Ceallach did not watch them ride away. But he couldn’t leave without marking the spot. He picked up a large rock and placed it on top of the chest’s resting place. Using his knife, he carved a cross on the side of the stone to mark it.
Perhaps one day he would return to this spot and retrieve what he had lost.
CEALLACH REJOINED BRUCE. For eight years Bruce had avoided such a fight, ever since the defeat at Methven. The Scottish army was relatively small and ill-equipped for a pitched fight and yet they’d just defeated the might of England in precisely such a battle. From the insane promise to relieve Stirling that Bruce’s brother Edward had made a year ago had come the greatest victory in Scotland’s history.
Bruce got down on his knees and prayed aloud in gratitude for this deliverance. Ceallach did not join him.
When the king stood up, he gave Ceallach a questioning look. But he simply looked away from his brother. Ceallach had stopped praying years ago—when God had turned away from him in his time of need.
Ceallach surveyed the battlefield once more, watching as the English foot soldiers madly dispersed in all directions. “The commanders have deserted the field.”
“Aye. The few who remain are making no effort to organize or lead their troops.”
Ceallach shook his head. As a result of the lack of leadership, many of the English foot soldiers had already been swept away and drowned in the swift current of the Firth of Forth or were sucked into the swamps surrounding the river. Others seemed to be making their way to Stirling Castle, trudging up the narrow road to huddle under the mighty crags surrounding the fortress.
“The field is ours, Your Majesty. We’ve won the day.”
“Aye, it would seem so. But the English may very well reform and launch an attack from the castle.”
Just then James Douglas rode up to them, pulling his horse to a quick stop. “My laird, let me go after Edward. He can’t take refuge in Stirling; he’ll have to keep riding, and I can crown the day with his capture.”
“Granted,” Bruce said. “But you may take only sixty of our cavalry. The rest must remain close at hand—they are not to follow Edward under any circumstances. I will need them if Edward launches an attack from Stirling.”
“Aye. Then I’m off,” Douglas declared as he spurred his horse into a canter.
Bruce turned to Ceallach. “Go and tell our commanders to keep their men in formation and to brace for a possible attack from the castle.”
TWO
Meat will be served three times a week except during active campaigning when it may be served once each day.
—from the Rule of the Templar Knights
Today’s successful fight against the English reminded me of my early years as a warrior. By the time I joined the Order, Acre—the last Christian outpost in the Holy Land—had fallen three years before. Few of us were sent to Outremer after that, though we all hoped that another Crusade would be mounted against the Saracens. We trained for war, but as a practical matter, we also learned more domestic skills. While I could see the need to learn such skills to help provide for the Order, still I chafed at the lack of military action.
I apprenticed as a weaver with a man named Peter, a master weaver and fellow Templar. The years went by and Peter taught me everything he knew about weaving and creating patterns with the loom. My tapestries and cloth were much in demand. Opportunities to sell my work were numerous—commissions from wealthy Parisians were plentiful, and the Templar treasury benefited from my craft.
Perhaps I took too much pride in my skill and that is why God took it all away.
EDWARD AND HIS KNIGHTS raced to the gates of Stirling Castle, the great fortress that overlooked the countryside in every direction. Edward ordered his men to pound on the closed gates until they were opened. Anxiously he watched the road behind them lest Bruce attempt to attack while they waited to gain entrance.
Finally the commander of the castle, Sir Philip Mowbray, stood above them on the parapets.
“Open for the king,” Pembroke demanded. “The battle is lost and we must take refuge here.”
Ignoring Pembroke, Mowbray addressed Edward. “Your Majesty, I regret that I can’t give you sanctuary.”
“Are you mad?” Edward screamed. “Let me in!”
“May I remind you, my lord, of the terms of your agreement with Bruce? If he should win the battle, Stirling must be turned over to him. If you are found inside the gates, you will be his prisoner.”
