The Mark of Salvation

by Carol Umberger

  Morrigan jerked her head around. She had practically forgotten the woman was there. “She and Mother seem to have developed a friendship of sorts.”

  “I suppose she must be lonely, so far from home and all. I wonder how much longer until she’s allowed to go home?”

  Morrigan hadn’t really given the woman much thought until today. She remembered when her father died and how hard Eveleen had grieved. Morrigan was glad her mother had befriended Orelia. The two of them had the bond of widowhood—that must be what drew them together.

  She looked back in Orelia’s direction and saw that the woman had gotten up and was walking toward them. Now what?

  Fergus, ever the gentleman, said, “What can we do for you, my lady?”

  Orelia looked from one to another, seeming reluctant to answer.

  “Well?” Morrigan asked. The woman probably wanted to leave— fighting was too hard on her delicate sensibilities.

  Orelia lifted the hem of her dress to reveal a sheathed fighting knife that she removed and held in her palm. “I wonder if one of you would spar with me?”

  Morrigan stared.

  Fergus recovered first. “You wish to spar? With one of us?”

  The Englishwoman gazed at them as if they’d lost their wits. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I haven’t practiced since . . . since my husband died.”

  “You know how to use that?” Morrigan asked.

  Now Orelia grinned, evidently enjoying their astonishment. “Yes, I do.”

  Fergus laughed. “Does Ceallach know you have a weapon?”

  Still smiling Orelia said, “I think he’s forgotten about it. I did threaten him with it when we first met.”

  Morrigan whistled. “Well, how do you like that? Fergus, you are better at such techniques; you spar and I’ll watch.”

  Then Lady Orelia shocked Morrigan further by pulling the back of her skirt through her legs and tucking the hem into her belt. Not very ladylike but essential in order to fight without getting tangled in her skirt. Eagerly Morrigan anticipated what was to come.

  It quickly became apparent that Orelia’s late husband had taught her more than just basic fighting stances and thrusts. Orelia and Fergus circled and thrust and though the lady could not overcome him, neither was Fergus able to dislodge the knife from her hand. Perhaps there was more to the woman than Morrigan credited.

  When the combatants called a halt, Morrigan jumped up from her seat. “Bravo! I’m impressed, Orelia.”

  “I, too, my lady,” Fergus echoed.

  Orelia took a bow and the tension between them vanished.

  Morrigan had few close female friends, had never had the opportunity to form such friendships. As she studied the Englishwoman she considered that maybe she should look beneath the surface to see what else she and Orelia Radbourne had in common.

  THE NEXT DAY AFTER DEVYN and Ceallach finished repairing a stall in Dunstruan’s barn, they headed to the lists for training. Keifer, as usual, tagged along. Devyn wasn’t much of a swordsman, but he was game for a round of practice.

  At first Ceallach worked slowly, warming up his muscles and giving instruction to both Devyn and Keifer. They stood on either side of him and imitated his moves.

  “Like this, Ceallach?” Keifer asked.

  “Aye, use your wrist a bit more.”

  “How’s this?”

  “Very good.” As Ceallach swung his sword in widening circles, his breathing came harder and he had to warn Keifer several times to move aside. But the boy stayed too close, intent on watching, and Ceallach was forced to shorten his stride and move closer to Devyn. Finally he barked at Keifer to move off and work alone while he and Devyn sparred.

  With the boy a safe distance away, he found his rhythm again. His last conversation with Orelia came back to him.

  You don’t believe in praying?

  I do not.

  In anger and frustration he increased the intensity of his attack, pushing his practice partner back until Devyn cried out. Only then did Ceallach realize he’d backed the man to the curtain wall, completely unaware of where they were and what he was doing. Once again the demons had been let loose.

  Ceallach lowered his sword. “Forgive me, friend.”

  Devyn looked at him with a fearful expression. “You fight like the very devil himself.”

  Keifer rushed over. “What happened?”

