The Mark of Salvation

by Carol Umberger

  The hunters rode out again and he and Bryan stayed in camp, enjoying a chance to sit in the relative quiet. But a sentry’s shout soon interrupted them. He and Bryan hurried toward the man, who was apparently wrestling with a newcomer. But Bruce smiled when he saw his sentry holding fast to a familiar young woman.

  “Let her go,Will.”

  “Her?”

  Laughing at Will’s confusion, Bryan said, “Hello, Morrigan. I see you are still wearing trews.”

  She cast a scowl his way. “Well I can’t very well run through the heather and bracken—much less ride a horse—in a skirt, now can I?”

  Bruce nodded to Will and he released her. “Morrigan, it is good to see you,” the king said. “But you don’t look pleased to see us.”

  “My laird, ’tis always a pleasure to visit with you and your charming son. But I didn’t come on a social call. Pembroke is headed this way, my laird, with fifteen hundred troops. They mean to catch you by surprise.”

  Bruce walked over to look out over the valley and the others followed. “Where are they, Morrigan?”

  She pointed to a forested hillside several miles away.

  Robert thought for a few minutes then said, “We are greatly outnumbered but the terrain will be to our advantage. He can’t make a frontal cavalry charge over these boulders, and the pass behind us is easily defended. Pembroke’s men will have to come on foot, which might have worked if we weren’t aware of the attack.”

  He looked at Bryan and Morrigan and both nodded their agreement with his evaluation. “Then let him come. We’ll be waiting, thanks to you. Well done, Morrigan.”

  Quietly Bruce ordered his men to send a scout for the hunters to return to camp and arm themselves. The Scots would hold their high ground.

  They barely had time to form up and take position when the English raced out of the woods and across the field of boulders. Morrigan let loose an arrow and caught the leader of the charge in the throat.

  “Good shot!” Bruce exclaimed.

  The English, alarmed to find the Scots armed and waiting for them instead of unaware, halted their charge. That hesitation proved fatal to their attack. Bruce cried, “Upon them now!” and the three hundred Scots rushed forward. The English fled back the way they had come.

  Relieved at the quick victory, Bruce solemly laid his hand on Morrigan’s arm. “One day I will repay you, Morrigan Macnab.”

  “Unite our country, my laird, and oust the English. That will be reward enough.”

  February 1308, The Hills of Carrick

  CEALLACH KNELT BEFORE HIS FOSTER BROTHER, the king of Scotland, not on the marble floor of a stately palace, but on the dirt floor of a small stone cottage in the hills where they’d been children together. No trappings of office surrounded the royal personage, for Robert’s clothing was nearly as threadbare as Ceallach’s own.

  The months of hard travel, of hiding and fear, of bone deep weariness, threatened to overcome Ceallach. He knew that Bruce had also known treachery, deceit, and physical deprivation this past year, and knowing that had given Ceallach hope of sanctuary. Raising his head, he prayed his eyes would not betray his desperation. Robert was his only chance for anything resembling a normal life.

  Robert smiled. “Rise, Marcus of—”

  “Nay, sire.” Glancing at the three men standing nearby, Ceallach pulled Bruce close to whisper, “Please, Your Majesty. I go by the name of Ceallach.”

  Bruce studied him a moment before saying, “I understand. Rise then, Ceallach.”

  Ceallach stood as the king waved away the others. They moved to the other end of the cottage, giving the king privacy.

  Robert laid his hand on Ceallach’s shoulder. “All right. How can I be of help?”

  Ceallach managed not to flinch from the touch; he simply moved away so Robert had to remove his hand. His wounds were barely healed and even an innocent touch could cause the skin to break open and ooze. “I think we can help one another, my laird. I have need of sanctuary. You have need of weapons and money.”

  Ceallach had nothing to lose. Either Robert accepted him and gave him refuge, or Ceallach’s life would end here in the wilds of Carrick. No sense mincing words. “I have no home, Robert. I am not safe in any country in all of Europe, save possibly for Scotland. All I held dear was stripped from me, and I’m lucky I escaped with my life.”

