The Mark of Salvation

by Carol Umberger

  ROBERT THE BRUCE looked at his fragile, unsmiling daughter, the heir to the Scottish crown. As a twelve-year-old child, she had spent the first months of her imprisonment in England hanging in an open cage on the wall of the Tower of London. Rage and hatred for Edward I of England, the current king’s father, filled Robert as he envisioned this cruelty to his child.

  When even Edward’s own subjects had complained of his treatment of a child, Marjory had been taken to a nunnery in Walton and kept in near isolation for the past eight years. She had not been allowed to talk to anyone. As a result she was quite shy and rarely voiced an opinion. Hardly suitable traits for ruling a country as fractious as Scotland. And after all she’d been through, he wished to spare her more heartache—would do anything to see her happy.

  He held out his hand and she came to him. “Come, sit down. I have something I must talk to you about.”

  She did as he asked and even smiled at him. He returned the smile and said, “Marjory, you are heir to the throne of Scotland.”

  She shrank back into her chair. “I know.” She sounded less than enthusiastic, relieving him of the possibility that she coveted the throne.

  “I see the thought doesn’t give you pleasure.”

  “Nay, Father. But I will do my duty.”

  “That is what I want to talk to you about. My brother Edward has fought alongside me to win our country’s freedom. He feels that he has earned a stake in who should govern Scotland when I die.”

  She looked at him sadly. “Are you ill?”

  He smiled at her concern. “No, I am not, other than the malady that lays me low now and then. I am well, but you . . . I worry about your health, Marjory. You are not strong, and I would not wish upon you the burdens of ruling. I would rather see you take a husband, someone who could make you happy and give you a normal life. God knows you’ve had little enough of that.”

  Marjory’s mother, Isabella of Mar, had died shortly after the girl was born. Bruce had married Elizabeth de Burgh when Marjory was eight, and the two had gotten on well enough. Those first four years of their marriage had been fraught with danger and intrigue, and he’d seen little of his daughter. He did not know her well at all. “Tell me, do you fancy any of the young men you’ve met?”

  Her smile was shy. “You will laugh.”

  “No, I promise. I want only to make you happy, if it is within my power. I won’t deny you, child.”

  “Walter the Steward has been kind to me.”

  She blushed and Bruce wondered just what form this kindness had taken. He would speak to Walter. But to his daughter he only said, “Walter is several years younger than you but I have never found him wanting. Is . . . has he . . . does he return your regard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no doubt Walter will soon be coming to speak to me. That brings me back to the issue at hand.”

  “I don’t want it, Father. Give the crown to Uncle.”

  “How will Walter feel about that?”

  Angrily she said, “It won’t change his feelings.”

  Glad to see that spark of life, Robert said, “If that is true, and Walter asks for you, you shall have my blessing.”

  “But what of the succession, Father?”

  “I will call for a parliament to settle the succession on your Uncle Edward, should Elizabeth and I not have a son.”

  Marjory’s relief showed plainly that Robert had made the right decision.

  January 1315

  SLEET PELTED THE WINDOW of her chamber on the late January day that Orelia and John’s son was born. As she held him for the first time, tears poured down her face. The birth had been later than she’d calculated—it seemed that she might have conceived on that last night with John rather than earlier as she’d thought.

  But John’s son looked healthy and whole and she praised God for the babe’s safe delivery. That was all that mattered.

  “What will ye name him?” Mary, her maid asked.

  Mary had been her maid since before Orelia’s marriage. A more loyal and constant friend could not be found, and Orelia was grateful to have the woman attend her and her son.

  “Iain.”

  “’Tis a strange name, my lady. Where did ye find it?”

  “It is Gaelic for John, for truly God has been gracious in giving this child to comfort me.”

  “Aye, that he has.” She reached for the child but Orelia held him away from the woman.

  “Ye need to rest, lady. I’ll see to the babe.”