Edward slumped in his saddle and stared at Pembroke. Shaken by the realization that Mowbray was right, Edward said, “We must ride for the nearest English held castle, then.”Wheeling his horse about, Edward gave the order to ride out.
Having fought most of the day with little sleep the night before, Edward and his retainers wearily fled east toward Dunbar. A small force of Scots led by James Douglas dogged their heels the whole way. They could not stop nor rest, and any who did were captured or killed by the Scots. When at last they reached Dunbar, the Scots followed so close that the castle guards dared not open the gate wide enough for the horses for fear the Scots would ride in as well. Edward had to fling himself from his horse and rush on foot through the barely open gate, leaving the poor beast behind.
Pacing the parapets of Dunbar Castle, Edward watched with impotent fury as the Scots gathered his horse and those of his men and led them away. Would the Scots take the horses and return to Stirling, or would they lay in wait for Edward to leave Dunbar so they could capture him?
He stopped beside Pembroke and said, “Thank God my father isn’t alive to see this day.”
Pembroke said nothing and Edward cursed. “The battle could have been won. In another hour the Scottish lines would have broken, I know it. We were holding our own, were winning! Where did Bruce get the reinforcements? Why didn’t I know about them?”
“They and the Templars turned the tide against us,” Pembroke agreed.
“Yes, they did.” Edward pounded his fist into his palm. “I want those six men found and brought to me—dead or alive.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Late that evening the defeated king of England sneaked out of Dunbar Castle like a lowly thief. He boarded a boat that took him safely to Berwick. He left behind a defeated army, a train of supplies twenty miles long, his royal shield and seal, and any hope of returning to London as a conquering hero.
ORELIA AND SEVERAL OTHER WIVES remained with the baggage train about a mile away from the battlefield. The sounds of fighting, muted by distance, could be heard as a murmur in the background. Close by, insects droned in the dazzling sunshine. Orelia and two other wives found shelter from the sun beneath the branches of a willow tree growing on the banks of a nearby creek. By late afternoon Orelia feared the battle would not be over as swiftly as John had predicted.
They were preparing to light a fire to cook the evening meal when a horse and rider raced up to them. Jumping down from his horse, the man shouted at his wife, “Grab your belongings—just the saddlebag—and be quick about it!”
One of Orelia’s companions dashed to the wagon that held her things. Orelia watched, concerned by the man’s haste. “What is happening?” she asked him. “Where are you going?”
His wife returned and the man quickly attached her saddlebag to his saddle and was about to remount when Orelia grabbed his surcoat. Fighting panic she demanded, “Tell me why you are fleeing the battle, or I will report you as a deserter.”
Those words secured his full attention. “I am not deserting. ’Tis King Edward who has fled the field. The battle is lost and I’m not waiting for the Scots to finish me off.” He yanked his clothing from Orelia’s hand.
How could the English have lost? Orelia held fast to the horse’s bridle. The man must be lying, though why he should do so she didn’t know. “Why aren’t you waiting for the army?”
“All is chaos, my lady. There is no one in command to tell me different, so I’m riding for the border. You would be wise
to do so as well.” He grabbed the saddle to mount his horse.
“Wait!” Orelia cried. He turned back to her and she gestured to her remaining companion. “What shall we do?”
“If you want to leave with us,” the soldier ground out, obviously reaching for patience, “unhitch a couple of the cart horses. But hurry.”
Orelia looked at her companion. Lady Angela Heathrow, young but decidedly plump, said, “I should wait for my husband—I’m not much of a horsewoman and I definitely can’t ride without a saddle.”
Orelia sensed the man’s losing patience. But Orelia wasn’t at all sure the carthorses were even trained to carry riders—most were not. Mounting one without a saddle might be more dangerous than taking their chances with the Scots. “Are you sure, Angela?”
Angela nodded her head and looked terrified at the very thought of mounting one of the beasts.
Orelia looked back at the man, who by now had pulled his wife up behind him on the horse. “Can’t you wait with us until our husbands return?” she beseeched him.
