“And the lady?”
“She has retired to her chamber. With the priest gone too, the chapel is deserted.”
Addis looked pointedly at the parchment in Marcus’s hand. Marcus explained Nesta’s tapestry designs.
“I have been blind, Addis, although she was so clever that perhaps I can be excused. I wondered if she sent messages in them, but saw only images that had no special meaning. Look at what is scraped beneath the image, however.” He handed Addis the design, and lifted the candle behind it.
“Latin. What does it say?”
“Everything of importance. It also demands that her ally move.” He paused, hesitating to share the truth, even with these two men whom he trusted above all others. “She writes that it is imperative for them to cross the border at once. The northern border.”
Marcus had rarely seen Addis surprised before, but he did now. “Are you saying that she has an alliance with the Scots?”
“I am convinced of it. Nesta sold one to David de Abyndon, when he was leaving Anglesmore. She knew he headed north, not west into Wales. She spoke of a merchant in Carlisle who would buy it. I assumed at the time that if it carried a message, it would make its way back from there.”
Other details came to him. Insignificant ones, that now loomed large and obvious. “She had told him of another merchant who would buy them too. One in Edinburgh. The merchants must know how to pass them on. She has probably been sending her messages on these parchments since Llygad died, negotiating the alliance even while she lived in the convent.”
“Then Genith’s intended husband was not a marcher lord, as you suspected, but a Scot,” Addis said, holding the candle so that he could read the message. “Who?”
Suddenly the significance of another memory grew. “Genith spoke once of marriage to royalty.”
“Well, it won’t be someone of the Baillol family. Since Edward has recognized their claim to the Scottish crown, they have little argument with him,” Paul said bluntly. “Most likely a man of the Bruce, then, since most Scots support their claim to the throne.”
“And their lands are in western Scotland, not far north from Carlisle,” Marcus said.
Addis snapped his fingers against the parchment. “You are reading in this evidence of a combined action of the Scots and Welsh?”
“One to the north, one to the west. They would make a powerful army aimed against a common foe. It has been tried before. Didn’t Robert the Bruce try to negotiate such a plan less than twenty years ago, during Lancaster’s uprising against the last king? Llygad ap Madoc would have known about that, and most likely was involved.”
“It could work,” Paul said with a note of admiration. “With Edward out of the realm, along with most of his lords…”
Addis’s brow furrowed. The scarred side of his face suddenly looked very harsh, although the good side showed more worry than anger. He lifted the parchment meaningfully. “You cannot risk that she gets another such message through.”
Marcus knew that. There was only one way to be sure it would not happen. The thought of confining her, of truly treating her as a prisoner, sickened him.
“We will say it is because she is encouraging the servants to leave, and subverting our purpose, the way Hubert accused,” Addis said. “No one else but we three need to know what she has really done, yet.”
Yet. A searing sensation filled Marcus’s chest. He had always thought that he could protect her, but that was because he had never suspected how rash her treason would be.
She had always known the truth, however. Small wonder that she had tried to deny and fight the passion that bound them.
Addis looked at him, with eyes too perceptive and too wise. The man who had once been his warden knew him well, and that knowing passed in the gaze they exchanged.
“I will do it,” Addis said.
Marcus shook his head, much as he would have liked to hand Addis this obligation. The ridge he had been walking was crumbling beneath his feet, and there was only one way not to fall.
“It is my duty. I brought her here, and she is my betrothed. It must be me, and the others must see me do it.”
Chapter 22
The sound of boots nearby did not wake Nesta.
She had been up all night, sick in spirit. Her head hurt, her stomach churned, and her chest felt so heavy there was no place for her breath. A silent moan constantly murmured below her fevered thoughts.
The men’s noisy approach caused an uproar of panic among the other women in the chamber. Clutching their blankets to their necks, cowering together, they stared at the door. The acrid smell of fear permeated the tiny space.
Nesta swallowed the bile rising in her. “Be silent,” she ordered the women. “They do not come for you.”
Had the priest betrayed her? Fury that he might have gave her back some spine. Another reaction, however, flowed unbidden under her sudden alertness. A traitorous hope that her last act had indeed been discovered wanted to have its say. Then she would have still done her duty, but be spared the responsibility for its consequences.
It sounded as if an army came for her. She had just grabbed a blanket around her nakedness when the door swung open. It startled her to see only Arundal and Hubert and two knights standing there.
They parted, and a fifth man appeared. Marcus stepped into the chamber. The servant closest to his feet scooted back with a yelp.
Nesta’s heart echoed her cry of alarm. Marcus appeared carved of stone, so hard was his expression. Even his eyes might have been made of dark crystals.
He gestured for her. “Rise and dress yourself. You will come with us now.” His voice sounded cold. One would think they had never met before.
“Do I dress for a judgment, or an execution?”
“Hell’s teeth, listen to that impudent tone she uses,” Arundal roared. “Be glad it isn’t a judgment, woman, or the execution would quickly follow if I had my way.”
