“These highland sheep molt every spring. Push the wool apart— there where you haven’t pulled any away yet.” She did as he said and he continued. “See where the wool broke off about an inch from the body?”
“Yes. That’s strange.”
“Well, it looks strange to you, aye. But ’tis the way of these sheep. The wool keeps growing and the break grows out with it.”
The woman said, “And the poor beasts rid themselves of the loose wool by rubbing it off. That’s why there was so much of it hanging on the rocks and shrubs.”
“Aye, and now we are removing what remains and the sheep will no doubt be glad to be rid of it. Take as much as you can from the back and sides where the wool is in the best condition,” he said. “But leave a sufficient pelt to keep them warm this winter. Keifer, mark this one when the lady is done.”
“You sure know a lot about sheep,” the boy remarked with what sounded like respect.
“My . . . family raised them at one time.” Not quite the truth, but close. He and Peter had tended the monastery’s flock, and Ceallach smiled, remembering for the first time in years a pleasant time with the older man as they prepared wool for weaving. Working with Keifer reminded him of the teacher-pupil relationship Ceallach and Peter had shared.
Lady Radbourne said to the boy, “We have sheep at Radbourne Hall but the men shear them. We’ve never rooed them.” She continued to pluck the wool. “I love the feel of the wool—the oil softens my hands. Is this one finished?”
“Aye, Lady Radbourne. You’ve done a fine job.”
“My given name is Orelia. If we’re going to sweat over these sheep, I think it only right that we dispense with formality, Ceallach.”
“All right.” Orelia. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. He held the animal while Keifer swiped a brush of red dye on its back and then he let the animal go. It raced back to its companions, bleating.
“Listen to him, warning his friends of the terrible fate they must face,” Orelia said.
Keifer’s eyes grew wide. “They know what the dye means?”
Ceallach laughed and looked at Lady Radbourne. At Orelia. She laughed with them, and he hoped that perhaps her heart had lightened just a bit. As he turned toward the next sheep, he realized that his own heart had lightened for a moment as well.
SEVEN
Brothers must have permission to go out into the city or when on campaign, to leave camp.
—from the Rule of the Templar Knights
After spending such a pleasant afternoon with Orelia and Keifer, I find it difficult to write this evening. But I am more and more convinced that something good may come from telling my story, difficult as it may be to do so. I would like to forget it all, but the nightmares won’t let me.
On Friday, October 13, 1307, every Templar—15,000 knights, sergeants, chaplains, servants, and laborers throughout the territories governed by Philip of France—were rounded up in a single day. Only two dozen escaped arrest. We were accused of heresy, of adhering to doctrine not accepted by the church. They said we worshiped the devil. It wasn’t true, but that didn’t matter.
How do you prove devil worship, especially when it isn’t true? Torture. Torture so severe that a man would confess to anything his accusers suggested so long as the agony would end.Methods favored by Philip’s minions were the rack, which stretched a man’s limbs until the joints dislocated. Or rubbing fat on the soles of the feet and holding a flame to them. Some men were burned so badly that the bones fell out of their feet.
Aye, Philip and his inquisitors said we worshiped the devil, and that we had carnal relations with our brothers. But our real crime was that we hadn’t adhered to the vow of poverty. Our biggest sin in the eyes of the King of France was that he was in debt to the Templar treasury and he didn’t want to pay it back.
Had he simply confiscated our lands and wealth and forced us to disband, there might have been an outcry. But who would defend us against the accusation of heresy and worse?No one. My body still bears the scars of physical torture, and my heart bears the scars of betrayal. For when pressed to the limits of endurance, with my back repeatedly beaten with flaming pitch, I denied my Lord just like St. Peter. Not only denied him, but admitted to atrocious sins I never committed, anything to make the pain go away.
If not for my sergeant, who by some miracle was in the same cell with me, I would certainly have died. Somehow, Jean Paul got word to friends on the outside, and we escaped from prison. But our escape came too late for Peter.
MORRIGAN STOOD IN THE GREAT HALL and groaned at the amount of work it would take to make Innishewan marginally livable. Uncle Angus had been quite thorough in his destruction of the keep. But the families of the men she’d been fighting alongside, as well as her own family, needed food and shelter. And protection. From the previous owners—her former clansmen—now dispossessed of their lands and homes.
Fergus stood next to her as she assessed what needed to be done. “ ’Tis not so bad.”
“No, as it is, it would make a perfect pig sty. But humans need to eat off those filthy tables.”
“They are pretty foul.”
“The kitchen is in shambles . . .” She stopped, took a deep breath. “We will start rebuilding here and in the kitchen. The bedchambers and storage areas will have to wait. I’ll go into the village and hire some stonemasons.”
“What shall I do?”
“Set some men to cleaning the fireplaces and shoveling up these reeds from the floor of the main hall. Until the roof and the walls are repaired there isn’t much else that can be done.”
He nodded. “I’ll make a list of supplies on hand and determine what we need to purchase.”
“Good. Thank you for thinking of it.”
