait on me to do so, since I can’t. I have told you many times that I am but a pawn in all of this, not a king or a knight.”

  He did not appear convinced, but with a shrug he walked away.

  A heavy exhale blew out of Iolo. “My gratitude for warning me, my lady. It wouldn’t have done for him to hear what I was about to say.” He backed up against the wall so there would be no more surprises. “There is a man in the town. A stranger. Staying at the wainright’s. He sought me out. Knew my name because of my brother’s journeys to Bala. He wants to meet with you.” Iolo lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think it is one of your father’s people. He didn’t say so, but that is what I think.”

  “He will not let you bring the message to me?”

  “He must see you himself, he said. I was to tell you it was very important.”

  It must be, for such a risk to be taken. The danger was not only the messenger’s, but also hers.

  It must be about Genith. Perhaps Carwyn had sent word that she was on her way to her marriage. Another possibility occurred to her, however, and her stomach turned. Maybe Genith had taken ill, or been injured during her journey. The image of her sister suffering in that rough camp full of men, with no woman to attend her, invaded her mind.

  “I will try to find a way to come, Iolo. Tell this man to wait. He is not to leave unless I send word through you that meeting him is impossible.”

  Marcus visited the yard again the next morning. He watched Nesta move among the farmers and merchants, and saw the way they greeted her. She had been doing this since she came, he guessed, since she chatted with some as if they were old friends.

  Most of them were Welsh. That these lands had been a part of England for centuries did not matter. That the blood flowing in their veins was as mixed as his own was irrelevant. If asked, those men and women below him in the yard would call themselves Welsh. Nesta was not the King’s whore to them, but the daughter of Llygad ap Madoc, and the closest thing they had to royalty.

  The farmer Iolo’s wagon made its slow way to the gate, passing Nesta on the way. She said a few words to the big man, and it seemed to Marcus that an expression of concern flickered beneath her smile.

  He thought about the tapestry design that Nesta had sold Iolo yesterday. Others had been sold that way, most likely. Slowly, methodically, for months and maybe years, Nesta had been procuring coin, and not just for her own use. No doubt purses had been sent to Carwyn Hir.

  Was that all she was about? Sending money to the rebels, to help sustain them? He did not think so. If tapestry designs could travel, so could letters. He would have to keep a much closer eye on Nesta now, and make sure he intercepted any that did. He began contemplating how to arrange that.

  A little commotion at the gate diverted his attention. The last of the market wagons had been stopped, and a few began backing up. The gateway cleared for a short while, and then another wagon appeared, coming in and not going out. On its bench sat a huge blond man, and beside him, looking small in comparison despite his own considerable height, lounged David de Abyndon.

  Marcus raised an arm in greeting, and went down to meet them. A merchant’s wagon was no novelty in the yard, but everyone paused to gape at the blond giant.

  As he passed Nesta, Marcus gestured for her to join him. “Come and meet an old friend of mine.”

  David stopped the wagon near the wall and climbed down to accept Marcus’s greeting. “I thought we’d never get here, Mark,” he said. “We had trouble on the road with bandits. Good thing I brought Sieg here, or I’d be held for ransom with no one to pay it.”

  Marcus glanced at Nesta at the mention of bandits. She appeared much more interested in the two visitors and the canvas-shrouded wagon.

  “This is Nesta verch Llygad, David. I think you met her once.”

  “A man does not forget meeting such beauty. Greetings, my lady.”

  Nesta obviously recognized him. Marcus almost heard her mind realize that David had something to do with Marcus discovering she had fled London.

  “You sold your newest tapestry design too soon, Ne
sta. I’m sure that David would have given a better price.”

  “Perhaps there will be more before he leaves.”

  “I hope you are staying long enough to make that true, David.”

  “Several days, if you will have us. My rump is sore from that board, and my back broken and bitten from bad beds.” He paced around to the back of the wagon. “I brought it. I said I would, and I hope that you are grateful since it diverted me seven days from my journey’s path to get it here.”