  Ceallach closed his eyes and raised his face toward the sky. “I’m . . . all right,” was all he could manage to say. Yes, the devil himself dwelt inside Ceallach, always searching, waiting for Ceallach to weaken, to let him out. Ceallach shuddered and lowered his head. If Ceallach were a stronger man, he would be able to control this monster that threatened to dominate his every move.

  He couldn’t take a chance on harming the lad or anyone else. He’d sworn off whiskey after that night of the battle, but now he questioned the wisdom of it. Where would he find the strength to deal with his fears; how would he fight the demon? It fed on turmoil, on emotions, and whiskey deadened his sensitivity.

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead he said, “That’s enough for today.”

  Devyn eyed him warily. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course. Keifer, clean the weapons and mind you don’t cut yourself.” Then he stalked off, aware of the puzzled look on their faces. Aye, well, Ceallach was puzzled too.

  He went to the well and brought up a bucket of water thinking to wash his face and hands, then thought better of it. One of the joys of life outside the cloister was the freedom to bathe at will. He went to his chamber and, finding a drying cloth and a precious bit of soap, he headed to the river.

  But as he approached the bathing pool he could hear the murmur of female voices. Was it wash day? Or were they bathing? Either way, he couldn’t join them. Why couldn’t they live by a schedule so a man might know what to expect?

  Vexed at the loss of opportunity, he started back to the castle. No, he would find another spot. He’d be considerate and bathe downstream, but bathe he would. He followed the well-worn path along the banks and soon the voices faded.

  He would have to speak to Devyn and Suisan about establishing a schedule. How could he function without structure, predictability? Aye, a lack of predictability was exactly what frustrated him in dealing with people, especially women.

  He found a pool, not as deep as that by the castle, but sufficiently large that he could float for a bit. He stripped off his clothes and entered the stream, drifting peacefully on the water. Then he washed himself, ducked under the water one last time and waded ashore. After drying off, he wrapped his plaid around his waist for modesty and sat in the shade of a giant willow. The warmth of the day and the babbling water lulled him into a state of drowsiness.

  As he drifted between wakefulness and sleep, he became aware of the pounding of his heart as he imagined . . . the entry in his journal last night had been the hardest he’d written yet. He needn’t fear hell or Satan—he’d met both in a prison in France. Where his God had deserted him and his mentor and friend.

  Birds chirping in the trees overhead brought Ceallach back to the present—to a lovely summer day and a life that no longer seemed to hold any meaning.

  MORRIGAN FLOATED IN A DEEP POOL in the creek near Dunstruan. Orelia and Eveleen had joined her on this lovely summer day. They had disrobed down to their shifts and Morrigan had grinned as she watched Orelia unstrap the knife from her calf. Now they lazed on the water, circling their arms to stay afloat.

  Eveleen said, “I’m so glad you decided not to go to Innishewan today, Morrigan.”

  “There isn’t much more you or I can do until the roof is fixed. Fergus can oversee the workers as well as I can.” And though it was true, she couldn’t help but wish she were spending the day with him and not with her mother and Orelia.

  Morrigan had enjoyed the other day at Inneshewan. It had given her a chance to know Orelia better. Morrigan watched now as Eveleen and Orelia swam close together, whisperin
g to one another.

  The two swam toward her, grinning, and Orelia said, “Eveleen and I agree, Morrigan. Fergus definitely likes you.”

  Morrigan playfully splashed water at Orelia. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Eveleen paddled over to them. “Orelia might be right, Daughter. I’ve caught him staring at you when he thinks no one is looking.”

  “What if he does? It doesn’t mean anything.” Did he really watch her? She’d thought so but was afraid it was only wishful thinking.

  Orelia and Eveleen exchanged looks “Well, then you better not get caught looking back or he’ll think it does mean something,” Eveleen said.

  “I don’t look at him. I practically ignore him.”

  Orelia smiled. “I noticed that you ignore him. Except when you are practicing in the lists. Or arguing with him about the repairs to Innishewan. Or inquiring about that mysterious eye patch of his.”

  “Or asking for his advice,” her mother added.

  Morrigan stood up, water sluicing off her. They made it sound like she was pining for the man. It wasn’t true! “He is my steward. Of course I talk to him.” When no one offered disagreement, she returned to the water and the three of them paddled about.

