A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  But for all his intimidating size, Marcas had a gentle side. “He’s gone, lass,” he said, his gruff voice wavering slightly. “Come inside afore you catch a chill.”

  She found her voice, surprising herself, for she felt hollow inside. Void of any and all function. “I miss him already, Marcas. Heaven forbid he comes to harm.”

  Marcas grunted and scratched at his thick, black beard. “He’ll come to nae harm. I swear the man has his own Guardian Angel. He’ll be back in a year. I guarantee it.”

  Ailsa glanced once more at the closed gates. Marcas spoke as if a year was only a few moments in time. To Ailsa, it stretched out before her like a dozen lifetimes. “I pray that is so,” she whispered. “I pray that is so.”

  Chapter Six

  Firbiya, Palestine

  Monday, October 17th,

  Year of the Lord 1244

  The fabric of Calum’s tent rippled in the night breeze. Shadows, created by the flickering fires and torches of the Templar camp, flitted across the pale fabric. Calum lay on his pallet and watched them, reminded of childhood games played by candlelight. Games played with a wee lass, who had worshipped Calum with all the subtlety of an affectionate pup.

  She’d watched, entranced, as he’d shaped his hands to cast shadows of animals on the lime-washed walls. A bird in flight. The graceful head of a swan. Or Ailsa’s favorite—a rabbit, sitting up on its hind legs as if sniffing at a dandelion’s head. Calum recalled the look of delight on her face and her delighted squeals of laughter.

  It seemed so long ago.

  Until recently, he’d lamented their lack of children. Now, he wondered if it was, after all, a blessing. Should I die here, at least there is no child to suffer the loss of a father. He frowned. Then again, Ailsa will have naught to comfort her, either. I’m sorry, wee lass. Please forgive me.

  Weary of his tangled thoughts, he sat up and reached in his saddlebag for Ailsa’s token, the fabric wrapping now stained and grubby. As he had so many times before, he took out the withered sprig of heather and cradled it in his palm. The tiny bell-shaped flowers, brittle and discolored, nonetheless clung doggedly to the stalk. He’d discovered the smuggled package on his first night away as he was preparing for bed in a roadside inn. It had been a sweet surprise, one that had made him smile… and weep.

  Ailsa would want the sprig returned to her, he felt sure of it. He had to find a way to get it back to Scotland. It would be his way of telling her how much he loved her. But how?

  Calum heaved himself to his feet and stepped out into a desert night, where crickets chirped beneath endless, star-strewn skies. But it was also where the cries of the wounded and dying rang out across an unforgiving terrain, and the stench of death made the strongest stomach heave. A horde of eager vultures circled overhead, even in the dark.

  This was the Holy Land, where Heaven and Hell collided.

  Two months earlier, not long after Calum’s arrival in Acre, Jerusalem had fallen to the Khwarizian Tribes. The ferocious nomadic warriors, supported by the Ayyubid dynasty of Egypt, had spared no mercy, desecrating and destroying as they’d swept through the Kingdom.

  Faced with this tide of aggression, the Crusader knights had little choice but to join forces with their Syrian allies, and that day, two massive armies had clashed beneath a placid blue sky. The battle had raged from morn till night, the allied Christian and Muslim factions, including Calum, fighting tirelessly and bravely. But the Egyptian forces had endured, showing little sign of weakness.

  Soon, the sun would rise, and the havoc would begin again. There would be no retreat, either. A Templar knight did not retreat unless ordered to do so, and Calum knew that order would not come. They all knew it would not come. This would be a fight to victory… or death.

  Some of the injured had been placed in a cleared area at the center of the crusader camp. A low murmur of prayers and last rites hung in the air, uttered by those wounded or dying as well as the priests who attended them. Calum paused and squinted across the gruesome scene, seeking one priest in particular.

  He’d met Father Iain Bànach on the boat to Cyprus, and a firm friendship had been struck. The two men were of similar age, and Calum had been impressed by the young priest’s courage and piety. It also helped that the man was a Highlander.

  By the flickering light of the braziers, Calum spotted the priest crouched over the prone figure of a knight, and approached, halting a short distance away as the last rites were administered.