  Orelia was tired, but she feared for her son and didn’t know why. “Mary, please grant a new mother a boon. Don’t take the child from this room unless I am with you.”

  Mary looked alarmed. “What is it? What do you fear?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . oh, I’m probably being foolish. But I don’t trust Lady Alice.”

  Mary nodded. “Nothing foolish about it. I don’t trust her none either.”

  Orelia breathed a sigh of relief. “We will keep that opinion to ourselves, Mary. But we must be vigilant with Iain.”

  Mary took the child and kissed his precious cheek. “None shall hurt this wee one without harming me first,” she said fiercely.

  With that assurance, Orelia gratefully slipped into a much needed sleep.

  And dreamed of Dunstruan.

  THIRTEEN

  Brothers shall wear their hair cut short and are not permitted to shave.

  —from the Rule of the Templar Knights

  Tis spring and I returned to Dunstruan as I promised Keifer. I went with him to Moy and stayed several weeks. But I didn’t head north as threatened. Dunstruan called to me, and I returned there to help with the lambing. The sheep remind me of that day at the lake with Orelia.

  Everything at Dunstruan seems to remind me of her and of the fact that her child must be several months old by now. I had hoped she would send me word of her safe delivery, but I’ve heard nothing. Which is as it should be. What would her dead husband’s family think if she sent word to a man in Scotland? They would think the worst of her, and much as I long to know that she is well, I want her happiness more.

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, Robert the Bruce called for a parliament in April 1315 at St. John’s Kirk in Ayr to settle the succession to the Scottish throne. Ceallach and Bryan accompanied the king to the church where they greeted James Douglas; Thomas Randolph; the king’s brother, Edward; and Marjory’s betrothed husband,Walter the Steward.

  Ceallach entered one of the private solars of the kirk where the meeting was to take place. Most of the participants had already arrived. While many stood in the back of the room, Bruce’s inner circle took seats at a huge table made from a slab of what must have been a gigantic tree. The tabletop had been polished smooth and reflected the sun that came in through the kirk’s stained glass windows.

  Bruce waved Ceallach to an open seat next to Bryan Mackintosh. Bruce called the meeting to order. “Gentlemen, in the interest of ensuring the smooth transition of power when I die, our first order of business is to settle the succession of the crown. My daughter, Marjory, is the heir presumptive to Scotland’s throne, and I am pleased to announce her betrothal to Walter the Steward.”

  Shocked silence followed the king’s announcement. Ceallach suspected that a number of the men present may have harbored the hope of wedding their own sons to the king’s daughter and thus to the crown. Everyone stared at young Walter, a lad of just eighteen, who’d beaten out all of the competition for Marjory and her inheritance.

  The glowering looks were impossible to ignore. Bruce stared back before saying, “You might offer congratulations, gentlemen.”

  A chorus of less than enthusiastic toasts were offered.

  Walter stood and addressed the king. “If I may, sire?”

  “Of course.”

  Walter cleared his throat. He appeared understandably nervous to address so many of his elders. “It is true that the king has given me his blessing to marry Marjory. But your unspoken fears that I seek the cro
wn through her are unfounded. I have no aspirations to marry a queen. I want only to serve my liege, King Robert, and to make Marjory happy.”

  James Douglas said, “Marjory has not had a normal life. None would fault her for wanting some happiness and peace.” He looked at Walter, who nodded his agreement and sat down, visibly relieved.

  Bruce placed his hand on Walter’s shoulder, patted it, then pointed at the assembled nobles. “Our continuing war with England requires a firm hand on the helm of state. I have spoken with Marjory, and she and I agree that she does not have the disposition to rule. Nor does she have the desire.”

  “What do you propose, then, Your Majesty?” Thomas Randolph asked.

  “I have advised Marjory to waive her rights in favor of my brother, Edward. He is experienced in the art of war and leadership. If I should die without a legitimate male heir, the crown would pass first to Edward, then to his sons. Failing this, it would pass to Marjory and Walter’s heirs.”