  Robert’s expression turned bleak, and suddenly Ceallach feared Robert would banish him, since his very presence endangered anyone that harbored him. Hoping to forestall such a possibility, Ceallach confessed. “I would pledge myself to your cause, Robert.”

  “You would fight for Scotland’s freedom?”

  “I am a warrior. ’Tis the only life I know.”

  “This is no holy war, Ceallach, fought to uphold the Church.”

  Ceallach laughed. “No war is holy, Robert. To think otherwise is a fool’s game, and I’m done with being a fool.”

  “But you would fight for freedom?”

  “If that is your cause, then, yes. I would do so willingly, for I have no home, no country, not even a church to pray in.”

  “Nowhere else to turn.” A gleam came into Robert’s eye, and Ceallach relaxed. “Then join with me. We shall be free men once more.”

  Ceallach the Warrior, weary, desperate, at his strength’s end, wiped tears from his eyes and followed his king into the night.

  ONE

  When not engaged in military duties brothers shall lead the life of a monk.

  —from the Rule of the Templar Knightss

  Iwoke from a nightmare again last night. As I’m sharing Robert’s tent, I awakened him with my shouts for the third time this week.

  This morning he offered me a bundle of precious parchment, a quill, and some ink. “If you won’t talk about it, then you should write it down.”

  “I’m not sure I can.” I don’t want to revisit my past—the dreams are bad enough.

  “I think you must tell the story before your nightmares consume you.”

  Maybe he’s right. It’s been eight years and still I cannot sleep without . . . no, I cannot begin with those visions, yet I need to understand what happened. And why. Perhaps if I start with the hopes and dreams of my youth I will eventually be able to write down the events that have scarred me as an adult.

  As a child I listened with awe to my foster father’s stories of going on crusade to the Holy Land, especially his tales about the Templar Knights. Their bravery in battle and devotion to God stirred my imagination, and by the time I was but ten years old, I felt called to become such a religious warrior.

  At the age of sixteen I earned the golden spurs of knighthood and took vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience as a Templar Knight. At that age, a young man’s blood runs hot, but I learned to cool mine with prayer and fasting. I was determined to honor Christ and myself by keeping my vows.

  Ah, the idealism of youth.

  Let it simply be said that all I’ve ever wanted is to serve God and use my skills as a warrior to win souls for him. As a man of the sword, Robert understands that desire better than anyone. He, too, longs to go on Crusade and to devote his warrior’s skills—gifts from God—to the defense of the faith.That is a laudable aspiration, but I applaud his decision to see Scotland freed from tyranny before taking on such a quest.Perhaps one day we will ride to the Holy Land together.

  June 23, 1314, Bannockburn

  THE NIGHTS WERE SHORT THIS FAR NORTH and dawn broke especially early this Midsummer’s Day, or so it seemed to Countess Orelia Radbourne. Once again she had accompanied her husband, the Earl of Radbourne, to the site of a battle. She studied their tent’s walls, glowing with the early light of a warm summer sun, something that usually pleased her. But this time, for reasons she could not explain, she desperately wished they were back home and safe at Radbourne Hall.

  They shared a pallet of sheepskins, and John stirred in his sleep. Awakening, he stretched like a cat as he had every morning of their marriage. She smiled, f
ighting the urge to cling to him and beg him to take her home, take himself from danger. But she did not embarrass either of them by such an unseemly display. It would have done no good. He was pledged to fight and must do so.

  John sat up, instantly alert in the way of a soldier. He leaned on one arm, staring down at her. “I can see by that frown on your face that you are already worrying.”

  “Yes. And don’t tell me not to. It won’t do any good.”

  He kissed her cheek and stood up. “I know. But I’ll say it anyway—don’t worry.” As he donned his clothes, he continued. “We outnumber the Scots four to one. Our supply train stretches nearly twenty miles long. We will make short work of Bruce and his rabble.”

