The Mark of Salvation

by Carol Umberger

  Ceallach nodded, not sure how he felt about Fergus knowing of his past. But he had more important worries. “I could just as easily get caught outside the walls as in. I will enter the castle and see Orelia for myself.” Only then could he be assured of her well-being. Besides, there was no one here who could recognize him from Bannockburn—he’d worn a hood. The real danger—for all of them—lay in being captured as one of Bruce’s raiders.

  Turning to the other men who would accompany them he said, “Make sure you’ve sufficiently covered yourselves in soot. We must blend in with the night if we’re to be successful.”

  After a quick inspection, Ceallach ordered everyone to retrieve their weapons, which were wrapped in sacks to prevent the moonlight from finding the polished surfaces. The cloth would also dampen any noise from metal rubbing metal. Stealth and surprise were their only hope of breaching the wall.

  Ceallach ensured that ropes were tied securely around each man’s waist, the weapons attached to their backs. He grinned at Fergus, smeared from head to toe in charcoal. The others matched or exceeded Fergus in height, though none equaled Ceallach’s stature. They’d been chosen for their ability to swim and for being tall enough to withstand the stream’s current at its deepest point. The rest of the troop awaited them near the entrance to the castle with Morrigan in command.

  Clothing would hinder their ability to maneuver and might even drag them into the swift waters. They wore only tight trews of darkened material. Ceallach shivered in anticipation.

  Satisfied all preparations were complete, Ceallach gestured for them to move out. They quietly made their way to the stream’s bank. Goose flesh raised on bare skin, not from fear—for these were seasoned warriors—but from contact with the frigid water.

  Fergus had entered the water first and the others had followed at prescribed intervals. They must not all arrive on the other side at once, or some might be forced to wait in the stream, where their strength would be sapped from the chill.

  The cold water crept up his legs, then rose to chest level, slowly washing away the soot. By the time he reached the narrow strip of land at the base of the wall, Fergus and James were using a long pole to lift a knotted rope to the top. A hook attached to the rope would hold it fast and enable them to climb.

  The hook held, and again Fergus went first. When Ceallach’s turn came, he silently cursed his own imagination for concocting such a scheme, as first his knee and then his chest scraped the wall. Somehow this had been easier when he was seven.

  After crawling over the top, and scraping tender parts not usually exposed to such abuse, he quickly hid in the shadows with the others, for now only their faces and shoulders remained blackened. Looking at his fellows, Ceallach allowed a grin to crease his face, thinking what a fright they would give the inhabitants. Just so long as Orelia recognized him.

  Black-faced and barely covered—true highland warriors.

  The time had come. At Ceallach’s nod, the others moved to prearranged locations. The castle seemed unnaturally quiet and Ceallach felt goose flesh rise again on his arms.

  Soon. Soon he would know if Orelia was safe or not.

  A dog barked. Again, with more force this time.

  “Blast.” He prayed the men were in position; they must make the final move now, before the guards heeded the dog’s alarm.

  He gave the signal, racing across the bailey, praying all the while that Orelia was asleep in her bed and not up and about somewhere. He didn’t want to waste time searching for her. As Fergus’s group raced toward the gate, Ceallach systematically barged into the sleeping chambers, surprising the occupants and securing one after another with rope.

  Hurrying to the next room, he heard a shout of triumph as Fergus and the others reached the portcullis and began to lower the drawbridge to their waiting companions.

  Success. Now all that remained was to secure Orelia and escape and the battle would be over. Swiftly, quietly, and with no loss of life.

  Kicking in the door, aware that the occupants might have been forewarned of danger by Fergus’s shout, Ceallach proceeded into the next darkened room, slowing his steps and drawing his sword.

  Ceallach stopped his advance, looking all around. What foul play was this?

  On the bed lay the body of a man.

  SIXTEEN

  Brothers will fast on Fridays "Brothers will refrain from boasting of past prowess or brave deeds."

