The Mark of Salvation (7 page)

“Who better than a former monk to guard a female prisoner? I trust that the lady will be completely safe in your care. You will accompany her to Dunstruan, a small holding less than a day from here.”

Searching for a way to dissuade Bruce, he said, “Why don't you keep her here at Stirling?”

“Stirling will suffer the same fate as other fortresses that have been held against me. With its command of the land, I cannot afford to take a chance on Edward regaining control of Stirling. It will be destroyed.”

“I see. A wise course of action, my laird. Much wiser than putting me in charge of this prisoner.” Ceallach glanced over at the woman. “If you insist on this, sire, I will obey. But you need to find a woman to accompany Lady Radbourne. She needs . . . she is grieving her loss, Robert. She needs a woman to talk to.”

“All right.” Bruce thought for a moment. “Dunstruan is less than an hour's ride from Innishewan. Morrigan and her family can live with you until her estate is livable. That should solve several problems at once.”

Relieved that he would have help dealing with Lady Radbourne, and more importantly that she would have some sort of female companionship, Ceallach said, “Thank you.”

“You will leave as soon as we've dealt with those supply wagons and you've been paid your wages.” Bruce paused. “Dunstruan's laird died about six months ago, Ceallach. Dunstruan is to be yours.”

“Mine?” Ceallach had spent his adult life not owning so much as the clothes on his back. Responsible for a castle and its lands? For the people there?

“You are a natural leader, Ceallach, and the people of Dunstruan are in need of someone to care for and protect them. That I know you can do.”

Ceallach fought back panic. Robert didn't know, couldn't know, what had happened to the one person Ceallach had wanted to save. . . . Even his success at driving Edward of England from the field of battle couldn't erase the horror. His hands shook, and he pressed them against his thighs to hide the tremors. “You are too generous, brother. I cannot accept such a gift.”

“Of course you can. You have served me well, especially in the battle yesterday. Take your reward and find some peace from whatever demons followed you to Scotland.”

Demons. Ghosts. Memories.

If he refused this gift, Robert would insist on knowing why, and Ceallach could not talk about his past, about Peter. For now he would do Robert's bidding. When the time was right, he would return the holding to the king. “Thank you, Robert. I don't mean to seem ungrateful for your gift. It's just that I . . . am humbled by your faith in me.”

Robert observed him closely. “One day I want to hear it all, Ceallach. I want to know what happened in France.”

“I was arrested with the others. We were tortured. I escaped. There's nothing else to tell.”

Robert shook his head, his expression one of disbelief. “One day,” he repeated.

THE DAYS IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE VICTORY at Bannockburn were some of the most joyous and peaceful Robert and his people had known in years. Robert anticipated the return of his wife and daughter from their English prison. Other families also awaited a reunion with their loved ones as soon as arrangements could be made.

Bruce celebrated by dispensing the immense bounty that had been found in the carts the English left behind. A huge sum of currency, gold and silver, and household items of every description made it clear that the English had expected to occupy Scottish castles after their victory. There were money chests for payment of the troops, siege weapons, all sorts of personal weapons and armor, silk tapestries, tents, linen and silk apparel, wine, corn, hay, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, swine, and war-horses and their saddlery. Surely every family in Scotland would benefit from the distribution of these goods.

Robert himself spent many hours giving out gifts to his army that first week after their victory. Bryan stayed close to the king, assuring himself of his father's safety before he agreed to leave for Moy with Adam and Kathryn.

Late afternoon sun reflected off an empty golden chalice Bruce had pushed into Bryan's hands. They walked to the king's tent. “Come inside for a moment, Bryan,” Bruce said.

Grateful for the promise of something cool to drink, Bryan followed the king into the shelter. They sat down and a page brought refreshments. Relaxed and at ease with his father, Bryan said, “Scotland is yours now, sire.”

“Aye, it is. But if she is to prosper, we'll need peace. And if we are to have the dignity of being a sovereign people, Edward of England must recognize me as the rightful king of Scotland.”

As long as Edward refused recognition, other monarchs might well follow his lead and Scotland would not be able to deal with other countries as an equal. This would directly impact Scotland's ability to conduct trade and so better the lives of her people.

