The Mark of Salvation

by Carol Umberger

  Eveleen walked to where Orelia laid and encouraged her to sit up. “I’ve brought you some tea, Lady Radbourne. ’Twill calm your stomach.”

  Orelia took the cup and stared into it. When she looked up she asked, “How did you know my stomach bothered me?”

  “You’ve left the table too many times for me not to suspect. I’ve birthed five children—four who still live. I know the signs.”

  Orelia looked at her in confusion. “Signs of what?”

  “Are you not with child?”

  “With child?” Orelia jolted in agitation, nearly spilling the tea. “No, I assure you I can’t possibly . . . in the seven years of my marriage I’ve never once . . . no. ’Tis cruel of you to even suggest such a thing!”

  “I meant no cruelty, my lady. But this aversion to food—you have no other reason to suspect you might carry a child?”

  Orelia shook her head.

  “Well, whatever ails you, this tea will calm your stomach.”

  Orelia sipped the tea. “You are widowed also?”

  “Aye. Eight years now.”

  “Do you still miss him?”

  “I do. Not as badly or as often as I once did. But a part of my life is missing since he’s been gone.”

  “At least you have the comfort of your children.”

  “They are a comfort.” She smiled. “Most of the time.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes and the tiniest spark of hope lit within Orelia. “John had a fever as a child, and the healer said he would not be able to father children.”

  Eveleen nodded. “I’ve heard it said some fevers can make it difficult.” Eveleen laid her hand on Orelia’s arm and leaned close. “But not impossible.”

  With all her difficulty in conceiving, it certainly hadn’t been the fault of her monthly inconvenience—she was quite regular. With a bit more hope she took another sip of tea and counted the weeks. She smiled when she realized she’d missed her courses twice. In all the stress of the trip to Bannockburn and then John’s death, she hadn’t paid attention.

  Eveleen stopped talking. “Is it possible, then?”

  She nodded. “I don’t remember having my courses since well before the battle. That is another of the indications, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. A very good sign.” Eveleen reached for her and Orelia allowed the woman to give her a hug. “You are carrying a miracle,” Eveleen whispered.

  For the first time since she’d learned of John’s death, Orelia had a reason to go on living without him.

  Eveleen rose to leave. “I will pray for the safe delivery of a healthy son to honor your husband’s memory.”

  “Thank you. I would like to keep this news to myself for a while.” Then a disturbing thought came to her. “Will I be able to travel to England when I’m released?”

  “I don’t see why not, as long as you aren’t too close to your time.”

  “Then would you also pray that I shall soon be released?”

  “Of course. You should rest now, Lady Radbourne, and let the tea settle you.”

  “Please, call me Orelia.”

  “Good day, Orelia.”

  Orelia settled back against the pillows and laid her hand on her stomach where John’s child waited to be born. She feared news of her pregnancy would dismay John’s brother, Richard, who no doubt had already assumed the title of earl. But if she was pregnant—dear Father in heaven, if she had been so blessed—she would return to Radbourne Hall and claim her child’s birthright.

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED COLD AND WET. The light mist threatened to become a downpour before the day was through. The dampness seeped into Ceallach’s bones as he searched through the woodpile. Fallen limbs and branches had been gathered from the forest to be split into firewood. Perhaps something here would suffice to replace the cracked beam on the loom. If not, then he would have to go out and search the woods himself.

  The gloomy weather, unseasonably chilly, matched his mood. What little sleep he’d managed had been interrupted by memories so real they bolted him awake, sweating and disoriented. He couldn’t shake them even now, wide awake. Peter’s face on that last day haunted him.

  Ceallach tugged on a limb that looked like a suitable candidate but it appeared to be caught on something. He gave a good yank and heard Keifer yell, “Ouch!” The boy was supposedly helping but he scampered over the woodpile with a wide grin. Ceallach normally found it hard to resist the lad but today his presence vexed him.

  “Get off the pile before you get hurt, Keifer,” he said with as much patience as he could muster.

  Keifer obeyed and Ceallach went on about his search. He pulled a stout limb from the pile and set it on end. It appeared to be the proper length and breadth. He took a piece of string from his sporran, one that he’d cut to the length needed for the repair, and measured the log. It would do.

  He looked up to see Keifer brandishing a straight stick like a sword against invisible foes. Amused in spite of his bad mood, Ceallach decided to put the boy’s energy to a more purposeful pursuit. “Keifer, why don’t you put down your sword and groom the horses for me.”

  “Yes, sir!” Sticking the make-believe sword into his belt, the boy was off like an arrow.

  Ceallach shook his head in amusement and leaned the log against the bailey wall. He enjoyed the lad’s company and would miss him when he left. Not that he could do anything about it; the boy would be better off with a proper family, a knight without a past . . . Ceallach picked up an adze and began to chip the bark from the wood. With proper care to keep the touch of the tool light and consistent, he would not have to smooth the wood much before tapping it into place on the loom.

  For a good while, the concentration needed for his task kept his mind occupied and the night’s visions faded. When the bark had all been removed, he measured the wood twice with the string before cutting off the ends. Then Ceallach hoisted the log to his shoulder and carried it to the weaver’s hut.