  Father Iain must have sensed a presence. He lifted his head. “Calum!” He crossed himself and struggled to his feet. He appeared exhausted; his face chafed by the sun, his tonsured head glistening with sweat. His slight build, Calum knew, belied his hidden strengths, both muscular and spiritual. “You are unscathed, thank Christ. I had wondered. And prayed.”

  “So far.” Calum glanced down at the prone knight. “But I would speak with you, Father. If you can spare the time.”

  “Of course.” Frowning, Iain followed Calum’s glance. “This man has made his peace with God. What do you need, my friend?”

  “A favor.” He handed Iain the wrapped sprig of heather, “In case I dinnae remain unscathed, I’d like you to take this back to Scotland for me and give it to my wife. Please. It would mean a lot to me.”

  Iain frowned as he took the small package. “What is it?”

  One might have expected such a question, yet it shook Calum’s composure. For how could he answer? In truth, it was naught but a sprig of dried heather, colorless and fragile. But it was also a priceless token of love from a wee lass who held his heart. It was a thing spoken about in legend, a supposed miracle brought about by a grieving wife’s tears, shed for her husband.

  A husband lost in battle.

  “’Tis a sprig of white heather,” Calum replied, tears burning his eyes. Christ, give me strength. “It… it holds great meaning for Ailsa.” And for me.

  Father Iain’s frown remained. “Then I am honored to be entrusted with such an undertaking.” He shook his head. “But I pray that I’ll no’ be required to complete it, and that you’ll return this wee treasure to Ailsa yourself.”

  Calum gazed out into the night, where distant campfires, burning in the Egyptian camp, punctuated the darkness. A chill brushed the back of his neck. “I pray so as well, Father.”

  The second day proved to be a more intense than the first. The chaos of battle surrounded Calum; a turbulent crush of horse cavalry and foot-soldiers, the clash of steel combined with shouts of glory and pain.

  Choking on dust, barely able to see through the slit in his helm, Calum pressed Melchior forward and continued the fight. Many times, he had felt a powerful surge of energy when training. But this… nay, he had never felt anything like this. Battle brought with it a fever, something that turned the blood in his veins to fire. An impetus that mocked his fatigue, for he had surely fought for hours already, but felt little effect. Perhaps it was something that dwelt in every man; an unseen force, waiting for the right moment to be summoned.

  No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than the world fell silent. All around him the battle continued as before, but he could hear nothing. Nothing at all.

  “What…?”

  He felt his voice as it brushed over the back of his throat, but still heard nothing. Something warm trickled down his spine, and a pain lanced through his head. He saw a flash of bright light and wondered why the ground was rising up to meet him.

  “You look very fine, Calum,” Ailsa said, gazing down at him. “I have missed you.”

  Calum smiled and reached for her. “I have missed you too, wee lass,” he whispered, and plunged into darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  Castle Cathan

  Thursday, December 15th,

  Year of the Lord 1244

  “You have a visitor, my lady.”

  Ailsa glanced over at Marcas, who stood in the doorway.

  “At this hour, Marcas?”

  “Aye. I’d no’
be letting him bother you, except…” He shifted on his feet. “’Tis a priest.”

  Ailsa frowned. “Is he looking for alms?”

  “I’m nae sure. He said he wishes to speak with you. Only you. Wouldnae say why. Shall I tell him to wait till the morn?”

  Still frowning, Ailsa pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Nay, Marcas. I’ll speak with him. I’m curious to see what he wants.”

  Marcas nodded and disappeared. Ailsa pressed a finger to her temple, trying to ease the mild throb that had persisted for the past few days. Merely fatigue, she surmised. It had been a hectic week, one of bitter-sweet celebration. It would have been perfect but for the fact that Calum wasn’t there.

  As she did every single hour of every single day, Ailsa wondered about her husband. She’d received no letters, nor had any news. But she appeased her worries with reasoning. A letter, after all, might take months to arrive. She’d also been counting down the months till his anticipated return.

  Four more. Maybe less. God, please. Let it be less.