  He untied the canvas and flung it aside. There, amidst some rugs and chests, lay the statue of his father that Rhys and Joan had made.

  Marcus had seen it in the dusk, but it appeared even more accurate a likeness now as sunlight flooded the face. A hundred memories crowded into his head and heart. Some of them were painful, but the oldest and strongest were beautiful.

  “Thank you, David. I am most grateful.”

  “You must allow me to pay you for your journey,” Marcus said. He and David were in his solar, and his friend was inspecting the furnishings and objects with curiosity.

  David always viewed things with a merchant’s eyes, and Marcus could see him weighing value and assessing quality. A few questions had already been asked about where some items had been procured. Marcus assumed those were the ones of which David approved.

  “Do not insult me. Bringing the statue was a favor to a friend.” David lifted Dylan’s harp off the table where he had placed it to remove the sack. He plucked at the strings and cocked his head at the sound. “Where did you get this? It is old and rare.”

  “That is a story that must wait for a long evening and much wine. Right now I want you to tell me about these bandits you met on the road.”

  “It was early this morning. About five came at us. They lost heart once Sieg drew his sword, so it was of little account. Not your normal thieves, though. They had a banner.”

  “Describe it.”

  “A red dragon. That is an ancient symbol in Wales, is it not?” David spoke as if the conversation barely distracted him from his examination of the harp, but his vague smile said he knew the importance of what he was revealing.

  “It is also the banner of Llygad’s men,” Marcus said. “I will need to send messengers and learn if others have been attacked, but it looks as though the odd pause in their activities has ended.”

  “They are far from home if they are here,” David said.

  “Sometimes they venture out of the mountains. Better pickings, for one thing.” Other possible reasons for their arrival poked into Marcus’s mind, however. He began mentally planning a little expedition to clear the rebels off his lands.

  “Do not let Sieg know if you plan to go after them. He is restless for action, and will delay my journey if the chance for fighting presents itself.”

  David set the harp down, and lifted a leather bag he had brought in with him. “I have some gifts for you. Cloth. This red is for you, so you can have a decent court garment made. You can wear it at your wedding, or are you already married?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Genith is gone.”

  “Gone? She has died?”

  He pointed to the harp. “Gone. With the man who owned that.”

  “Hell, we do need a long evening and lot of wine, don’t we. Well, you can give this blue silk to someone more deserving, then.” He set the red and blue cloth out, and picked up the harp again.

  Another fabric poked out of the sack. Marcus tugged the corner into better view while David tested the instrument’s sounds. “This green velvet is very rich. Is that for me, too?”

  David tucked the harp into his arms and tried the strings again. A little melody managed to come together. “That is for the sister.”

  “Do you mean Nesta?”

  “She admired it in my shop that day, and I thought she might like to have it. It would be rude to gift you and Genith and not her.”

  Marcus stroked the luxurious velvet. He glanced at the handsome merchant absorbed in the harp. He thought about how David had remembered Nesta’s coveting this cloth, and how he now planned to bestow this gift privately.

  “David, you are an old friend, but let me make something very clear to you.”

  “What is that?”

  “If you give Nesta this velvet, I will kill you.” The fingers on the harp did not pause. David did not even look up, but a vague smile formed as he watched the strings. “It sounds as though we need a very Ion evening and at least a barrel of wine, Mark.”

  All afternoon Nesta watched the statue being moved. It became a major project, with many men involved, bi they probably finished in half the time they should be cause the huge Swede named Sieg lent his strength to the task. Finally a long line of satisfied men filed out the chapel door and headed to the hall for some ale an supper.

  Once the yard was quiet, Nesta slipped down from the wall walk from where she had observed the world. This statue made her curious. That it bore a likeness very similar to Marcus did not especially fascinate he nor that it was the first marble statue she had ever seer It had been the expression on Marcus’s face when h saw it in the wagon that compelled her to go. She suspected that the statue embodied some of the things she had neglected to ask him about that night.