  He set the wood down inside the hut and went outside to replace the section in the roof to ward off the soft rain that had begun to fall. He came back into the darkened room, propping the door open for light, and walked to the loom. Gently he ran his hand over the even surface of the wood as his mind took him back to the day of his arrest.

  No, he would not allow himself to feel self-pity. He spun away from the loom and found a piece of sandstone to smooth the rough spots on the new beam. When he was ready to take the old beam off and replace it, he would need help. Until then, he was perfectly happy, if a bit chilled, sitting here by himself and working.

  A shadow dimmed his light and he looked up to see Orelia Radbourne standing in the doorway. “Good morning, my lady. What brings you here so early?”

  “Good morning to you, Ceallach.” She walked to the log and touched it. “You found a piece of wood to replace the beam. Good.” She meandered to the worktable and rummaged through the tools scattered there. “How can you see to work in this light?” she asked.

  “It’s enough.” But truthfully, as the rain increased the light was growing worse and with the door open, the rain was coming in.

  As if she read his mind, she closed the door. Then she stood before the unlighted fireplace and rubbed her arms. “I’m going to the kitchen for a torch to light the fire.” Without waiting for him to agree she walked back out the door.

  She had something on her mind, if he was any judge of behavior. Perhaps she would confide in him when she returned. In truth, he was glad she’d offered to light the fire. He’d become quite chilled earlier and would welcome the warmth, so long as he didn’t have to handle the flame.

  Orelia returned and lit the oil lamps that hung from the walls before thrusting the torch into the wood in the fireplace. It caught quickly and soon blazed brightly. Ceallach moved his stool a few feet away.

  Now she fluttered from the workbench to the shelves that held the yarn and then to each of the small looms. Each time she stopped she handled a tool, the yarn, or the work
on the loom.

  Her fidgety actions unnerved him. “Orelia, cease. What is bothering you this morning?”

  ORELIA PICKED UP A SHUTTLE, testing it in her palm as though choosing a shuttle was the most important thing on her mind. But of course, it wasn’t. She stood with her back to him, hoping to hide her agitation. “I . . . need to know when I’ll be going home to England.”

  Ceallach stopped sanding the wood. “I expect to hear something any day.”

  Resisting the urge to slam the shuttle down on the table she said, “What can be taking so long? It’s been nearly a month.” She must get home before travel became difficult and endangered her and her child. Nothing could be allowed to happen to John’s son. It was a boy, she just knew it. Yet it mattered little, only that the child was healthy . . .

  But she didn’t want to tell Ceallach, didn’t want to share her secret with anyone other than Eveleen. At least not until it became apparent, and by then she hoped to be safely home at Radbourne Hall. “I’ll just have to pray harder, I guess.”

  “Aye, if you think that will help.” He began to sand the log again, and the rasp of the stone against the wood and the patter of rain on the roof were the only sounds that filled the hut.

  “You don’t believe in praying?”

  “I do not.” He shoved the stone hard against the wood as if to emphasize his words.

  “Ah, that’s right. You said you don’t believe in anything. How can you live that way, without daily discourse with the Lord?” she asked him gently.

  Pausing from his work, he looked up at her. “Why would I talk to someone who isn’t there?”

  She gasped. “Ceallach, you mustn’t say such a thing. It isn’t true!”

  He turned back to his work, striking the wood harder than she thought necessary. “It is true for me. He has never been there for me.”

  How sad he should feel that way. “Never?”

  He stilled his hands and reached up to brush the scar on his neck. “When I needed him most he deserted me.”

  The coldness of his voice nearly made her shiver in response. “You expected him to follow you into battle?” She paused. “And you believe he did not.”

  He ignored her. Indeed he seemed oblivious to her presence— staring at something or someone only he could see. His hand stilled on the wood. “I dedicated my life to fighting for his cause, to protecting his people, to living an exemplary life of deprivation and humility. For my efforts he left me to face the devil himself.”

  She didn’t know what to say. John’s faith had been so deeply ingrained that she’d never before had a discussion anything like this. She was ill-prepared to challenge Ceallach’s misguided beliefs, and so she latched on to the last thing he said. “What happened?”

  As if coming out of a trance, Ceallach shook his head and looked at her. “I don’t speak of it.” He stood and went to the door. “I’m going to find Devyn to help me replace the beam.”

  He closed the door behind him leaving Orelia alone with her secret and the knowledge that Ceallach had secrets of his own.

  EIGHT

  Disobedience is worse than defeat.

  —from the Rule of the Templar Knights

  Orelia suggested that I pray. But all I can hear when I close my eyes are the cries of the innocent, myself among them. Am I strong enough to write it down? I remember only too clearly . . .

  Screams—unholy, inhuman sounds. Who would be next?What new torture had our accusers invented since yesterday?

  “It doesn’t matter what they say or think, Ceallach. You and I—and God in heaven—know the truth. Call on his name and he will strengthen you.”

  “I’ll go next,” I said. “They will not take you again. I will not allow it.” Peter was older and not in good health. He would never survive a second round.

