The Mark of Salvation (2 page)
A clanswoman of his enemy, John of Lorne.
Bruce placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and Bryan raised his.
Her men stepped forward but she waved them off, holding her hands outstretched, palms up in front of her. “We mean you no harm, King Robert. In fact, we offer our swords to your cause, if you'll have us.”
“The Macnabs are for England.” Bryan said, his sword still at the ready.
“Aye, my Uncle Angus serves John of Lorne and the king of England. But we do not.”
Robert studied the girl. Her men stood around her, protective, yet Bruce sensed she could well defend herself. “I would like to hear your reasons,” Bruce said.
“And so you shall.” She motioned toward the warm fire and pan of something cooking. “You look tired and hungry, my king. Come, eat and rest and I'll tell you my story.”
Bruce looked to Bryan and the boy lowered his sword, although he did not sheath it. The smell of the food and the invitation to rest both appealed greatly. “I am grateful for your hospitality, Morrigan Macnab.”
As Robert and Bryan ate roasted hen and oatcakes, Morrigan spoke without hesitation. “My father and I fought against you at Methven, my laird. We were with Prince Edward's troops.”
Bruce eyed her warily, unsure even now if they'd been lulled into sharing food with one who meant them harm. Robert exchanged glances with his son but neither made a move for their weapons. “Go on, lass.”
“The Earl of Pembroke's treachery was the least of it that day. The prince and his knights rode through the countryside, killing indiscriminately. Women and children were cut down in their villages for no reason other than that they were Scots.”
“You participated in such evil?” Bryan asked, barely holding his temper in check.
Bruce felt his own anger rise, but he and Bryan were outnumbered. Though they'd fared well earlier today against overwhelming odds, Bruce didn't care to test fate, or God, again so soon. He would hear this woman out. There was something in her deep blue eyes that made him want to trust her.
“We did not take part in the massacre of innocents. The prince's behavior sickened me, and I aided the people the best I could after Edward and the others left.”
Bruce nodded. “Aye, he so dishonored the vows of chivalry that even his father, the Hammer of the Scots, chastised him.”
Morrigan stared into the fire, and Bruce saw her shudder. The sight of people slaughtered in battle could unnerve the most seasoned of warriors, had unnerved him at times. Obviously young Morrigan still suffered the effects of her experience.
“I will never fight for the English again,” she said. “Nor will those here with me.”
“It matters not which side of the battle you're on, war is terrible,” he said gently.
“Aye, it is. But I must ask you directlyâwould you slaughter women and children?”
“I would never sink so low, not even if their men were my enemies.”
With a determined nod of her head she said, “Then my offer to join you stands.”
Morrigan was but four or five years older than Bruce's own daughter. Robert would spare them both the horrors of war if he could. “Your men are few in number, and you are . . . female.”
Bryan stifled a laugh and she gave him a withering look. “Come the morrow, I will show you what a mere female can do.”
Early the next morning, Bruce's men had not yet arrived. Their routes would undoubtedly take longer than the one he and Bryan had stumbled upon. Rested and well fed, Bruce and Bryan joined Morrigan and her men on the hillside above the cottage.
Morrigan pointed. “Do you see those crows perched in yonder tree?”
“Aye.” Bruce smiled at her bravado. “But that is nearly beyond the range of my most skilled archers.”
“Remember you said that. You'll be dining on those birds.” There was no boasting in her voice, only confidence. And just a touch of irritation at his disbelief.
Morrigan placed an arrow on her bow, notched it, and slowly pulled back on the string. Taking careful aim, she released the arrow and Bruce watched in awe as it pierced two birds at once.
Suitably impressed, Bruce said, “Well done! Tell me, are your men as skilled as you?”
One of the men stepped forward. “Morrigan is by far the best archer among us, but we are all veteran fighters, Your Majesty.”
Bruce stroked his beard as he considered how he might make the best use of this offer of help. Morrigan and her men drew close to him, standing in a half-circle before him. To a man, they looked eager to join his fight. “I have no doubt you would be useful to me in battle. My army is pitifully small. But I also have need of people who can move about the countryside and listen for rumors and watch for troop movements. Perhaps even spread false information for me.”
