The Mark of Salvation

by Carol Umberger

  He camped that night about six miles from his destination, and for the first time in years lit a fire to chase away the chill and the dark. He credited Orelia and her love for defeating this particular torment.

  He arrived at Bannockburn the next day at noon and immediately headed for the spot behind Gillies Hill where they’d buried his Templar surcoat. For a time he despaired of finding the right rock, but eventually he found the one he’d marked. Pushing it aside, he used a digging tool to unearth the chest.

  The material had begun to deteriorate in the dampness of the ground but the blood red cross remained in good shape. Ceallach gathered the cloth and took it to the top of Gillies Hill overlooking the battlefield. To the north lay the once great fortress of Stirling, reduced to rubble by Bruce’s order.

  To the east he could see the waters of the Firth of Forth whose flowing tide had decimated the English army. To the west and south the Torwood and its rocky outcrops sheltered deer and mountain lions.

  Ceallach set up camp beside a wall of stone. He laid the surcoat on a log and draped John of Radbourne’s cross upon the cloth. Ceallach meant to wrestle with God as Jacob had once. Maybe then God would bless him with a wife just as he’d blessed Jacob. Ceallach only hoped he wouldn’t have to wait seven years.

  He stayed there three days, fasting and praying and was sure of only two things when he left. He loved Orelia Radbourne with all his heart. And he knew that the cross that symbolized Christ’s greatest defeat also symbolized his greatest triumph.

  Orelia was right. A God who would die a miserable death on a cross was a God who loved unconditionally.

  Spiritual death, or a life of faith? Accept God’s love and the woman he’d given to Ceallach? Or reject them both? And what of his vows as a Templar? I believe; Lord, help my unbelief.

  WHEN CEALLACH RETURNED to Dunfermline, the tattered surcoat lay next to his skin, folded beneath his shirt and plaid. Ceallach felt ready for whatever answer God had for him. He sought out Bruce’s friend, Bishop Wishart, and they sat down together in the solar.

  “What can I do for you?” the bishop asked.

  Ceallach pulled the surcoat from under his shirt. The bishop’s eyes widened in recognition. Ceallach confessed it all then, leaving nothing out. Talking about Peter came easier now, and telling of his love for Orelia filled him with joy.

  Then came the crux of Ceallach’s worries. “I made my Templar vows before God. I cannot break them just because they are no longer convenient.”

  The bishop stroked his beard. “I see your dilemma. However, the life that went with the vows no longer exists.” The bishop pondered this for a long minute and Ceallach struggled not to fidget in his chair. “Tell me, Ceallach. In this new life God has given you, do you plan to lead a chaste life, one that is pure in conduct and intention?”

  “Aye.”

  “So, if you were to marry, you’d be faithful to your wife, abstaining from unlawful intimate relationships?”

  “Certainly.” The vow of chastity would not be a burden with Orelia as his wife.

  “And would you share your wealth with those less fortunate, using what blessings God may provide for the good of many?”

  Ceallach smiled, seeing where this was leading. “Aye. I would give to the less fortunate from whatever wealth the Lord may bless me with.”

  “And while you love Orelia, your love by no means diminishes your love or faithfulness to your Lord, first, correct?”

  “Nay.”

  “You would still die to defend him or his Word?”

  “I would.”

  “And finally, as you move on in life, will you be obedient to the Word of God?”

  “Aye, with God’s help.”

  “Then you will still be adhering to the vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience, won’t you?

  Hope soared, hope for a new life with Orelia and Iain. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  “Bring your lady back to Dunfermline, Ceallach. I would be glad to bless your union, and I’m sure God will too.”

  Six months later

  ON A BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY, Ceallach and Orelia stood in a graveyard behind what had once been the Templar stronghold outside of Paris. Posing as Peter’s kinsmen, they’d made discreet inquiries until at last they’d been directed to the man’s grave.

  Dogwood and daffodils bloomed in the peaceful silence. A Benedictine order had taken over the buildings that had once housed the Knights of the Temple of Solomon. Honorable men who had wanted only to serve their God with the gifts he’d given them— strength of arms and courage. It seemed the perfect setting to put Ceallach’s demons to rest.

  The sound of monks chanting nones drifted on the warmafternoon air as Ceallach stared at the stone inscribed with the name of Peter the Weaver. Orelia slid her hand into Ceallach’s and he squeezed, glad for her presence. She’d been the one who urged him to come back, and he’d known he must. Before they’d left Dunstruan, Orelia had taken her scissors and removed the red cross from Ceallach’s surcoat. Now it rested in his other hand, the final remnant of his past.

  “God give you peace, Peter,” he said as he laid the scrap of material on the headstone.

  As he gazed at Peter’s name and listened to the chanting of the monks, Ceallach said a silent prayer of thanks for the second chance God had given him.

  He raised his head, and his gaze came to rest on the gravestone next to Peter’s. Ceallach froze.

  Orelia tugged at his hand. “Ceallach, what it is?”

  He could only point.

  Orelia gasped.

  Next to Peter’s grave stood another simple stone, a stone that marked the memory of Marcus of Kintyre. Staring at the name his mother had given him, Ceallach swallowed hard. “What is the meaning of this?” he whispered.

  Orelia shook her head, apparently as confused as Ceallach.

  Ceallach closed his eyes, opened them, and looked again. The marker was still there. Where had it come from? Who had placed it there? Jean Paul? Seven men had escaped from this place. Hurriedly Ceallach searched among the stones to see if his guess was correct.

  “What are you looking for?” Orelia asked as she followed behind him.

  He walked among the stones, silently counting until he found the other six markers. “I don’t know how he managed it, but the man who helped us escape also made it appear as if we died here.”

  Together he and Orelia walked back to Peter’s grave. He shook his head and smiled, then laid his hand on the grave next to it.

  Orelia placed her hand over his. Beneath his fingers was cold stone. Atop them was the warm hand of his wife. “God grant you peace as well, Marcus of Kintyre,” she said, looking into his eyes.

  Ceallach smiled and took her hand and led her away then. As they walked toward the gate, Orelia asked, “What was the name of the man who did this?”

  “Jean Paul. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought perhaps we might name our son after him.”

  He stopped and turned to her. “We don’t have . . .” One look at Orelia’s grin told him all he needed to know. “God be praised!” He kissed her, his heart filled to bursting with joy. “When is the child due?”

  “The middle of October.”

  Ceallach’s journey had begun in the middle of an October night. But his long, dark walk was over—the Lord of light and life beckoned.

  Ceallach pulled his wife into his embrace. “Let’s go home.”