  “Father Iain Bànach, my lady,” Marcas announced and stood back as a man appeared on the threshold. “I’ll be outside your door should you need me.”

  Ailsa smiled. Since Calum had left, Marcas had watched over her like a guard dog. “Thank you, Marcas. Please, Father Iain, come in.”

  Of slight build, the priest was younger than she’d envisioned, with a neatly clipped halo of dark hair and robes of green. It occurred to her, in a vague fashion, that she’d never seen priestly robes of that hue before.

  “Lady MacKellar, thank you for seeing me.” The priest took a step forward, his expression grave. “And please forgive the intrusion. I didnae realize you were abed. Are you ill?”

  Ailsa shook her head. “Nay, Father, I’m nae ill. Merely tired. I understand you wish to speak with me, and only me. What can I do for you?”

  “I didnae ken you had retired for the night. Perhaps this can wait till—” He gasped, eyes widening as his gaze moved to a crib at the side of the bed. “Is that… you have a child, my lady?”

  “Aye.” Ailsa’s throat tightened. “His name is Calum Ruaidri MacKellar and he is but three days old, which is why I’m abed at such an early hour. I’m still a wee bit weary from the birthing.”

  The priest lifted a shocked expression back to her. “A son?”

  “A braw wee lad, aye. Come and look him.” Ailsa blinked back tears as she peered into the crib. “He’s the bonniest wee thing. I only wish his father could be here to see him. He doesnae yet know, since he’s away in the Holy Land. But maybe you’ve been told that.”

  “Aye, I know the laird isnae here.” The priest crossed himself. “Your man-at-arms should have told me about the child. He should have said something.”

  “Why? It doesnae make any difference, does it? The wee lad willnae understand anything you say, if that is your worry. What brings you to Castle Cathan, Father? I confess I grow more curious by the moment.”

  “What brings me here can wait, my lady.” The man inclined his head. “Till you are better rested.”

  Something in the man’s voice made Ailsa’s nape prickle. “Nay, whatever you have to say can be said now, since I gather it to be of some importance. I fear I’ll no’ be able to rest till you speak of it.”

  “Then, allow me…” He glanced over his shoulder. “Please, allow me to fetch someone. Your man-at-arms. Or your maid.”

  “Why would you need to do that?” A disquieting suspicion arose in Ailsa’s mind as she appraised him further. “I confess I have never seen such robes before. What religious order do they represent?”

  “The Order of the Temple, my lady.” The man bobbed his head. “I am a Templar chaplain.”

  Ailsa’s hand flew to her throat. “God save us, do you bring news, then? Is that it? You have news of Calum? Has something happened to him?”

  “My lady, please dinnae upset—”

  “Just tell me why you’re here, please.” She clutched at the bedclothes. “Has something happened to Calum?”

  The priest glanced at the crib once more, a look of utter dismay on his face. “I didnae ken you had a child, lass.” He approached the bed, reached into a leather pouch at his waist, and pulled something from it. “Aye, I come with news of your husband. He gave me something and asked me to bring it to you. I swear, he spoke of you so often, I feel as though I know you.”

  With a trembling hand, Ailsa took the offering, her heart missing a beat as she recognized the familiar remnant of cloth, now discolored and stained. She unfolded it, gazed down at the withered sprig of heather, and felt a cold hand touch her soul.

  “Where is he?” she whispered, without lifting her head. “What has happened to him?”

  “There was a battle.” The priest sighed. “And Calum, he… you should know he fought bravely, lass.”

  Ailsa felt as though she stood on the edge of a precipice. “He died in battle?”

  The priest sighed. “Thousands died. ’Twas a hellish fight. The Templar losses were especially high. I spent a fortnight searching for Calum, but he wasnae in any of the allied hospitals. ’Tis said those wounded on the battlefield were either killed where they lay, or taken prisoner.”

  Ailsa’s head lifted as she grabbed onto a sliver of hope. “So, he might still be alive?”