  Total silence shrouded the chapel. Like the lodge in the morning, only narrow shafts of light entered the cold, dark stones through the little high windows.

  She found the statue in an alcove tucked inside the shallow transept. The figure of the last lord of Angles more rose above the stone marking his crypt. It was » lifelike that it might have been an image of the resurrection after the final judgment, when the bones leave the grave to enter the body again.

  The single candle’s flickering light abstracted the torn into mysterious planes. Still, she recognized the face older than the one she knew so well, and felt the power or the presence. It awed her that something made of stone could possess so much life.

  “It captures him too well. It is as if his spirit dwells in it.”

  The quiet voice startled her. She swung around to see Marcus leaning against the opposite wall of the transept, studying the statue from the dark.

  He came over to her, and the light affected his face much as it did the statue’s. It was as if the stone image over the crypt had come to life to walk among the living, rejuvenated.

  “My sister made it, along with her husband. It took many years, and now I wonder if she delayed the completion, so that she could keep it with her. Perhaps she relinquished it now because she sensed that I needed it, so I would remember.”

  “Do you need a statue to remember?”

  “I need nothing to remember him. But the rest…” He gestured to the stone floor. “His bones were not here when I got Anglesmore back. He had died a traitor, and only saw a decent burial because the castle priest helped my sister take the body to a village plot. His crime had been to stand by his king when all others forsook him, and to hold to his oath of fealty while others violated theirs.”

  Nesta knew he was speaking of the deposition of the current king’s father. Everyone knew how Marcus’s father had not joined the rebellion led by the Queen and Roger Mortimer, and how he had paid when it had been successful.

  “An oath or a promise is not to be broken,” she said. “Everyone understands that, and if Mortimer had not been so ambitious in these parts it would have been different for your father.”

  “Perhaps, but it was not.” A thin smile lined his mouth. “My father left me a rich legacy, and his example through his death is part of it. A man sworn to king does not forsake that king, even if he is not fit to rule.”

  His tone surprised her. It carried a note of resentment, and a hint of the rebelliousness that could show in him sometimes.

  “Do you blame your father for the stand he tool Marcus?”

  “Much pain and grief flowed from it, and not to the good. I cannot blame him, but I can see that he might have been wrong.” He stepped into the alcove and gave the statue a clos
er inspection. “I am told the craftsman ship is superior. What do you think?”

  “I think that it was carved not only with skill, but with heart.”

  “Perhaps that was what moved me as I stood over there looking at it. I had hoped it was his ghost warning me not to allow notions of duty to destroy all that matters to me.”

  He returned to her side, and although his eyes still met that of the figure’s, his gaze seemed more inward. “I did not even avenge him myself. Others took the risk and wielded the swords.”

  “You were too young.”

  “Still, I did not forge my own destiny. Others handed it to me, just as others had taken it away. And I received justice only because of Edward’s generosity. He restored Anglesmore to me, even though my father had not sup ported the moves that put him on the throne. It was one of his first acts after Mortimer was put down. He die not have to do that.”

  So there it was. What he owed to the body in this crypt, and to the young King whose word had absolved the family. He lived with an intricate knot of duties and memories and obligations.

  She did not know what to say in response. She had no statue to show him of her own father, nor oaths of fealty to honor. But more than ever before, more than the morning in the lodge or the moment they entered the gate, she understood with horrible clarity what they would both sacrifice, and why.

  “Edward is a good king, Marcus, and not like the last one. There will be no compromise with honor in serving him and your oath. His favor is to be welcomed, and worth much. He has proven that already, with his generosity to you.”

  He turned away from the statue and faced her. The flickering light reminded her too much of how he had appeared that night by the hearth, and his expression bore similar lines to those his face had worn while he watched her passion join his. Regret squeezed her heart so tightly that her chest hurt.

  “Aye, Nesta, he is very generous,” he said. “Up to a point.”

  It was a subtle warning, but also a clear one. About Edward and about himself.

  As she left him and sought the chapel portal, her heart was heavy with the realization that he did not just suspect her of treason. He was convinced of it.