  Orelia swam close to Morrigan. “Would it be so awful if he did like you?”

  Morrigan treaded water. This familiarity with another woman felt odd to her. Yet she longed for a confidante, someone who would understand these new feelings and her confusion over them. Someone her own age. “Well, I guess it would be all right. He’s . . . rather handsome, don’t you think?”

  Orelia’s arms stopped and she sank into the water, sputtering as she took in a mouth full of water. Morrigan reached for her but Orelia moved to where she could stand in chest deep water, her expression troubled. “When I first saw him at Dunstruan, I thought he was John. My husband.”

  “That must have been awful,” Eveleen said.

  Morrigan said nothing. She was just beginning to grasp the depth of emotion one could feel for a man and could not imagine what Orelia had suffered.

  Orelia moved to shallow water, and Morrigan and Eveleen followed. They each found a rock to sit on, feet dangling in the water. Orelia seemed to need to share, to talk of her feelings. “I only thought it was John for a moment, but yes, it was hard. Wishful thinking. They don’t look that much alike.”

  “ ’Twas understandable. You loved your husband, and denial is part of grief. But you have much to look forward to,” Eveleen said.

  Morrigan looked at Eveleen and then at Orelia. “What can a widow look forward to? Will you remarry, Orelia? Mother never has.” Morrigan watched as a look passed between her mother and Orelia. “What?” she demanded.

  “I’ve kept this to myself—only your mother knows—but with each passing day the joy . . . I am expecting a child, Morrigan.”

  “Oh. A baby.” Looking down, Morrigan traced her finger along the rock she was sitting on, absently rubbing back and forth. Her face softened as she imagined what it must be like to have a child by the man you loved.

  “Yes, God has blessed me in my sorrow. John will live on in this child,” Orelia said reverently.

  Morrigan’s hand stilled and she looked up. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eveleen said, “One day, God will bless you with a husband and children, Morrigan.”

  They would expect her to deny such a thing, but Morrigan couldn’t. Such thoughts had been on her mind much of late. “Aye, I believe he will.”

  Eveleen raised her eyebrows. “So, Orelia and I are right—you haven’t been ignoring Fergus.”

  Morrigan smiled. “No, I haven’t.” She traced the rock again. What would they think if she voiced her concern? Would they understand, not make fun of her? She took a deep breath. “Do you think he’d notice if I wore a dress now and then?”

  Orelia laughed, but not in derision. “Notice? Oh, yes, he’d notice, don’t you agree Eveleen?”

  “I do indeed.”

  Morrigan took another fortifying breath and nodded. “All right. Who will sew it?”

  “I will.” Orelia and Eveleen answered together. The three of them laughed, sharing a moment of camaraderie and joy. Orelia and Eveleen rejoiced because they’d known the pleasure of loving and creating a child from their love. And Morrigan rejoiced because a certain man was indeed watching her as she suspected.

  THE WARM AFTERNOON SUN felt wonderful and while the others continued to swim, Orelia climbed out and got dressed. She wandered downstream, searching the creek bank for wildflowers to make a bouquet. She added her latest find to the ones in her hand and raised her head.

  Orelia knew she shouldn’t stare, ’twas impolite. Ceallach stood with his back to her, still as a deer that knew it was being stalked. His back was bare—he’d removed his shirt—and he was apparently adjusting the folds of his plaid. His damp, disheveled hair told her that he’d already taken a swim, so she was in no danger of embarrassment from having him disrobe further.

  Yet from what little she knew of Ceallach, she was sure he wouldn’t like to have her see him thus. She began to turn away to give him privacy when her gaze lowered from his head to his shoulders and she saw the scars. Deep and red even after what must be years of healing.

  She nearly reached for him, barely restraining a gasp, the instinct to comfort overwhelming. Yet the scars were well beyond need of such emotion. What ever could have caused such marks?

  The welts and stripes rippled and bunched with the movement of his muscles. Deep striations, ridges of flesh, shiny reddened skin that looked fragile. Now she could see the full extent of wounds that were barely hinted at by the redness on his neck. Here lay clear evidence of the reason for his secretiveness about his past.