Bruce sipped his drink before he went on. “Obviously our victory will not sit well with Edward of England.”

“No, I'm sure it won't. But that is not your only worry, is it? So long as the pope refuses to allow you back into the Church, you cannot be Scotland's spiritual leader.”

“Aye, for myself I would not care. My relationship with my Lord is between him and me. But for a people to be ruled by a man the Church has cast out, well, it will cause no end of problems.”

Bryan pondered this for a few moments. “Perhaps in time the pope will rescind his edict against you. I shall pray for that to happen.”

“Thank you, Bryan. Your prayers are welcome. And while you are on your knees, ask that Edward might come to his senses as well.”

Bryan smiled. “I will. But if Edward doesn't respond, will you continue to wage war until he is forced to come to terms?”

Bruce stood and paced the small enclosure. “I would prefer reconciliation with the English as well as with the Scottish nobles who fought against us.”

“You will accept them back into your good graces?”

The king stopped in front of him. “Aye, so long as they swear homage to me and me alone. I'll not abide this loyalty to two kings any longer. People must choose.”

Bryan nodded, thinking back to his own wife's divided loyalties. “Aye, that would solve many of our problems.”

Robert sat down and picked up his chalice, swirling the liquid as he said, “I have decided to return the Great Seal and the Royal Shield to England. Perhaps such a goodwill gesture will bring Edward around.”

“Perhaps, if he is not too humiliated by his defeat.”

“Aye, I've had to flee plenty of battles with my tail between my legs. 'Tis not a good feeling, and I doubt Edward liked it much.”

“When will you send an envoy with terms for peace?”

Bruce gestured with his cup. “As soon as I can. I am anxious to rid myself of the English prisoners and release my women from captivity.”

“I understand, my laird. I would like to go to London with the envoy.”

Bruce set the chalice down hard on the table. “Absolutely not. I will not put another loved one at Edward's disposal. You will remain in Scotland. In fact, deep in the highlands at Moy sounds like an excellent idea. Stay there as long as you like.”

Three of Bruce's younger brothers had lost their lives at Edward of England's hands. The queen and Bruce's daughter by his first wife as well as his two sisters remained in England, awaiting release. Bryan nodded. “I have no desire to add to your burden. I will do as you wish. But if Edward refuses your offer of peace?”

Wearily Bruce said, “Then we shall continue to fight.” He paused. “I once told you it might be awhile before you could retire to Homelea in peace.”

“Aye, but unless we convince Edward to stay south of our border with his army, my wife and family won't be safe.”

Bruce smiled. “Then fight we shall, sir knight.”

“The very words you used at my own knighting ceremony.”

“We have endured much since then.”

“Let us hope that the queen is soon restored to you and that peace comes to Scotland with her.”

“Aye, let us hope.” Bruce stood. “Now, get yourself and your wife to Moy. And don't hurry back.”

FOUR

Meals will be eaten in silence.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

O
f all the many rules that governed my life as a Templar, this
simple rule of silence at mealtime was the hardest for me. Perhaps
because we had so little time or opportunity to share our thoughts
with our fellows. And maybe that was the very reason for the
rule—to keep us from forming attachments. If such was the
purpose, this rule had no effect on my friendship with Peter
the Weaver. I have mentioned that I was apprenticed to him. We
shared a common outlook on life and a similar devotion to God.
Of course, the same could have been said about many of our
brothers. But Peter and I bonded as mentor and student, and we
fought together in Spain. The quiet years in France strengthened
our friendship. I felt the same kinship for him as I had—as I still
do—for Robert the Bruce. But when Peter needed me most, I
failed him.

That is all I can write just now. Those last days before my
escape are too painful to relate. Perhaps another time.

THE TIME HAD COME to take the Englishwoman to Dunstruan. Fergus and Morrigan Macnab left the day before on the two-day ride to Inverlochy to retrieve her family. They would meet up with Ceallach at Dunstruan. Until then, Ceallach would have to deal with Lady Radbourne on his own somehow.