  —from the Rule of the Templar Knights

  The danger of being captured and imprisoned is never far from my mind. Even though it’s unlikely that I would be singled out, still we are deep into English territory and run the risk of being discovered. I don’t think my reason would survive captivity again, especially if I were tortured. All it would take to break me this time is a simple candle flame. Yet I brave it all for Orelia’s sake. She didn’t ask me to come, it’s true, but I must make sure she is well—I may never venture this far south again.

  And if the God I pray to is a just God, he will deliver me from my enemies.

  GEORGE’S WARNING SPURRED ORELIA to action. Although he hadn’t been specific, Orelia feared that Alice might try to poison them all. Or maybe she planned to starve them—lock the door to their room and refuse them food and water.

  Orelia tried not to let her imagination become overwrought. But she would not just sit here and wait for whatever came. “I must leave tonight, Mary.” Orelia began packing the few things she would be able to take with her. Iain was barely well enough to travel, but Orelia wasn’t about to stay here and find out what Alice’s daft mind planned next.

  “What of George? Can he be trusted?” Mary sat Iain down on a bench.

  “I’d like to think so—he did warn us. But if he must choose, really choose, between Iain and his own cousin’s children, then what? I won’t gamble Iain’s life with a man whose loyalty is so divided.”

  Orelia observed Mary gathering her things. “Will you go with us, Mary?”

  “Am I welcome?”

  Orelia rushed to her and hugged her. “Most definitely.”

  Mary indicated the nearly full basket. “What else shall I pack?”

  Orelia peered about the room and her gaze fell upon the small chest that held Ceallach’s letter. Taking the parchment from the box, she held it to her chest and closed her eyes.

  “What is that, my lady?”

  “A . . . letter from a friend.” Do not open it unless you have need of me. When you read my words, you will know that I will help you no matter what your need.

  Her life was about to change—in a few minutes she would leave Radbourne to seek sanctuary elsewhere. Perhaps she would write to Ceallach once she’d established her new life. Not because she needed him, she assured herself, but simply to know that he was well.

  She broke the seal on the letter then hesitated. What harm could there be in reading his words? She opened the parchment and read: There were no roses blooming when we parted. If there had been, I would have given you a cream colored one with a blush of color on its tip, a promise of the love I hold for you.

  Ceallach loved her! Memories poured over her, one after another. Dunstruan. Safety. Friendship.

  “What does it say, my lady?”

  Mary’s query brought Orelia back to the present and the need for action. She would not send for Ceallach and endanger him, despite his declaration. But perhaps she could seek refuge in Scotland. Orelia reached up to touch the necklace around her neck, to seek reassurance with a quick prayer.

  “My necklace! Where is it?” Frantically she searched her clothing, then the room, trying to remember when she’d taken the necklace off. Mary joined the search but neither of them found the precious chain and cross.

  With tears in her eyes, Orelia said, “It must have fallen off and I didn’t notice. I thought I’d put it on the clothing chest last night before going to bed.”

  Orelia sat down hard on the bed, very nearly ready to halt their flight to safety until the necklace could be
found. That piece of jewelry had come to symbolize her life with John and all he had tried to teach her about God’s love. Now it was gone.

  “I’m sorry, my lady.” Mary laid a comforting hand on Orelia’s shoulder.

  Orelia blew out her breath. The loss of the necklace didn’t change her situation nor did it mean God loved her any less. But with its loss came the final separation from John and his home.

  Yet still she doubted. “Am I doing the right thing in leaving, Mary?”

  A simple life in the country is better than a quick death at “Radbourne.”

  Accepting that the piece of jewelry was lost forever she said, “Let’s go, then.”

  Just before dusk, Orelia, Mary, and Iain sneaked down the tower stairs. They went into the kitchen, thankfully deserted this late in the day, and took some bread and fruit and water. Then they raced to the sheep pens in the bailey, from where they could see the gate. The gate was closed!

  Orelia stifled a moan. How would they get the gate opened without being detected? Every minute in the bailey was another minute closer to discovery.

  “Don’t fret, my lady,” Mary said. “Someone will be along and they’ll be opening the gate for them, you’ll see. They’re always slow about closing it up again. We’ll move then.”