  Heads nodded.

  Douglas asked, “What if the succession falls to a minor child?”

  Bruce looked at Bryan, a man who was, in reality, Bruce’s oldest child, born out of wedlock while Bruce was still in his teens. “Then I propose Sir Bryan Mackintosh, Earl of Homelea, to act as regent until the child comes of age.”

  There was a great deal of loud discussion at the table and in the audience as all eyes turned to the man sitting next to Ceallach. Few would deny that Bryan had earned respect as a warrior and a man of wisdom. If he were to advocate his claim to Scotland’s crown as Bruce’s only male child, many would support him simply because of his excellent reputation.

  But the legitimacy of Bruce’s crown was already in question by his detractors—would Bryan add fuel to the fires of discontent or strengthen his father’s grip on the throne?

  Bryan stood and cleared his throat. The crowd hushed in anticipation. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You honor me with your trust in presenting me for such a critical position. But if I were to step so close to the throne, I might very well weaken it. I would not give your enemies any reason to disparage your legitimate heirs and their claim to the crown.”

  There was a stunned silence before Bryan continued. “May I suggest your nephew, Thomas Randolph, as a more suitable regent. He and I are of the same age and experience, but no one can dispute his right to guide the throne of Scotland.”

  Bryan sat down amidst hushed conversation throughout the room. Ceallach marveled that Bruce had made such a public bid for power for his illegitimate son. And even more at the young man’s wisdom and diplomacy in refusing the position.

  No one seemed to want to disagree with their king, no matter what their assessment of the situation. Yet someone must. Quietly, Ceallach spoke. “He’s right, Robert. There’s not a one of us here who doesn’t think highly of Bryan, but Thomas is a better choice.”

  Ceallach saw Bruce struggle within himself, struggle with his love for his son and his duty as king.

  Finally, Bruce nodded. “You are right, of course.”

  Ceallach could almost hear a collective sigh of relief from the audience. Robert had proven himself to be a valiant warrior and brilliant general during wartime. He had just shown his nobles that he would also rule wisely in times of peace.

  Bruce turned to Randolph. “Thomas, will you accept this responsibility?”

  “Aye, my laird. I am honored by your trust.”

  Bruce looked at Bryan, and Ceallach saw pride mixed with regret cross the king’s face. Then he took a deep breath, as if putting the issue to rest. Bruce sought out his brother. “Edward, is this act of succession agreeable to you?”

  “Aye, brother. It is.”

  “Good. And with the rest of you?”

  The room resounded with votes of affirmation. No one raised an argument against the plan. Robert, looking far more relaxed with that business finished, said, “I will have the succession papers drawn up so all of you can sign them before this parliament adjourns. Now, there is other business we must consider. The English have been levying Ireland to provide supplies and manpower for their fight against us.”

  “And they’ve complied?” one of the nobles asked.

  “What choice do they have? The people of Ireland are suffering, as we have suffered, from the heavy hand of English power. I have received an appeal from the O’Neills, the royal line of Ulster, requesting my aid and offering the throne of Ireland to my brother, Edward, if we will assist them against the English. Perhaps it is time for the Celtic peoples to unite against their common foe.”

  Edward Bruce stood up. “If we unite with the Irish we can threaten Edward with our ability to launch a combined army against the west of England. This might well be what it takes to force Edward to recognize my brother and bring peace to Scotland.”

  Bruce said, “I propose that we send an expeditionary force to Ireland under my brother’s command. He will seek out those who support such an Irish-Scottish union.”

  There was some lively discussion as to the best way to support their Irish brethren, but in the end all agreed to Bruce’s plan. Clearly Ceallach’s colleagues were determined to have Bruce recognized as their chosen king. They would do whatever it took to bring Edward of England to that admission.

  Ceallach volunteered to accompany Edward Bruce to Ireland. Not only could he serve his king, but the activity and distance from Dunstruan might finally bring an end to his preoccupation with Orelia Radbourne.