Ceallach stared at the woman walking toward him. Complete responsibility for her sent pure terror racing through him. Abruptly he turned back in the direction he'd come from and walked straight into the king.

“Whoa, friend,” Bruce said. He laid his hands on Ceallach's shoulders and steadied him. Steadied his body, but nothing could calm the turmoil of his thoughts. “Where are you going?” Bruce asked.

“To see to the horses.”

Bruce looked at him carefully. “The horses are fine, last I saw of them.”

“The wagon, then.” He made as if to walk on, but Bruce stopped him with his hand.

Quietly Bruce ordered, “You will come with me and prepare to take Lady Radbourne to Dunstruan.”

In frustration, Ceallach snapped, “You ask too much of me, Robert.”

“I expect too much? I don't see why one woman should be such a bother to you.”

Any man who'd led a normal life would know . . . whatever it was he should know. But Ceallach's life had not been normal and he didn't know how to talk to her, how to deal with her obvious sadness. “I know nothing of her needs.”

“Food, shelter, safety. That is all you need provide, Ceallach. And she can be given work to do—staying busy will help keep her mind off her difficulties.”

Ceallach took a deep breath and let it out. “Fine.” He turned back toward the woman and strode up to her. “Come with me.”

He glanced back at his brother, furious, for reasons he didn't understand. Bruce shook his head and walked away, leaving Ceallach to deal with her on his own.

Ceallach turned to his charge. Lady Radbourne looked tired and despondent. Ceallach felt a wave of sympathy for her. “The wagons are ready to leave as soon as you secure your belongings.” He pointed to her two baskets. “May I carry those for you?”

“No, I can manage,” she said.

Ceallach didn't like the idea of her fearing him. If only she knew how afraid he was of her, she would laugh despite her grief. More likely she hated him and what he stood for. He liked that thought even less.

When they drew up before the wagon Lady Radbourne said, “This will not do.”

Ceallach just looked at her and she repeated, “This wagon will not do, sir.”

“Why not?”

“It lacks shelter from the elements.”

“It's less than a day to Dunstruan.”

Lady Radbourne became so pale Ceallach stepped forward to catch her—surely she was about to faint.

“Did you say Dunstruan? We are going to Dunstruan?” she whispered.

“Aye.” He moved to steady her but she shoved his hand away.

“I'm fine,” she said. She drew a steadying breath. “As you can see, sir, the heat will not be good for me. And what if the weather should change? No, this will not do at all.”

“Did you think we'd cart you up there on a divan?”

Now her face turned dark. “I thought I'd be accorded the amenities of civilization, but I see that was asking too much.”

“Shelter from the elements,” he muttered.

ORELIA STARED AT THE HUGE, DARK-HAIRED WARRIOR. He was taking her to Dunstruan, to the place she and John had expected to occupy. How fitting. How perfectly wretched. God certainly had a strange sense of justice. As strange as this man, Ceallach. A man of few words, and even those were terse and decidedly unfriendly. Which was fine—Orelia didn't need a friend. She needed her husband.

She compared her memory of John's physique with the Scot's. Even John, who'd been a fine man, did not approach the perfection of the warrior standing before her. She willed her gaze to remain on his face, but his face was even more riveting than his body.

Not a young face. No, this was a man of some years. A man in his prime, one who obviously trained rigorously for fighting. Deep creases on his forehead spoke to worries and cares and perhaps a burden not shared. Lines around his eyes told her that he'd spent a good deal of time out of doors in a sunnier climate than Scotland's.

That's when she noticed the reddened skin on the side of his neck—a scar unlike anything she'd ever seen. It came up out of his shirt just above the right shoulder and swirled forward into his beard. What would cause such a mark?

She averted her head, not wanting to be caught staring, willing her mind to think of something else. She should fear him, but something in his manner—his lack of ease around her—allayed her fright, and she felt no need to escape from him. But she wished she was going anywhere than Dunstruan, a place whose very name conjured the dreams and hopes she and John had shared. She fingered his cross, which hung from its chain around her neck.
Don't lose faith,
Orelia. No matter what happens, you will not be alone.