  They waited for nearly an hour for an opportunity to open the gate and leave unobserved. All through those hours of waiting, Orelia repeatedly reached for the cross that should be hanging around her neck. And each time it wasn’t to be found she grieved the loss. Until it dawned on her that maybe this was God’s way of showing her that her future no longer lay here at Radbourne. The cross—John’s cross—was part of her past; now it was time for her to look elsewhere for her future.

  Well after dark, the gate was opened and left open. Orelia heard shouts and a cry of alarm, and feared they’d been discovered missing just as they were to make their escape. She touched the knife strapped to her leg, reassured by its presence. A group of horsemen entered the gate, and in the confusion, the three of them slipped out of Radbourne unnoticed.

  They ran for the cover of the woods, struggling through the thick forest that lay between them and the safety of Bolton Abbey. Orelia had decided to throw herself on the mercy of the abbot and take sanctuary there for the night. They would walk to her grandmother’s cottage tomorrow and there she would take the time to decide what to do next.

  Iain hung like a sack of wet clothing around her neck, and her arms ached. She and Mary took turns carrying him. We should have taken horses. But then they would have had to stay on the road and risk being seen. She and Mary didn’t talk, saving their breath to run and scramble across the rough terrain.

  How much farther? God give me strength. The uphill climb eased and soon they crested the hill. Exhausted, she gratefully sat on an outcropping of rock that overlooked Radbourne Hall to catch her breath. Mary sat beside her.

  Far below them and about a mile away, were the flickering torches from the gate and walls of the castle.

  A noise in the brush sounded behind them.

  Iain whimpered and she covered his mouth. “Shh,” she whispered. He quieted, and Orelia gave a prayer of thanksgiving. An animal scurrying for food, nothing more.

  She stood, her arms protesting as they accepted the child’s weight again. Nodding to Mary, she turned for a final look at Radbourne Hall. She struggled to make sense of what she saw in the moonlight.

  Smoke poured from the tower room.

  WISHING HE COULD LIGHT one of the candles that lay within his reach, Ceallach cautiously approached the bed and laid his hand on the man’s chest. There was no rise and fall of breath. This chamber obviously belonged to the master of the castle; the dead man must be Orelia’s brother-in-law, the Earl of Radbourne.

  Still a young man in his prime—what could have killed him? Ceallach saw no sign of a violent death. Had he been poisoned as the serving wench had said? And if so, by whom?

  Or had the earl died of contagion? For a moment Ceallach panicked at the thought that he and his companions might be exposed to some deadly pestilence. And Orelia as well. Where was she? Had she fallen to this illness, too?

  Anxious to see her again, Ceallach turned and ran back to the main hall. He smelled smoke and wondered that the fireplace drew so poorly in such an otherwise well-kept castle.

  Fergus and Morrigan had rounded up some of the castle’s inhabitants. Ceallach hastily scanned the crowd but Orelia wasn’t among them. Disappointed and anxious to find her, he approached a young knight. Thinking the man to be one of the castle’s men-at-arms he asked, “Is this everyone?”

  The man stared at Ceallach. “You!” He backed away.

  Ceallach brought his sword up. “Do I know you?”

  “I am Sir George of Wellsey.”

  “Never heard of you. How do you know me?” Ceallach asked as he menaced the man’s throat with the tip of his sword.

  “I was squire to Lord John Radbourne at Bannockburn. You were there. I saw you when your mask slipped.”

  Ah, Ceallach remembered. This must be the young man Ceallach had not killed when the hood fell off his face. Aye, the man had lived to earn his knight’s spurs. And lived to be able to identify Ceallach— turn him in for Edward’s bounty.

  Let him. All that mattered was finding Orelia. Ceallach would worry about his own safety later. “If I was at Bannockburn it makes no difference tonight.” He looked at the knight. “Is everyone here?”

  The man didn’t answer and Ceallach brought the sword back up. “I am short of patience tonight,Wellsey. Answer me.”