“I’m not waiting for the Scots to find this supply train. Mount up or stay, but make up your mind.”
Furious with the man’s impatience and lack of chivalry, Orelia wondered just how well he would treat them if she did manage to get Angela on a horse that didn’t buck her off.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Orelia said, “Perhaps it would be best if we stayed here together, then. Our husbands will no doubt come for us soon and they might wonder where we are.”
With obvious relief the man said, “I’m sure you’re right. God be with you, ladies. Hang on, love!” Steadying his wife with a hand on her thigh he spun the horse about and raced south.
Daylight faded and still no one, English or Scottish, came for the women. Angela looked to Orelia for leadership, and she kept her busy searching for firewood and rummaging for foodstuffs in the wagons. As a precaution, she urged Angela to arm herself with a knife. But from Angela’s clumsy attempts to find a place to wear it, Orelia could tell Angela was more likely to wound herself than an enemy. Still, Orelia insisted.
As night fell, Orelia knew that John should have come for her by now. Something was terribly wrong.Obviously she was going to have to spend the better part of the night here with Angela. Orelia made room inside one of the wagons that was covered with an oiled cloth. When they’d finished supper and doused the fire, the tired, frightened women crawled into the wagon for a miserable night’s sleep.
THAT NIGHT CEALLACH AND THE OTHERS CELEBRATED—the feared renewed attack had never materialized and Edward of England was running for his life. Ceallach celebrated as he knew he shouldn’t—with ale and even some uisgebeatha. More than was necessary. Much more. But the fiery liquid calmed his tattered heart, made it stop racing, drove away the fear and the memories. Aye, he became a normal man when the whiskey dulled his feelings. A man without demons running through his very veins.
But if the whiskey loosened his fear, it never loosened his tongue. After years of living in near silence, he’d long ago lost the ability to make idle chatter. He rarely spoke and then only when asked a direct question. Alone at the edge of the crowd, Ceallach slowly and quite deliberately became drunk.
One of the camp women came and sat beside him. She’d sat with him before and unlike so many of her kind, she didn’t press him to make conversation. But the invitation was there all the same, in the way she brushed her breast against his arm when she reached for the flask of whiskey. Or in the wise smile she gave him when he jerked away from the touch.
He knew nothing of women and their ways after so many years of monastic life. But even Ceallach could read the invitation in her eyes and the lift of her brow.
Hating himself, knowing it was wrong but powerless to stop, he drank until the last of his inhibitions slipped away. When she reached out a hand to him, he went with her. He was damned anyway; might as well seal his doom in the arms of a willing woman.
When he disrobed, she gasped at a gash on his thigh. He must have been wounded in the fray, but he’d not felt the blow or any pain. Nor did he feel any when she poured whiskey into the wound and bound it. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hurt and hadn’t noticed it.
The next morning Ceallach awoke to an empty bed and a head full of hammer beats with each pulse of his heart. He was glad the woman was gone—didn’t want to have to talk to her or anyone else until the whiskey had worked itself out of his system. But long before that had a chance to happen, Bruce sent him to inspect the English supply train. Although Ceallach’s head stopped pounding by the time he mounted his horse, pain still lingered behind his eyes.
He rode down the line of wagons until he came to a deserted campsite with a still-warm fire. Quietly he dismounted, tied his horse to a wagon, and crept into the camp. He shook his head. He couldn’t see anyone, but he heard the murmuring of conversation. Female voices? His head was in worse shape than he thought.
ORELIA AWOKE, not sure of the time or what had awakened her. Angela still slept and Orelia wondered if her companion’s sleep had been as fitful as her own. She’d lain awake for hours listening for John’s return. Long after midnight she’d gotten up and left the wagon to look at the stars and to listen. All was quiet then, just as it was now.
She’d finally fallen into an exhausted sleep a few hours before sunrise. Cautiously she stretched cramped muscles. Her movements awakened Angela.