Marcus held up a hand for silence. “You will be kept in close confinement for now, Nesta.”
She examined their faces, trying to determine how great her danger was. “For what reason?”
“So that you do not send out servants with word of every move we make,” Hubert sneered.
She waited expectantly for the rest, and the accusation of the bald treason she had committed recently.
Marcus just watched her with an unfathomable expression.
That annoyed her. He could give her some sign indicating what she faced. The flaring alarm in her blood gave way to a different heat. She resented these men standing here, filling the chamber with their size and power, making the other women weep and frightening her so badly she could barely think.
She rose, pulling the blanket with her. “Then I must come as you command. One woman can hardly stand against such impressive strength.”
Turning to her clothing chest, she began letting the blanket drop.
Marcus was beside her in an instant, his hands clutching the blanket’s edge so it lowered no further. “Do not even consider using this old weapon, Nesta,” he whispered tightly.
She shot a glance past him, to where Hubert and Arundal watched. “Only one shoulder shows, and already these great knights have forgotten why they came. Do you fear that the King’s whore will gain an ally, Marcus?” she whispered back.
“You may think to only make them into fools, but I will not stand here while they look at you.”
“Then get these English pigs out of my chamber,” she hissed.
Marcus did not even turn his head as he gave the order to the others. “Leave.”
Hubert’s face had gone slack with anticipation. “She may hide something on her person. A weapon or whatnot. I hold this manor, and it is my respons—”
“I will stay and see she does not. You may be castellan here, but by law this is my bride, and you will leave now.”
Miffed, and giving Nesta a final, liquid leer, Arundal led the way out. “Aye, your woman, and your responsibility
, so her acts are now yours as well. We will be sure to remind Edward of that.”
“Dress now,” Marcus said when the door closed.
She let the blanket drop, and knelt at the chest to choose garments. She took her time, feeling Marcus’s gaze on her the whole time. The women watched as silent witnesses. Their darting glances revealed that they were alert to what pulsed between her and the knight watching.
She dressed very slowly, making no attempt at modesty. Fury provoked her to tease him. Half of her wanted to remind him that she was not without power, small and frail though her body might be. The other half, the part barely holding down a hideous fear, desperately sought to remind this column of hard power of what they had shared, so that he might be merciful.
Admitting the fear made it branch again, shooting roots to the core of her spirit. Her hand froze in midair as she reached for the cotehardie she had chosen. She saw herself growing old in some dark chamber as these garments rotted on her body. Another image flashed in her mind, of her not old at all, being forced to kneel at a block while an ax waited.
The fear turned into unhinging terror that clouded her sight. Her stomach heaved.
A hand on her shoulder called her back, and calmed the shrieking desperation. Marcus reached for the cotehardie. He slipped it over her head and settled it on her shoulders as if she were a child.
His gentle handling broke her heart as no coldness could. Biting her lip to hold in her emotions, she clutched at the remnants of her strength.
He waited, blocking the sight of the other women, giving her time. She dared not look at him. She feared what she would see if she did. Uncompromising resolve, that she could face. Anything else, however, any hint of regret or disappointment, would tear her to pieces.
She saw him all the same, out of the corner of her eye. He still appeared sculpted of stone, but deep fires flickered in his eyes. Little lights of pain and sympathy softened the hard face of duty. In that fleeting glimpse she perceived a sad resignation that she recognized too well. He appeared much as she had felt since she finished her last design.
She squared her shoulders and gritted her teeth. Short of one of them betraying who they were, they had both known this moment would eventually come. She would not make it harder for him, and she would be damned before she let the men outside the door see her weak.
“I am ready, Marcus.”
Marcus entered the silent chapel, carrying three candles. He passed the little worktable, and approached the altar. In the glow of the single flame that burned on it, he opened the heavy, ancient tome of the Gospels that the priest used for mass.
Fanning the pages, he found what he sought. The page at the end of the Gospel of John was not filled with words. Most of it was blank.
As he reached for its top edge, he sensed a presence behind him. Not Nesta. He would know at once if she were near.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the old priest watching him. “So, you are back from your dying man.”
“What are you doing?”
Marcus jerked his hand, and ripped out the page. The priest cried in shock, and lunged, too late, to stop him.
Marcus pushed him aside, lit one of his candles off the altar taper, and walked to Nesta’s worktable where he lit the others and set them on the plank.
He opened the box of ink pots. Hopefully the images that she made carried no significance. There was no way he could duplicate angels. A few birds and animals, however… he might manage that. Nesta’s own designs had not been especially artful of late, and perhaps the crudeness of his own would not be noticed.
He sat, pulled out his eating knife, and cut off the section of parchment that had words. The priest watched.
“Were you here when she was a girl? Did you serve her father?” Marcus asked.
The priest nodded.
“Were you going to walk to Carlisle with her design, or pass it on?”