  She stood also and began to dress. “That’s what you’ve been saying, and yet look at what happened to Henry yesterday.”

  “Yes. Well. Bruce is a notable warrior. I’ve never before seen anyone stand in the stirrups and deliver such a blow as Bruce dealt Henry.”

  Orelia shuddered. Henry de Bohun was—had been—young and somewhat rash, but he’d been their friend. Now he was dead at the hand of the Scottish king himself. The first of many, she feared.

  Apparently aware of her apprehension, John continued his attempt to reassure her. “Fortunately, few of Bruce’s men are trained in the art of war. Most are simple highlanders with crude weapons and insufferable tempers.”

  “John, how can you speak so about your fellowman?”

  “They aren’t my fellowman, Orelia. They are England’s enemies. The sooner we subdue them and civilize them the better.”

  The heat in his voice warned Orelia not to press further. She didn’t approve of such disparagement but did not want to send him off to battle with angry words between them.

  He struggled with the fasteners on his chain mail. “Call my squire to help with this.”

  “Nonsense. I don’t want to share our time together with young George. Here, let me.”

  He bent his knees to accommodate her shorter stature and she tied the leather bindings. John was a good man and a worthy husband. Their marriage had not been a love match but they had found love together. When she finished the task she stepped around him and finding her boots, sat on a chest to put them on.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” She frowned at her tangled bootlaces.

  “You’re frowning again.” He bent and stilled her hands with his. “Today will be better, love. England will be victorious and then we shall take our share of the spoils. We can stay in Scotland on our new estate and create a home in peace.”

  Orelia had come north with John to help him establish their new home and to escape her brother-in-law’s wife and her increasingly hostile behavior toward Orelia. Alice and Richard had already produced a daughter, and the woman never passed an opportunity to remind Orelia of her own childless state.

  Orelia shook her head. She would not waste time thinking of that woman. Orelia was here to begin anew with John, to begin a new chapter in their marriage. One that did not include Alice.

  A number of other men had brought their wives and household goods to Stirling. They were so sure of victory that they didn’t want to waste time returning home before taking over the promised Scottish estates.

  She and John had come together as man and wife again last night, no longer in hope of creating a child. After seven years of marriage they had no children and were resigned that there would be none.

  Still, like Hannah of the Bible, Orelia petitioned the Lord daily, hoping that he would hear her prayers and promising to raise the child for God’s work if only he would bless her with a son. But John had suffered a serious fever as a child, and the healer had warned him that he might not father children as a result.

  John tipped her chin up. “The battle won’t last long; I’ll be back for supper. Make plans for furnishing Dunstruan and leave your worries to God. What will be, will be.”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. “And if you should die?”

  He touched her cheek and she opened her eyes. His gentle smile should have eased her anxiety, but it didn’t. “If that should be God’s will, Orelia, then I will see you again in eternity. Don’t lose faith. No matter what happens you will not be alone.”

  She threw her arms around him and clung to him. He allowed it briefly, then gently put her aside and finished donning his armor. With a quick kiss and a confident dip of his head, he left her.

  CEALLACH’S HORSE SHIFTED BENEATH HIM, dancing sideways until Ceallach nudged it with his lower leg. With trembling hands he patted the horse’s neck, trying to soothe them both. The clamor of battle truly surrounded him. He tried to concentrate and not slip from the present into memories of a battle from long ago. But Ceallach was as helpless now to stop the pain as he’d been eight years ago in a French prison.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes—the white hood he wore to hide his identity only added to the heat of this warm summer day. But he would have perspired if it had been an icy January night.

  The English let loose a barrage of arrows, some of them flame tipped. None reached as far as where he sat astride his horse, but Ceallach’s heart pounded. Terror and fear swept through him. His limbs froze, just as they had when his torturer had drawn near . . . torch light dancing in his eyes . . . Ceallach’s trembling hands clutched the reins as if they alone held him in this time and this place.

