The Mark of Salvation

by Carol Umberger

  Orelia. Fair Orelia with her glowing hair and faithful heart. How he would miss her!

  Instead of a bottle of whiskey, he sought her company. What he would do for solace when she left, he didn’t know. But tonight she was here, and he found her sitting by the fire in the solar.

  When he entered, she smiled a smile that seemed touched with the same melancholy he felt. Could that be true? Did she regret leaving?

  She was spinning wool in the light from a candle, and her movements were captured in the shadow on the wall behind her. Gracefully her hand fed the wool onto the spool while the other spun the spindle. Her hair hung in a braid over her shoulder. He knew he was staring, but he wanted to remember her just so.

  A slowly lengthening string eased from the spindle, and he picked up a spool and began to wind the newly made thread on it.

  “Thank you,” she said. “The light is growing dim. I hate to set the spindle down. Are you able to build up the fire?”

  Her voice did not chide or belittle. He wished he could do this for her, but he hadn’t mastered the fear yet. “Perhaps you should retire.”

  “It is early yet.” She stopped the spindle. “Who will fix the fire for you when I’m gone, Ceallach?” she asked gently.

  For a brief moment, he let himself think of how cold he would be without her. “No one, I suppose.”

  She set the spindle aside. “Then it is time for you to tell me what you fear. Maybe then it will no longer have such a hold on you and you will not freeze when I have gone.”

  The thread ran out. There was no more to wind, and he let his hands fall to his lap. He gazed up at her, at her beautiful, patient face. She laid several logs on the fire and poked at them until the flames crackled cheerfully.

  “Perhaps you are right.” Maybe this is what it would take to control the demons, especially once she was gone.

  They sat facing each other on the benches before the fireplace. Where should he start? He rested his forearms on his thighs, and with his head bent so that he wouldn’t have to see her expression, he said, “My true name is Marcus of Kintyre.” Then he told her all of it, about his training as a knight and taking the Templar vows. About the years of contemplation and preparation for war. About life in the monastery and about Peter, his teacher and friend.

  “We were working at Peter’s loom that evening, getting the warp ready for a rug he had designed. The king’s soldiers forced their way in and arrested us, dragged us away and threw us in a dungeon. We didn’t know what we’d done wrong.”

  “They arrested all the Templars in France that night, didn’t they?”

  “Aye. We had grown wealthy, and the king was deeply in debt to us.” He paused to gather himself. If he was going to tell the rest . . . how could he say the words? He’d never told anyone, not even Robert.

  Orelia’s gentle voice said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?” It was more a statement than a question.

  He raised his head and studied her. “I’m no paragon, Orelia. But I didn’t do the things they accused us of. And neither did Peter.”

  She nodded. “Go on.”

  He hung his head, unwilling to watch her face when he said, “They accused us of defiling the cross, of . . . of sorcery and devil-worship.”

  She reached for him but he pulled away. “They said . . .” He took in a deep breath and let it out. “They said we committed unnatural acts with each other, Orelia. I loved Peter like a father. A father!” He jumped to his feet. He paced in agitation. “They tortured him, and he confessed to everything. When it was my turn, Peter urged me to just get on with it—confess to it all. He said that God would know the truth. But my pride wouldn’t let me—it took them two days to break me. Then I confessed to everything, everything but . . . I would not besmirch the friendship I had with Peter with such a foul lie. That’s when they lit a torch and . . .”

  Tears poured down his face and he hated the weakness—hated it! He turned his back to her and, head bent, rested his hands on the stones of the fireplace, closer to flame than he’d been in seven years.

  Ceallach looked down into the fire. “My back was already flayed open from the whip, and the torch singed the open skin. Why they didn’t kill me, I don’t know. Finally they threatened to torture Peter again if I did not concede.

  “So I confessed to all of it to save Peter from another round, and they threw me back into the cell. But my confession meant nothing—they dragged Peter out of the cell again. I begged them to take me; I promised to confess to anything if they would spare Peter.”