  “Everyone is here except the countess and her sister-in-law.” He paused, as if judging Ceallach’s threat. “What do you want? If you mean to rob us, be done with it.”

  Intent on his need to find Orelia, Ceallach asked, “Where are the women you mentioned?”

  Hurried footsteps and shouting sounded in the entryway. Ceallach turned to look as a servant raced into the hall. “Fire! Fire in the tower! Come quickly!”

  Fire!

  Wellsey stood rooted to the spot. “Lady Orelia. God help us. Orelia is in the tower!”

  “Orelia.” Ceallach didn’t even pretend not to know who she was. It no longer mattered if George or anyone knew Ceallach’s true purpose for being at Radbourne. “Lead on, man!”

  As Ceallach and Fergus raced after George, Ceallach asked his friend, “Did you search the tower?”

  “No, I didn’t see the steps.”

  “This way,” George shouted. “I should have made her leave—she was supposed to leave in the morning!”

  They rounded a corner and through a door to the gathering dark. Tucked onto the outside of the original castle wall was a door that led to a covered staircase. George opened the door and smoke poured out of it.

  Ceallach stepped onto the first step.

  Fergus pulled him back. “Ye can’t go up there!”

  Ceallach turned to George. “You’re sure she’s there?”

  “She was an hour ago.”

  Ceallach shoved Fergus’s restraining hand aside and ran up the steps, staying as low as he could. There were windows in the stairwell, open to the outside with no glass or other covering. Moonlight and fresh air streamed through them at intervals, lighting the darkness and thinning the smoke. Please God, let me get to her in time. Not unto us, O Lord. Not for my glory, but for yours. Give me your strength that I may glorify your name.

  Ceallach ran up the narrow staircase and reached the first landing, stumbling over something in the gloom. He jerked to a stop, heart pounding, with Fergus right behind him.

  A body lay at Ceallach’s feet. He peered closer. Light colored hair spread in disarray around the woman’s head. She lay face down, her neck at an awkward angle, and Ceallach could not force himself to turn her over. “Orelia,” he whispered.

  George of Wellsey came up behind them in the narrow stairway. “What is it?” He shoved past Fergus. “Alice!” he cried. He pushed Ceallach out of the way and k
nelt beside the woman, righting her body and then lifting her head onto his thigh.

  A smoldering torch fell from her hand and George pushed it away from her clothing. “She must have tripped coming down the stairs.” George brushed the reddish blond hair off her face.

  Not Orelia. Ceallach’s relief was closely followed by terror— Orelia was still upstairs! Ceallach started past George and the woman when he noticed something familiar dangling from her hand. Ceallach reached down to make sure his eyes hadn’t been affected by the smoke.

  John of Radbourne’s necklace.

  Ceallach took it from the woman’s lifeless fingers and placed it around his neck. Then he started up the stairs with Fergus close behind. The smoke lessened as they neared the top, and when they reached the final landing, Ceallach knew why.

  The ashes of rushes gave evidence that the fire had started on the landing in front of the door. Having burned the fuel on the landing, the fire had crept under the door, igniting it. The thick oak door smoldered but had not yet burst into flames. Ceallach could hear the fire on the other side.

  He tried to lift the latch. Locked! Then he saw the key dangling from the latch. Someone had locked Orelia inside and set the place on fire! Dreading what he must face, he knew that unless he opened the door and went to her, Orelia would surely die.

  Stealing himself, he turned the key, lifted the latch, and opened the door to a hellish sight. The fire had spread rapidly through the floor covering to the window curtains and the bed hangings. Flames shot from the bed’s canopy to the beams holding the slate roof above it.

  Dry from years of protection from water, the beams snapped and popped as the fire fed on them, weakening them. Smoke swirled near the ceiling and one of the great beams made an ominous cracking sound. Burning ash and cinders rained down on the room, igniting clothing and furniture.

  “Orelia!” Ceallach shouted above the fire’s roar. “Orelia! Where are you?” He turned to Fergus. “We must search quickly before—”