  When the jailer came I stood, offering myself to him, like Christ to Pilate. I held tight to my faith and refused to name others, refused to lie. They beat me with their fists, then flogged me. But they could not break me. For a while.

  Not unto us, O Lord. The Templar war cry gave me courage.

  How many hours? My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? My tormentors said they would not quit until I confessed. So they flogged me again, this time with a flaming, pitch-covered torch. The fire seared my laid-open flesh and singed my hair and beard, and still I refused. The pain . . .Father in heaven, the pain! Only the threat to torture Peter again forced me to yield. I would have died before submitting, might well die anyway. But I couldn’t let Peter suffer again.

  Then they promised that if I would yield, they would spare Peter from a second course of torture. So I confessed to heresy, to unnatural acts with Peter, and to grievous crimes against the God I loved. And after I’d betrayed us both with lies, they tossed me back in my cell and dragged Peter off.

  I lost consciousness, which was probably a blessing, for if I’d heard his screams a second time I would have surely lost my mind. When I awoke it was to find my friend and mentor lying next to me. I held his hand as he breathed his last.

  You were wrong, Peter. God deserted us both.

  CLEANING AND REPAIRING INNISHEWAN was a peaceful enterprise compared to dealing with yet another of her sister Cassidy’s complaints. And today Morrigan had an added burden—the Englishwoman had come along with them to Innishewan.

  “What is wrong now?” Morrigan asked her sister with more patience than she felt.

  “I wanted to help the stonemasons, but Fergus made me come ask you for a chore.”

  Morrigan could guess why. Cassidy’s flirting distracted the men from their work. “Why don’t you see what’s in those trunks in the storage room?”

  “It’s too dusty in there.”

  Cassidy pouted and Morrigan’s patience snapped. “Then clean the storage room!”

  Morrigan’s mother and Orelia stood nearby. Morrigan didn’t know why Orelia had come along today nor did she know what to make of the woman. Though they were about the same age, they had little else in common.

  “Cassidy,” Eveleen said. “Either do as you sister suggested or help the kitchen maids scrub out the fireplace. Take your pick but stop arguing.”

  Cassidy stomped off in the direction of the storage room.

  “You have been very patient with her, Morrigan, and I thank you. Where would you like Orelia and me to work today?”

  It seemed strange that her mother and the Englishwoman had formed a friendship. But obviously they had. “Could you see if you can find a table that doesn’t need repair? Then clean it so we have a place to eat.”

  Her mother smiled. “Of course.”

  “Good. And maybe you can persuade Cassidy to stop distracting the men and keeping them from their work.”

  Eveleen touched her arm. “Do stop fretting, Morrigan. We will all work together so that we can move in as soon as possible.”

  Morrigan took her mother’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. Now, off to work with you!”

  “Where are you off to?” Eveleen tossed back to her.

  She gave her head a jaunty nod. “To fight with Fergus.” Morrigan laughed out loud at Lady Radbourne’s shocked expression. The pampered lady would no doubt faint to see Morrigan spar with her men.

  “Morrigan, you shouldn’t alarm Orelia like that,” Eveleen chided. She turned to the Englishwoman. “Why don’t you go along with Morrigan and see what she’s teasing us about?”

  “Don’t you need help with the tables?” Orelia asked.

  Apparently Orelia was as aware as Morrigan that they could not possibly become friends. “No. If I do, I’ll get Cassidy to help. Go on.”

  Orelia asked, “Do you mind, Morrigan?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind.” What could it hurt to have the woman tag along?

  Despite all the work on the castle, Morrigan and her men had to keep their fighting skills honed. She scheduled training every day for several hours in the afternoon, whether they were here or at Dunstruan. When it was rai
ning, like today, they practiced in the large, open area at one end of the stable.

  Fergus was already there, observing several of the men as they fought with swords. He looked surprised to see the Englishwoman but said a quick hello and turned his attention back to the fighting. Orelia found a seat but Morrigan didn’t join her. Instead she walked on about fifty paces and leaned against one of the poles that held up the roof and watched. When one pair had finished their bout, Fergus and his partner took their place.

  Fergus had become so good with the short sword that except for the scar across his eye, Morrigan might not question his ability to see with it. And yet, if she watched him closely she could discern his techniques to overcome the disadvantage.

  When he was done he came to stand beside her.

  “Well done,” she said.

  “Aye, so long as I can keep them where I can see them, I do fine.”

  Here was a chance to ask him what she’d long wanted to know. “Can you not see at all with the damaged eye?”

  “I see light and dark and movement, but shapes are fuzzy.” He covered his good eye and looked at her. “You are either a horse or a tree.” He grinned, and it amazed her that he was so easy about it.

  Encouraged by his straightforwardness, she asked, “How did it happen?”

  His grin vanished. “Someone tried to harm Lady Kathryn. When I objected, he slashed me with a whip.” He told her the rest of the story and how he had killed the man at Bannockburn.

  She looked at him with new respect. He accepted his lot in life, yet he worked hard to better himself. She sensed that his loyalty, once won, would never waiver. He was a capable steward and a fair fighter.

  Maybe King Robert had been right to send him here, after all.

  Fergus motioned toward Orelia. “What is she doing here?”