  He turned and looked at Orelia, at the tears that glistened on her cheeks. He would finish his tale, and it would end his friendship with the only woman he had ever cared for. No woman would want a man like Ceallach, a man who had failed to protect someone he loved.

  “My body gave out and I lost consciousness. When I awoke, Peter had been returned to the cell and lay dying by my side. If I had confessed sooner, had not angered them with my stubbornness, Peter would still be alive. But my pride wouldn’t let me.”

  He dared to look up into her eyes. There was nothing but compassion in them, a tenderness despite knowing his innermost secrets. He had expected to feel humiliation when he finally told someone. But he didn’t.

  The candle had begun to gutter in a final pool of wax, and the fire had burned low. The spindle and spool lay at rest and strangely, so did his heart.

  ORELIA’S WOMANLY INSTINCTS told her Ceallach would not welcome her touch and certainly not her pity. “Your friend might have died no matter what you did or said.”

  “You don’t really believe that, Orelia.”

  She stood and walked close to him, stood in front of him, but didn’t touch. He looked as if he might break if she did. “Yes, I do believe that. You blame yourself for his death and yet, from the sound of it, you could have confessed to killing the pope and they’d have taken Peter away anyway.”

  “Then why did they allow me to live? I would have gladly given my life for Peter, but they didn’t take it. They took him.” Ceallach sank to the bench, his head in his hands, and sobbed.

  She suspected that Ceallach had never truly grieved for his friend until now. Whether he welcomed her touch or not, Orelia could not deny him the solace of human touch. She sat beside him and laid his head on her shoulder, stroking his back. “It does not sound like they were trying to spare you. Your scars testify to that. It is only your strength and God’s grace that saved you.”

  As his sobs subsided, the full import of his words washed over her. Fear ran through her body, chilling her.

  Fear for Ceallach. A Templar Knight and a wanted man.

  He clung tightly to her for a moment, then pushed away and dried his eyes on his sleeve. He stood abruptly and strode away from her as if he couldn’t bear to be comforted any longer. However, when he faced her, she brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. In his vulnerable state, his feelings for her were unmasked.

  “Ceallach, I can’t . . . Surely you know . . .”

  He raised his hand as if to stop her words. She could almost see him pull himself together, could definitely see his relief that she didn’t actually comment on his feelings. She would not distress him further by mentioning it. Nor would she name her own feelings, for she had come to care for this gentle man who feared the fire’s flames. However, there was something more pressing to discuss.

  “The Order was disbanded, was it not?” she asked.

  He reached up and absently touched the scar on his neck. “Aye, the Order was disbanded by the pope, and the Templars who didn’t confess were excommunicated.”

  “Ah, then you are still within the good graces of the Church.”

  He shook his head. “Nay. I recanted my confession—I’ve been branded a heretic.”

  It was worse than she’d thought. “And now Edward of England has placed a ransom on you.”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet you plan to accompany me to the border? You mustn’t, Ceallach.
’Tis too great a risk.”

  His expression was tender as he said, “You are not my enemy, Orelia.”

  “No, I am not. You will never be my enemy. But I cannot speak for others. Must you ride with us tomorrow?”

  “To see you safe? Aye.”

  “Does no one else know?” she whispered.

  “Only my foster brother.”

  She stared at him. “You trust me with this.”

  He looked down at the floor and again rubbed his neck. When he gazed at her again, he seemed more settled. “I tell you these things because you are my friend and you need to understand why I am . . . why a warrior would be afraid to light a flame.”

  If only she were free to care for him, she would hold him close and not let go. She laid a hand on her stomach, reminding herself of Radbourne and the reason she must return there. “You need not be ashamed, Ceallach, not with me. And you needn’t fear that I will reveal your secret.”

  She reached for his hand and he allowed her to take it. “Tomorrow I will leave to secure my child’s future. But I will never forget you or our friendship.”

  He invited her close and she moved into his arms with an ease that surprised them both. The child moved within her as if in greeting its father. But Ceallach wasn’t her husband, could never be her husband, and this child would never know its father.