He laid his arm across her shoulder as if they were comrades in arms. “Ye’ll manage, Morrigan. Don’t worry. Take one thing at a time. Ceallach has said we can stay at Dunstruan as long as we need to.”
He removed his arm from her shoulders, and she relaxed. “Aye, and I’m grateful to him. But I am so looking forward to having a permanent home. I’m sure Mother must feel the same way.”
“Where were ye living before the battle?”
She leaned against the cool stone wall behind her. “Near Loch Dee. My men and I came to Stirling at Bruce’s call for warriors for the great battle. Mother and the others have been living with relatives in a small cottage near Inverlochy.”
“Bruce mentioned that Innishewan was the Macnab stronghold under yer uncle. Where is he now?”
She pursed her lips. “A good question. I don’t have the answer.”
“Then may I suggest that we need to see to the outer wall and the gate right away. Neither will hold in their present condition if we come under attack. No sense fixing up the keep until we can protect it.”
She looked at him with newfound respect. “Perhaps you would oversee that work?”
“Aye. ’Twould be my pleasure.”With that he strode off, evidently eager to prove to her that he was a capable steward. He was proving to be useful after all. She wanted to ask him about his eye, how he’d gotten the wound and whether it affected his sight. Perhaps when they had an opportunity to practice in the lists she could ask then.
She pushed away from the wall and looked about her again. So much needed to be done. But Fergus was right—one thing at a time. She’d told Bruce the truth—she had little interest in a husband—no interest and no time. Although now and then she thought it might be nice to be able to share the burden with someone you could trust.
As she’d just done with Fergus . . .
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, after Ceallach saw Morrigan and Fergus off to Innishewan once again, Lady Radbourne asked Ceallach if he would show her the weaver’s hut. The small round building sat snuggled up against the south wall of the keep. As they walked toward it, he thought she looked a bit pale. “Are you feeling well this morning, my lady?”
“Yes. I’m fine, Ceallach.”
“I haven’t used a loom in
, well, quite a few years. But I suspect it will come back to me.” He just hoped that working with the loom would bring back good memories, not bad.
“A warrior who wove cloth for amusement?”
He would have to be careful how much he revealed. Although he didn’t want to lie, she was English, would be returning to England soon. And her king had put a ransom on Ceallach’s head.
“I was a weaver before . . . this war broke out between our countries.”
“I see.”
They walked around the corner of the keep and he said, “You said you enjoy creating tapestries—do you weave them or embroider?
“I embroider. I do know how to weave cloth, although I’ve never tried the checkered cloth you Scots seem to favor.”
Ceallach surveyed the inside of the stone hut. The roof was thatched, made so that in good weather such as today, sections could be removed to let in more light. A large fireplace would provide heat when needed. The pegs on the wall set at equal distances and staggered up and down were for winding warp threads. A variety of shuttles insured that he and Orelia would each find one with the balance to their liking.
Peter had favored a particular shuttle to the point where he’d once jested that if he were ever sent on crusade, he would take the thing with him to be sure no one would steal it in his absence.
Ceallach smiled at the memory. It dawned on him that this was the second time that he’d thought of Peter without pain. Or guilt. He’d been afraid that seeing the weaving hut would bring the demons out in force. But apparently he’d been wrong.
“The last weaver must have died,” Orelia said.
Her voice brought him back to the present. “What makes you think so?”
“Everything we need is here. A living craftsman would never have parted with his tools willingly.”
Again he thought of Peter and his preference for certain tools. “Devyn said the man died last winter along with the laird.”What had happened to Peter’s loom and tools? Who used them now? Sadly Ceallach wished he had been able to gather at least his favorite shuttle and take it with him. But it hadn’t been possible.
Next he examined the largest of the looms, noting that the crossbeam still needed to be repaired. The smaller looms were all in working order. Several of them held works in progress, probably Suisan’s.
But if they were going to weave the brecan cloth with its variegated stripes and checks, they would need to make their own patterns or find the old weaver’s setts. Those he would have guarded carefully and hidden, so no one could duplicate his particular pattern.
“What are you looking for?” Orelia asked as he moved things aside and searched under skeins of yarn.
He didn’t answer, but pulled a small package wrapped in a beautifully tanned rabbit’s pelt from its hiding place. He unwrapped the hide and carefully held up the sticks decorated in various colors of yarn. “This!”
“Oh, my. That will save us a great deal of effort, won’t it?” Her eyes shone, and he knew she was anxious to examine them closely.
He laid the sticks on the worktable aside the big loom. Each stick had been sanded smooth and flat and was wrapped with the precise number of strings of each color needed to create a particular pattern. Ceallach and Orelia could use the pattern to string the loom with warp threads in the correct number, color, and order. Then they would weave the exact same pattern of colors with the weft to create a distinctive cloth for the clothing at Dunstruan.
As she examined the patterns, she asked, “Who taught you to weave?”
Her question caught Ceallach off guard. “Why do you ask?
She looked hurt and he realized he’d been far more gruff than her simple query warranted. Should he apologize? Why did he care if her feelings were hurt? She was nothing to him. Just a duty to take care of—keep her safe and return her to Bruce. But she was also grieving, and he found himself unwilling to add to her misery.