“Is it morning?” the woman asked.
Orelia straightened her clothing. “Yes, it is. Did you sleep well?”
“Not really.” Angela sat up. “Has someone come to retrieve us?”
“No, no one is here. We are quite alone.”
Angela said, “Maybe they are sleeping in the camp—they wouldn’t want to wake us.”
“If anyone had ridden into the camp, I would have heard them.” Orelia assured her.
After all of John’s brave predictions that the English army would be victorious, here she was, alone, perhaps at the mercy of her enemies. Orelia hoped she’d made the right decision in staying with the wagons. What foolishness. Of course it was the right decision. Even if the Scots had won, John and the others would eventually return for the supply train.
She fingered the small dagger strapped to her leg in the special sheath John had made. He had shown her how to use the weapon, had made her practice until he was satisfied that she could defend herself. He’d insisted on this when she’d decided to accompany him.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he come for her? The knife felt reassuring there beneath the folds of her dress but she’d feel better if she knew the answers to her questions. Cautiously, she moved to the opening at the end of the wagon.
Pulling aside the oilcloth just slightly, she blinked at the early morning light. All she could hear were the restless movements of the horses, still fastened in their traces. Poor beasts were probably as hungry and thirsty as she was.
Dare she leave the relative safety of the wagon? How could she not? She pulled back the opening wide enough to slip through it, stuck her head outside, and shrieked with terror at the sight before her.
A tall, dark-haired, kilt-wearing knight stood not five feet away with his hands over his ears, groaning as if in pain. She stopped screaming and reached for her knife. The feel of it in her palm calmed her and she held it in front of her.
The man removed his hands from his head and reached for her.
“Stay back!” She jabbed the knife toward him and he yanked his hand back, moving quickly for such a large man.
“I mean you no harm, lady.” The lilt of his voice was not as pronounced as other Scots she’d listened to.
“Then leave at once. Before my husband returns,” she added. Perhaps he would think her man had only left to relieve himself and would soon be back. She could sense her companion coming up alongside her, and Orelia pushed at her, willing her to remain hidden. Apparently Angela understood because she made no further move toward the opening.
“Is your man a Scot?” the warrior asked.
Puzzled she said, “Of course not. He’s the Earl of Radbourne.”
“Well, unless he’s turned traitor to England, he’ll not be coming back here any time soon. Now come out of the wagon and I’ll see you safe—”
A muffled sneeze from inside the wagon gave away the fact that Orelia was not alone, destroying any hope of persuading him to simply walk away.
He withdrew his sword from its scabbard. “Get out of the wagon, lady. And if your husband is wise, he’ll follow you.”
“My husband isn’t here, you barbarian.”
“Get out, now!”
The cold steel in his voice told her he was not to be trifled with, and Orelia spoke to Angela. “Come. We must do as he says.”
Reluctantly they crawled out of the wagon and stood in front of the warrior.
CEALLACH’S HEAD FELT MORE THAN A BIT FUZZY and his soul was burdened from his night of forbidden activity. His punishment for such behavior crawled out of this supply wagon—two hostile women. Englishwomen. The one with the knife might just know how to use it; she held it as if she meant to do him harm. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Waiting for our husbands to return for us,” the one with the knife answered. The other one nodded, clearly terrified.
To assure himself that the wagon was now empty, he waved the women aside with his sword. They backed up and he poked the blade into the opening then cut the material away. Aside from some baggage, the wagon appeared empty.
He sheathed his sword and looked again at his prisoners. The one he’d first encountered was a woman of no more than twenty-five years. Her golden hair hung in a disheveled braid and she wore a beautifully woven shawl of a distinctive blend of colors. The other woman, plump and anxious looking, had dark brown hair and appeared to be quite young.
The Earl of Radbourne’s lady said, “Is it true that the English army has been vanquished?”
“ ’Tis true, lady.”
The Mark of Salvation Page 3