  They parted. “I want to say good-bye here, tonight, in private.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. His eyes were bright, and she knew he was affected too. But he would not say so, because she was not his and never would be. She belonged at Radbourne, raising John’s child. And Ceallach belonged . . . nowhere.

  He lifted her chin. “Tell me those are the foolish tears of a breeding woman, and that you will not cry tomorrow.”

  “That is exactly what they are. I am English, despite my grandmother’s Scottish blood; I don’t belong here and I must go home.”

  “If things were different . . .” He shook his head and reached intothe folds of his plaid, withdrawing a small piece of parchment, folded and sealed with wax. “Take this, but do not open it unless you have need of me.”

  “Why would I—”

  “You may need my help but would hesitate to ask. What is written here will assure you that I will come.”

  She took it and tapped it with her finger. “You expect me to grow old and never open this after you arouse my curiosity so?”

  “If you don’t need me, don’t open it. It’s that simple. There is nothing there of any consequence unless you are in trouble and wonder if I will help.”

  The tears started again. “Very well.” She tucked the missive under her belt. ’Twas time, but she couldn’t let him go without one kiss, one taste of him to remember him by. He gazed at her and she moved back into his arms. He touched his lips to hers, and she yielded. For one, too-brief moment they were of one accord.

  She broke away, missing his touch and knowing she would never feel it again. Brushing away her tears, she said, “Good-bye, Ceallach.”

  He stared at her. Clearly the kiss had affected him, too. Why had she made their parting so much harder for him. For them both?

  “Good-bye, Orelia,” he whispered. Then he slowly walked away.

  ROBERT THE BRUCE HALTED HIS RETINUE on a wooded hillside overlooking the English border. Ceallach glanced at the position of the sun and determined that they were early for their rendezvous with the English. Bruce had been uncharacteristically silent during the ride. The king of Scotland and victor of the battle of Bannockburn had dismounted, and now paced back and forth like an anxious bridegroom.

  But the king wasn’t the only one whose nerves stretched thin. Ceallach fought his need to look at Orelia, to study her face so that he would not forget. But no one must suspect his feelings for the young widow. There could be no conjecture about the babe’s paternity.

  When the negotiations had become final and a date for the exchange set, Bryan had gone to Moy to fetch his wife, Kathryn. She would act as the queen’s lady in waiting, providing feminine companionship. Bruce didn’t know what condition Elizabeth would be in. She had not been subjected to living in an open cage like Bruce’s other womenfolk, but had spent most of her imprisonment under house arrest at various manor homes.

  But Elizabeth had spent the better part of the past year in Rochester prison, which could not have been kind to a gently bred woman. She might need a woman to confide in.

  Elizabeth and Bruce’s daughter Marjorie and the other Scottish prisoners had been transported to Berwick by ship. Berwick remained in English hands, which so angered Bruce that he refused to have the exchange there. The exchange would take place near Norham Castle, close to the English border.

  Bryan motioned for the others to dismount and give the king room.

  Ceallach got down from his horse and walked over to stand by Bryan. “Our king appears nervous,” he said softly.

  “Aye, he was calmer before the battle.”

  Ceallach wanted to tame his own nervous stomach and sought distraction in conversation. “They’ve been separated a long time.”

  “Eight years, and after only four years of marriage.”

  Ceallach wondered what kind of woman Elizabeth Bruce might be. How had she withstood prison and separation from her husband? “Did you know the queen?”

  “I joined their household as a squire a year after their marriage. It seemed to be a union of great warmth and mutual respect.” Bryan paused, seeming lost momentarily in memories. “I remember when she was taken. He nearly resigned the crown.”

  Further talk halted when the lookout announced the approach of riders. They remounted and rode slowly down the hillside. Ceallach could only imagine the king’s emotions as he rode toward his wife and the daughter he hadn’t seen in eight years.

  Robert had received occasional letters, but eight years was a very long time. People change, most especially someone who has been a prisoner. How would he and Elizabeth ever put their life back together?