  Still he did not retreat. Years of training would not allow it and he sat in the middle of this battle wrestling with his painful recollections. Someday he would let the memories return, put them on paper and take away their sting once and for all. But here on the battlefield he would release fury instead—only holding himself in check enough to ensure that his wrath came down on English, not Scottish, soldiers. That much he could do, he was fairly certain.

  With a cry he sent the horse forward into the fray, battle-axe swinging, blood lust flooding through him, crazing him, conversely easing him. Now the trembling stopped, and the sweat was the result of effort, not fear. He drove his horse toward the English standard and the king who rode beneath it.

  THE EARL OF PEMBROKE on Edward’s left and Sir Giles d’Argentan on his right each seized a rein of Edward’s horse. “You must leave,Your Majesty. You must not be captured, or the day is truly lost.”

  “No, I won’t leave the field.” Edward yanked the reins from them and tried to move forward.

  His compatriots held him fast, gesturing toward the fields in which his troops were clearly languishing. Then came the final blow. Upon the hill to his right was a sight that would cower the bravest man. Six knights in white surcoats emblazoned with the red cross of the Templars raced their horses down the hill with several thousand reinforcements close behind, clearly headed for Edward’s standard. The day was surely lost.

  The Scots—sensing victory—pressed forward, steadily advancing.

  “Flee!” Pembroke screamed.

  Pembroke and d’Argentan and some five hundred English knights, pushed and barged through the ranks, fighting off determined Scots who tried to get to the king. As Edward and his protectors fought their way through the press, Edward’s shield bearer was captured along with the royal shield and seal.

  Edward kept the Scots that reached him at bay with his mace, flailing it until his muscles screamed with pain. His knights battled furiously to free him. Again and again their horses were trapped, surrounded by furious Scots determined to unhorse the English king. Edward lost count of the number of his knights who were dragged to the ground as they desperately fought to reach the road where they could flee to Stirling.

  CEALLACH DODGED THE MACE and nearly got close enough to unhorse Edward before being driven off again by English knights. When the road to Stirling suddenly opened up, the English turned and fled the battlefield.

  Good. Let Edward run. Let him taste the fear that daily lived in Ceallach. Fear of recognition; fear of capture; fear of imprisonment in a cold, dark cell. And the even greater fear
that he would be taken from that cell to the chamber of horrors too great to think on. Ceallach would follow closely behind, feeding Edward’s demons.

  The hood covering Ceallach’s face had slipped in the melee, blocking his view as the holes cut for his eyes shifted sideways. He pulled the hood off, looking for his fellow Templars. Instead he came eye to eye with a young English squire frantically gathering his master’s weapons and horse to flee the field.

  Ceallach raised his battle-axe to strike, but the fear evident on the boy’s face pierced Ceallach’s consciousness. Ceallach hesitated, and the young man scrambled aboard the horse and took off after his king. Ceallach pulled his mask in place and gave chase, hounding him halfway to Stirling Castle.

  At the edge of the carse, Ceallach reined in his mount and headed west. Having accomplished what he’d set out to do, he raced to the rendezvous behind Gillies Hill where he was to meet up with the others who’d worn the red crosses. He and his comrades hurriedly removed their surcoats.

  As he laid the tattered cloth into the chest in a hole in the ground, Ceallach mourned the loss like a death. How proudly he’d worn this mark of honor from the very first day it was bestowed upon him. And now that mark could cause his death. Shaking off the melancholy he hurriedly slammed the lid. Quickly they filled the hole with dirt and covered the chest, then scattered leaves and twigs until the spot looked quite natural.

  The others mounted their horses and fled. Three of them planned to sail together to Norway. Another would return to his family deep in the northern highlands of Scotland, far from King Edward, far from France. The fifth man’s plans were undecided, but they all had agreed not to contact one another. Their good-byes had long been said, this last mission together their homage to the past, what had once been right and true and good.