  The priest grimaced. “Possibly, but in truth, I doubt it. I have never seen such carnage. Before he rode into battle, he entrusted me with that wee sprig of heather, and asked me to return it to you should… should anything happen to him. That is why I’m here. To return the token and to tell you that Calum loved you very much.”

  “Nay, Father Iain, you are mistaken.” Ailsa’s sight blurred behind a veil of tears. “Calum loves me very much. You willnae speak of him as if he’s dead, do you hear me? What you will do is pray for him.”

  “I have, lass. Every day.”

  “And you must continue to do so. But now you must ask God to send Calum back to me so that he might see his son.” Tears spilled as she looked down, once more, at the little sprig of heather. “Calum swore he would return, and so he shall. He has to see his son, Father.”

  “I will pray for it, of course.” Father Iain heaved a sigh and glanced at the crib. “But I fear we are asking for a miracle.”

  Ailsa released a soft cry. “You are looking at a miracle! We had lost all hope of ever having children, yet here is Calum’s child. Our child, given to us after four years of marriage. Our son is perhaps a sign, then, to never despair, but to always have faith.”

  The priest’s eyes softened. “You put me to shame, lass,” he said. “You remind me of what I already know—that I should never let doubt cloud my beliefs or weaken my faith. I assume the child has been baptized?”

  Ailsa nodded. “At birth, aye.”

  “May I give him an additional blessing?”

  “That would please me very much.” She folded the fabric over the sprig and set it on her bedside table. “And after we’ve prayed, perhaps you will sit with me a while and tell me about Calum.”

  A light shone in Ailsa’s eyes, making her flinch. The brilliance of it seeped through her closed lids and into her brain, stirring her from sleep. It lasted but a moment, disappearing as swiftly as if someone had snuffed out a candleflame.

  Ailsa opened her eyes and saw exactly that—a single candleflame that cast a feeble halo of light into the darkness. It served merely as a nightlight, and was nowhere near as bright as the one she’d imagined.

  For it had surely been a dream. It had set her heart beating, too. She could feel its frenzied rattle beneath her ribs. Had she cried out? She didn’t think so. Little Calum slept soundly, judging by the soft rhythm of his breaths. As did Broca, the child’s wet-nurse, who snored gently on her pallet at the foot of Ailsa’s bed.

  With consciousness came a flood of anguish as Ailsa remembered the events of the evening. She lifted a hand to her forehead, as if doing so might quell the sudden threat of tears. “Plea
se, God,” she whispered. “Please bring him home.”

  Earlier, Ailsa had spoken with Father Iain at some length. It had been both painful and uplifting to talk about Calum with someone who had been with him in the Holy Land. She refused to believe Calum had died, and continued to shove all whispers of doubt aside. But, as Father Iain gently pointed out, if not dead, then he must certainly have been either wounded or imprisoned. Possibly both.

  The tears burned, and Ailsa scrubbed them away.

  She sat up and reached for the sprig of heather, which still lay where she’d placed it atop her bedside table. Cradling it in her palm, she lifted back the folds of fabric to examine it once more. She blinked, and then her hand flew to her mouth, catching the cry that leapt from her throat. She must yet be dreaming. She had to be.

  “Is everything all right, my lady?”

  Hand still clamped over her mouth, Ailsa lifted her head and looked at Broca, who was peering over the foot of the bed.

  “My lady?” The nurse frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you unwell?”

  Dear God. Oh, dear God.

  Ailsa’s hand fell away. “Go downstairs, Broca,” she said, struggling to breathe, “and find the priest who was here earlier. Father Iain. He’s likely bedded down in the dining hall. Find him and send him to me.”

  The woman looked uncertain. “M-my lady?”

  “Now, Broca!” Ailsa snapped, through gritted teeth. “And hurry.”

  The woman stumbled to her feet and scooted away, no doubt thinking that Ailsa had lost her mind, as some women did after birthing a child. For a moment, Ailsa wondered if that might actually be so. Maybe she had lost her mind. After all, what other explanation could there be? She returned her gaze to the sprig of heather resting in her palm. The stalk looked the same; withered and dark. But each little bell was now perfectly formed. And as white and fresh as the snow that capped the mountains.