  Slowly he turned and saw her standing there. She knew when he realized what she was looking at. A moment’s hesitation, a hitch of his shoulders. Without a word he pulled on his shirt and drew the laces at the neck closed. Only then did he speak to her.

  Quietly, his voice hoarse with emotion, “Go away, Orelia.”

  Why did his words sting so? Because behind them she heard the anguish of a sheep without a shepherd. A man who’d lost his faith. It wasn’t just her that he hid from; it was their Lord. From the looks of his back, he’d suffered unbearable pain. “Who did that to you?”

  He shook his head, and droplets of water splashed his shirt.

  She walked forward, stopping an arm’s length away. He stood with his head bowed and again he shook his head. “Leave it, Orelia. Forget what you saw. The wounds healed a long time ago and I am not in need.”

  But she couldn’t let it go, couldn’t leave without knowing who had done this to him and if this had driven him from his faith. “You were whipped, weren’t you? Why?”

  He raised his head and looked at her. Angrily he said, “I was punished for crimes I didn’t commit.”

  Puzzled, she quizzed him further. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  With finality he said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

  “And this is why you believe God has deserted you?”

  He looked toward Dunstruan. “May I walk you back to the keep?”

  Orelia wanted to press him to talk about what happened, not only so she could understand but to try and help him heal the wounds she could not see. But now was not the time.

  They did not speak on the walk back to the castle.

  LATE THAT NIGHT a violent gust of wind agitated the coals in the fireplace into swirls of light that quickly ebbed into darkness. The gusts also crept through the drafty main hall of Dunstruan Castle.Over the years the once heavy tapestries that lined the walls had become threadbare and moth-eaten, allowing a breeze to waft through Ceallach’s hair.

  Ceallach sat in the glow from the dying fire, waiting for morning. He couldn’t sleep. The gale had risen, causing the shutters to bang against the walls. His sword lay on the bench next to him. The noise of the wind, the smell of smoke that seep
ed into the room from the fireplace, the faltering light, all contrived to bring back the nightmare that had plagued him since he’d left France. Tonight, before the crashing shutter had brought him upright in his bed, the nightmare had been unusually vivid.

  Probably as a result of his conversation with Orelia this afternoon. A noise from behind startled him and he jumped to his feet, sword at the ready.

  “Ceallach,” a soft feminine voice said. Orelia came into the light. “Did the wind awaken you, too?”

  Her hair hung in a thick braid over one shoulder. He couldn’t speak, feared to speak, unsure if he was in his right mind. Sometimes the demons lingered, teasing and goading him. He continued to hold his sword on the chance that the woman wasn’t real but a tormentor from the darkness of his past.

  He shook his head. The vision remained. “Orelia?”

  She looked at him as if his wits might be addled, adding weight to the possibility that she was indeed, real. “Yes,” she assured him. Wisely she remained where she was.

  He lowered the sword but did not lay it down. Not yet. “Why are you not abed?”

  She gestured with her hand, pointing back up the stairs. “I heard a noise.”

  “The shutters banging.”

  “Oh. How silly of me.” She stared at him. “Are you all right?”

  He took a deep breath and laid the weapon back on the bench. “Aye.”

  “May I come by the fire?”

  “What? Ah, yes.”

  “Will you put some peat on it? We may as well be warm if we are going to be awake.” She smiled.

  The rare smile surprised him. But then she certainly had reason to be sad. Something in him wanted to be the cause of her smile, and to give her reason to grace him so again.

  Yet he could not relax—any more than he could get close enough to the fire to add peat as she’d asked. He sat down again, pretending he hadn’t heard her.

  She shook her head and placed a brick of peat on the fire, stirring the embers until it caught before turning her face to him.

  “Why did you accompany your husband to Stirling?” he asked.

  Guiltily, he acknowledged her pain and the cause of it; he wanted to share the darkness tonight, not be alone in the shadows. Orelia had shadows of her own to face. Why could she smile? Why could he not?