The Mark of Salvation (19 page)

Without stopping her work, Orelia calmly said, “Keifer, the door has a handle so it can be closed without such a bang.”

Keifer walked over to her side, a mischievous grin on his face. “Aye, my lady. I'll try to remember.”

She reached out and playfully slapped the boy's arm. “Ceallach and I need your help to make sure the warp threads are even.”

The three of them worked together—Ceallach turning the spindle while Orelia and Keifer untangled and stretched the threads. When all the warp was on the proper spindle, Orelia patiently showed Keifer how to tie the knots at the other end. Ceallach watched—his big hands made such small work difficult, and he enjoyed seeing Orelia and Keifer work together.

If a stranger happened upon them, they might think the three of them a family. Ceallach dismissed the fanciful thought.

As he tied the knots, Keifer asked, “What will the king do to Uncle Angus?”

Evidently the threat of his uncle bothered Keifer, and Ceallach wanted to put his mind at ease. “Angus will no doubt spend a long time in prison.”

“I'm going to train as a knight and fight with Robert the Bruce,” Keifer informed them.

“Aye, part of your training will be in warrior skills, Keifer. But you must also know how to lead your clan, which is what Adam Macintosh will teach you.”

Keifer made a face of displeasure. “Why can't I stay here and learn that?”

“I wish you could—I'll miss your door-opening method.”

Keifer grinned. “May I go now? James and I want to practice.”

Ceallach gave permission and Keifer didn't disappoint. He flashed them a grin as he deliberately closed the door the same as when he'd come in.

Ceallach set up the weft, aware of Orelia watching him. “I expect to hear from Robert any day about your return to England.”

She handed him the shuttle. “Oh. Well, that's good.”

Thinking to distract her, he asked the first thing that came to his head. “How did you meet your husband?”

He'd struck up the right conversation because she smiled. “My grandparents had a small cottage near Bolton Abbey, just a few miles north of Radbourne Hall. The waterfall and general wildness of the place reminded my grandmother of the Scottish highlands where she grew up.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your grandmother was Scottish?”

“Yes, from Lochaber.”

“Well, that explains it then.” He was smiling.

“Explains what?” she asked, following his lead.

“Your fondness for
brecan
cloth.”

She took the shuttle from him and took a turn at the weaving. In the glow of the fire and the ease of their hearts, neither one looked forward to her leaving.

ELEVEN

Brothers shall avoid rumor, envy, and slander.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

T
he days until Orelia must leave race by faster than a ship in
full sail. The date for the prisoner exchange has been set and
this time Robert will not allow anything to come between him
and the return of his wife. Robert and Elizabeth have spent
most of their marriage apart, and I do not envy them the difficulties
that may lie ahead as they rebuild their relationship.
My brother vacillates between joyful anticipation and fearful
apprehension, and we are all avoiding his temper as much as
possible.

As for me, my dread of Orelia's departure remains steadfast.
I could almost selfishly wish that she did not carry her
dead husband's child, or better yet, that there was no inheritance
for the child to claim. Then they could remain in
Scotland. With me.

MORRIGAN'S MEN delivered Angus to Dunfermline and returned with news. Bruce himself had led another raid into England. The raid made way for another round of negotiations, this time at Dumfries. Edward's emissary agreed to the prisoner exchange, but talks broke down when Robert insisted on being recognized as Scotland's king. Finally, they agreed that the prisoner exchange would take place the beginning of October, more than three months after the English defeat at Bannockburn.

With a heavy heart, Ceallach made preparations to take Orelia to Dunfermline.

The night before they would ride south to return Orelia to England, Ceallach thirsted for strong drink as he hadn't since coming to Dunstruan. But he would not give in. He would not. The strange part was that the demons weren't chasing him, at least not the demons of old. No, these were new ones, awakened with the touch of a woman's hand.

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.