The priest’s shriveled mouth pursed. “There are horses in the village. Someone else would have carried it north.”
“Do you want to save her?” He began scraping an image of a dragon into the top corner of the sheet that remained. “Or do you welcome a Welsh martyr, even if the cause is lost?”
“I saw her scraping like that for hours last night. If you know to do it too, then all is indeed lost. I see no need for a martyr, if she can be spared.”
“Then come here, and help me with the Latin.”
In the first light of dawn, Marcus carried his design back to the manor house. He found Paul where he had told him to wait in the hall. He shook his friend, and Paul’s dark curls flew as he jolted awake.
Gesturing, he brought Paul out into the yard. “Take four men, and extra horses, and ride to Carlisle. If you do not find David on the road, wait for him there. With that wagon and his trading, he should not have arrived yet.”
“And when I find him?”
“Tell him to destroy the design that he carries, and give him this one instead. Have him bring it to the merchant Nesta spoke of.”
Paul reached for the parchment. His fingers hesitated for an instant before they closed on the roll. “If I do this, I will not be here when you move.”
“That is my gift to you. I know your heart is not in this, and that some of your blood would like to see Llygad’s men successful.”
“Not against you. I would never—”
“I have never doubted your loyalty to me, or that you would fight by my side. That is why I entrust you with this duty. It is vital that you find David, and switch the designs.”
Paul gazed down at the roll in his hand. “It is not hers, is it?”
Marcus shook his head. “So you see, I give you a pain as well as a gift, old friend. If you cannot do this for me, I will understand.”
A pause of vacillation beat by, then Paul smiled. “The women in my family have been Welsh, but the men have always been sworn to the crown. Still, can I trust that you plan to keep Arundal and the others from slaughtering every Welsh man in sight while I am gone?”
“That is my intention.”
“Then I will find your merchant, and see that this is done. If I have to ride three horses to death on the way, I will do it.”
Chapter 23
Cold.. Numbing cold. It surrounded her and seeped into her skin and blood.
It was not the absence of a hearth that caused it. Nor was her tiny chamber especially damp. They had put her at the top of the tower, not in a cellar hole.
Even so, Nesta knew cold as she never had before. It permeated to her bones as she existed in the dark, silent space. The blanket left for her could not keep it away.
Knights brought her meals. They did not speak to her, or answer her questions. She lost contact with everyone and everything, and days had no beginnings or ends. She began to comprehend what eternity might be like.
She asked to speak with the priest, to confess, but it was denied her. She wondered if Marcus had refused because the goal was to keep her from her people, or because Marcus knew just how much an ally the priest had become.
Left with her own soul for company, and her own thoughts for conversation, she could not hide from her heart. It had long ago been sliced in two, and the parts kept arguing in her head. She was helpless against it, nor would the debate ever be resolved.
She wished that she were as strong as Marcus. When it came down to a choice for him, he had not hesitated.
That was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? What she had demanded. Brief, simple pleasures that could be set aside at the moment of truth. It was not his fault that her own decision had tortured her, and would continue to do so as long as she lived.
He had warned her that no matter what happened on the fields of war, she would lose if she persisted in aiding Carwyn. He had done everything possible to protect her, except lock her away before she took the steps that would damn her.
She paced as she worked it out, but actually worked out nothing at all. She wondered if her design was on its w
ay north, and whether anyone would find out, and what that might mean when she was judged. She saw herself, again and again, kneeling in front of the block, and it sent a terrible shiver dancing down her spine each time. Marcus had been right about that too. No favor from the King would spare her.
She knew why she was so cold. The chill came from within, from her soul.
The door’s movement had her awake at once.
Backing up on her pallet, she groped for her garments and began pulling them on. The vulnerability of being alone here, of being isolated in a place where no one came, pressed on her. Any man could slip up during the night, and she would be defenseless.
A tall figure slipped into the chamber. She sensed who it was, and her heart flipped with relief.
“I am sorry that I did not come sooner, Nesta.”
“I did not expect you to come at all. The King’s man put me here, not my lover. I understand how it must be.”
“Then you are of calmer spirit than I am.”
Her heart grasped hungrily at the suggestion that he had not been nearly as indifferent as he had appeared when he closed this door on her. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
Only two days. It had felt like two weeks. Two lifetimes.
“How goes your war, Marcus?”
“There has been no war yet. It appears there will be, however. I sent a herald to Carwyn, asking to parlay, but he refused.”
“Of course he did. What can you offer him, to make negotiating worthwhile? Only a king can give him what he wants.”
“I can offer you, Nesta.”
“Even my father would not have accepted that bargain. When a people decide to fight for their freedom, the life of one woman, one person, becomes meaningless. Put yourself in their places, and imagine the fire burning in them, or you will never understand what is at work.”
He did not reply. She sensed him over near the door, looking in her direction. His spirit filled the tiny space, submerging her in a rising pool of emotions that both soothed and frightened her.
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