  IAIN WAS A HEALTHY CHILD, praise God. But his downy reddish hair was a legacy from Orelia’s grandmother. What a time for it to surface with John not here to defend his heir! Alice, large with child, smirked each time she saw the boy.

  When Alice was delivered of a healthy male child in late July, Orelia feared that Alice might voice aloud her accusation that Iain was not John’s child.

  While Alice was still abed after the baby’s birth, Orelia left Iain in Mary’s care and went in search of her brother-in-law. She found him in the solar at his desk, the ornate monstrosity that had replaced John’s. Orelia was determined to win him to her side once and for all and remove his wife’s unspoken threat. Richard was a fair, levelheaded man. She simply needed to make her case, appeal to his love for his brother, to his honor.

  He beckoned her to come in, and she walked across the new carpet and stood before him. He continued to peruse the parchment he was holding. But she would not be intimidated by his rudeness. She sat down in the chair before the desk. “Richard, have you received word from Edward making you Iain’s guardian? I would be relieved to know that I will have your wise assistance in guiding the affairs of the estate.”

  Deliberately he set the paper aside. “I’m afraid I’ve had to send a second missive to Edward apprising him of all the facts of the case.”

  Orelia strove to hide her agitation. She smoothed her skirt and as calmly as she could, she said, “Of what facts do you speak?”

  Richard’s expression became condescending. “We both know that my brother was unable to have children. We both know that John’s hair was dark like my own. Obviously your child is the product of an unfortunate incident which you are understandably reluctant to reveal.”

  She stared at him. “Incident?”

  John shuffled papers on the desk in front of him. “There is no need to distress yourself, Orelia. The child was obviously conceived within days of my brother’s death, when you were first held captive. Frankly I’m saddened that you insist otherwise, but I can understand why you would want to believe the child is John’s.”

  Indignant at his implication she jumped up from the chair. “This is John’s child! How can you think I would lie with another man?”

  “I don’t think you would willingly do so, Orelia. Of course not. Obviously, you were mistreated during your stay in Scotland and the child is the result. But I’ll not have some Scottish by-blow inherit my family’s estate and wealth.”

  She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “The child was conceived
just before John died, Richard.”

  “Perhaps. But he’d not fathered a child before—what are the chances it could’ve happened in those last days? And then there is the additional issue of the boy’s red hair.”

  With fraying patience and growing apprehension, she said, “My grandmother was Scottish, Richard, and she had red hair. That is where Iain’s hair color comes from.”

  Richard stood up, towering over the desk, over her. “Because of the love I hold for you and my sympathy for your misfortune, I won’t turn you or your . . . child out. My brother would not want that.”

  She straightened and smacked her hand on the top of the desk. “Your brother would want you to recognize his son!”

  “If you become hysterical I shall change my mind. We cannot have hysterical women at Radbourne Hall. It isn’t good for any of the children.” He perused the document he’d been reading. “If you remain calm and quiet, I will allow you to stay. You and . . . Iain will be well cared for and will want for nothing.”

  Fighting tears of frustration she said, “Nothing except Iain’s inheritance.”

  “Don’t be difficult, Orelia. To be clear, if you are not compliant, I will publicly denounce you and set you on the street to earn your living. As it is, to avoid scandal, Alice and I agree that you should live quietly here at Radbourne.”

  Alice had put Richard up to this, Orelia was sure. But how could Orelia possibly overcome Alice’s hold over her husband? He was even more besotted—and deceived—by Alice now that she’d borne Richard a son.

  “You needn’t bother yourself. I’ll take my son to live at Bolton in my grandmother’s cottage.”

  “No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Am I your prisoner?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. I regret the necessity, but Alice is adamant that your behavior should not reflect poorly upon us.”

  “If you truly believe this is not John’s child, why don’t you just send us away?”

  “I will honor my brother’s love for you.”

  “You mean it would reflect poorly on you and Alice if we did not stay.”