So he softened his voice. “A master weaver named Peter. An Englishman, actually.”
“You were fond of him.”
“Aye, he was ever patient with me and my big hands. He was older—a few years younger than my father.” Ceallach hadn’t wanted to learn to weave, but the preceptor had assigned him to the craft and one simply didn’t argue or disobey the head of the Order.
“Where is Peter now?”
Another perfectly innocent question, but Ceallach couldn’t answer. To say the words aloud seemed almost like admitting to a crime. He should have saved Peter . . . Ceallach hid the trembling of his hands by taking hold of one of the loom’s upright posts.
With quiet concern she said, “He is dead, isn’t he?”
Ceallach nodded.
“I am well acquainted with grief, Ceallach.” She wrapped her fingers around her dead husband’s cross. “But we will see our loved ones again in eternity.”
Ceallach cleared his throat.
She stared at him. “You do believe that, don’t you?”
“I no longer believe in much of anything, Lady Radbourne.” He expected a lecture on God and his love.
But all she said was, “How sad for you.”
Moving to the shelves that held dyed yarn, she changed the subject, to his relief. “Let’s see how much of each color we have— perhaps we can string the warp yet today.”
She no longer looked pale—indeed her face glowed with an artist’s fervor as she sorted through the yarns.
“I have to replace that beam before we can begin.” Again he sounded more gruff than he intended.
But if it bothered her she didn’t allow it to show. “Yes, of course. You go right ahead. Which of these patterns shall we try first?” She held one up. “I rather like this one, don’t you? I think there is enough yarn here to make a good-sized piece of cloth.”
Replacing the beam would take the rest of today and maybe even tomorrow if he had trouble finding the right sized tree limb. As he listened to her excited chatter Ceallach was struck by the realization that women in general, and Orelia in particular, were not the evil temptresses his superiors in the Order had tried to paint.
Did all women have such enthusiasm for tasks of hearth and home? The women of Dunstruan seemed to take pride in creating warmth and shelter—not just the necessities but things of beauty and comfort.
No, there was nothing evil about Orelia at all. She was lovely to look at, yes, but that was hardly a sin. If there was temptation it was not a result of her behavior but of his desire to know more about her, to understand the way she thought. To see the world from a different perspective. Her perspective.
And this desire to know her better, to get to know her and allow her to know him confused and dismayed him.
Her chatter stopped and when Ceallach looked at her, she had a strange expression on her face.
“You aren’t listening,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. I was . . . thinking how good it is to see you happy. These last three weeks have been difficult for you.” Now she looked stunned and her smile faded, as if she remembered that she shouldn’t be happy. Hadn’t he behaved just the same ever since he’d fled France? Would she live a miserable existence for too many years as he had done himself?
A compulsion to protect her from such a life surprised and scared him all at once.
She turned away from him and began to replace the skeins of yarn. “I should go back to see if I can help in the kitchen.”
“Lady Radbourne . . . Orelia. I have said something that made you unhappy. Forgive me.”
She placed the last of the yarn on the shelf and turned to him. “There is nothing to forgive, Ceallach. For a few, wonderful minutes you allowed me to forget my grief and I thank you for it.”
“I’m glad you had those few minutes, my lady.” Sensing that he’d said enough and fearful that she would cry if he said more, he changed the subject. “I’ll go look for a suitable log for the beam. You can search through the rest of the tools here and see if there is anything lacking.”
But even he could tell that her smile lacked true joy, was shadowed by grief. This woman had loved her husband. What must it be like to be loved like that? To be the light of another person’s life? Such passion had the power to cause deep joy as well as deep pain. Ceallach wondered how she stood it.
They had much in common, this widow with a heart broken by love for her man and a warrior with a heart broken by the God he had once served. But she still called upon that very God for healing, while Ceallach no longer believed he existed. She would become whole again in time, but Ceallach never could.
THE GREAT HALL OF ÐUNSTRUAN, though it lacked fresh whitewash, was pleasing to the eye. The ceiling was domed, and three arches of stone held up the slate roof. The window openings and fireplace reflected the arch in design, lending a harmonious appearance. Effort had been made in the building to use reddish stone in the arches in contrast to the light stone of the walls.
But despite her pleasant surroundings, Orelia picked at her midday meal. It seemed that little she ate agreed with her lately. Most surely it was her grief that made food so unpalatable. Finally she settled for a cup of warm broth and a piece of bread.
Morrigan’s mother sat down next to Orelia.
“You didn’t go with Morrigan and Fergus today, Lady Macnab?”
“You may call me Eveleen, child. And no. There really is no reason for me accompany to them. It will take the stonemasons and roofers until spring to make the place even marginally livable.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” It saddened her to picture Radbourne Hall destroyed to such a point. But it soon became clear that her food wasn’t going to stay down again. She excused herself and hurriedly left the table.
When her stomach settled again, she went to her chamber and lay down on her pallet. Soon there was a quiet knock at the chamber door. Though she really didn’t want company, she told her visitor to come in.
The Mark of Salvation Page 9