  Bruce halted, and Ceallach could see him moisten his lips and fiddle with the reins. His features were tense, and Ceallach was amazed to discover that he understood. Here was no king, just a man, a husband who feared what he might discover when he next beheld his wife. Had Elizabeth become bitter in her prison? Could she forgive him for his inability to rescue her?

  Ceallach had no trouble imagining the horrors of imprisonment. While Elizabeth would have been spared the depravity Ceallach had known, the loss of freedom gnawed at a person’s soul.

  As they approached the English riders and their Scottish prisoners, he noted Elizabeth’s bright blond hair and the straightness of her posture as she sat upon her horse. Bryan motioned for his men to bring forward the prisoners who would be exchanged for the queen.

  Ceallach was afraid to look at Orelia, afraid his feelings were written on his face for everyone to see.

  Orelia urged her horse forward then looked at Ceallach for the last time. She smiled bravely. He nodded, desperate not to show his feelings. Not the love, not the fear, not the grief. He managed to smile back.

  The two groups faced each other. The men accompanying Elizabeth held back while she allowed her horse to advance. Robert dismounted and everyone followed suit. Then the king walked to his wife’s horse. Neither moved but searched each other’s faces. Then with a cry Elizabeth dismounted and threw herself into Robert’s waiting arms.

  Though they were a good twenty feet away from the couple, Ceallach turned around to give them privacy. Seeing his movement, Bryan stationed his horse nose to tail with Ceallach’s, providing a screen of sorts.

  “I feared how this would go,” Bryan admitted.

  “So did I. This is a good beginning, don’t you think?”

  They glanced over the horse’s backs at the still embracing couple. Bryan grinned. “Aye, most encouraging.” His grin disappeared. “He never stopped loving her, Ceallach. Not all this time and despite . . .”

  Ceallach recognized Bryan’s struggle, as if he di
dn’t want to tarnish the reputation of this man he so obviously admired.

  Softly, he said, “I’ve heard the rumors, Bryan.”

  “It’s not as if he chased after women.” Bryan defended his father. “Rather they were drawn to him, his power and position.” He paused. “I cannot judge him. I don’t know if I would have done any different in his circumstances.”

  Seeking to reassure him, Ceallach laid a hand on his arm. “I do not accuse him. Only Elizabeth has that right.”

  Bryan signaled to Kathryn and she walked forward. Ceallach glanced up to see the royal couple walking toward them. Elizabeth seemed apprehensive, and he saw Robert strengthen his hold on his wife’s arm.

  Bryan knelt and took his queen’s hand to kiss it.

  Elizabeth’s voice shook as she said, “Rise, Sir Bryan.” He did as she said, and, in a most unqueenly fashion, she hugged Bryan tight. Ceallach studied Robert, whose eyes appeared over bright.

  When the queen released him, Bryan gently drew Kathryn to his side. “Your Majesty, may I present my wife, Lady Kathryn.”

  Elizabeth grasped Kathryn’s hand and squeezed it. “How kind of you to welcome me. I am pleased to see Bryan well married. We will talk more later.”

  Bruce introduced Ceallach. “My lady, this is Ceallach, my foster brother.” He leaned close and whispered something in her ear. She drew back, her expression quizzical. But she simply extended her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ceallach.”

  Ceallach bowed over her hand. “And I you, my queen.”

  The queen turned to Robert. “We are on Scottish soil, are we not?”

  “Aye, my love, that we are.”

  “Then let’s not waste another minute.” She looked at Robert as if no one else stood near. “Take me home, Husband,” she whispered.

  TWELVE

  No brother may leave the field of battle while the Order's standard is still flying.

  —from the Rule of the Templar Knights

  Orelia was right. Talking about Peter’s death and my part in it has brought me a sense of peace. Unburdening myself to her healed me even more than writing it down. But in revealing the torture, I fear I lost her admiration and respect. Still, what difference does it make? She has gone back to England, to the life waiting for her there. I remain what I have always been— a warrior waiting for the next fight to begin.