They didn't hesitate. The one who had spoken earlier nodded and Morrigan answered, “That we can gladly do.”
“Good. I'll send messengers from time to time. Come to me if you learn anything I should know.”
BRUCE AND HIS WARRIORS headed south the next day, to be nearer the plentiful game in Galloway. They set up camp in the high, rocky valley of Glen Trool. The way into the little valley was so strewn with boulders it was inaccessible by horseback, thus preventing a frontal attack by a mounted enemy. His army would be relatively safe here. Once the tents were in place, Bruce sent many of his menâwho still barely numbered three hundredâout to hunt for venison. Aye, this was a good camp, a safe haven. Here his men could stay for a while, recuperating, tending to wounds, preparing for the battle that lay ahead.
These past months had been difficult for them all, but Robert felt the burden deeper than any. Three of his five brothers had been killed fighting against the English. His effort to safeguard his wife, daughter, and other womenfolk by sending them north had failed. All had been captured and taken to England as prisoners. If only that cursed Edward would acquiesce and give him what was rightfully his!
The hunters rode out again and he and Bryan stayed in camp, enjoying a chance to sit in the relative quiet. But a sentry's shout soon interrupted them. He and Bryan hurried toward the man, who was apparently wrestling with a newcomer. But Bruce smiled when he saw his sentry holding fast to a familiar young woman.
“Let her go,Will.”
“Her?”
Laughing at Will's confusion, Bryan said, “Hello, Morrigan. I see you are still wearing trews.”
She cast a scowl his way. “Well I can't very well run through the heather and brackenâmuch less ride a horseâin a skirt, now can I?”
Bruce nodded to Will and he released her. “Morrigan, it is good to see you,” the king said. “But you don't look pleased to see us.”
“My laird, 'tis always a pleasure to visit with you and your
charming
son. But I didn't come on a social call. Pembroke is headed this way, my laird, with fifteen hundred troops. They mean to catch you by surprise.”
Bruce walked over to look out over the valley and the others followed. “Where are they, Morrigan?”
She pointed to a forested hillside several miles away.
Robert thought for a few minutes then said, “We are greatly outnumbered but the terrain will be to our advantage. He can't make a frontal cavalry charge over these boulders, and the pass behind us is easily defended. Pembroke's men will have to come on foot, which might have worked if we weren't aware of the attack.”
He looked at Bryan and Morrigan and both nodded their agreement with his evaluation. “Then let him come. We'll be waiting, thanks to you. Well done, Morrigan.”
Quietly Bruce ordered his men to send a scout for the hunters to return to camp and arm themselves. The Scots would hold their high ground.
They barely had time to form up and take position when the English raced out of the woods and across the field of boulders. Morrigan let loose an arrow and caught the leader of the charge in the throat.
“Good shot!” Bruce exclaimed.
The English, alarmed to find the Scots armed and waiting for them instead of unaware, halted their charge. That hesitation proved fatal to their attack. Bruce cried, “Upon them now!” and the three hundred Scots rushed forward. The English fled back the way they had come.
Relieved at the quick victory, Bruce solemly laid his hand on Morrigan's arm. “One day I will repay you, Morrigan Macnab.”
“Unite our country, my laird, and oust the English. That will be reward enough.”
February 1308, The Hills of Carrick
CEALLACH KNELT BEFORE HIS FOSTER BROTHER, the king of Scotland, not on the marble floor of a stately palace, but on the dirt floor of a small stone cottage in the hills where they'd been children together. No trappings of office surrounded the royal personage, for Robert's clothing was nearly as threadbare as Ceallach's own.
The months of hard travel, of hiding and fear, of bone deep weariness, threatened to overcome Ceallach. He knew that Bruce had also known treachery, deceit, and physical deprivation this past year, and knowing that had given Ceallach hope of sanctuary. Raising his head, he prayed his eyes would not betray his desperation. Robert was his only chance for anything resembling a normal life.
Robert smiled. “Rise, Marcus ofâ”
“Nay, sire.” Glancing at the three men standing nearby, Ceallach pulled Bruce close to whisper, “Please, Your Majesty. I go by the name of Ceallach.”
Bruce studied him a moment before saying, “I understand. Rise then, Ceallach.”
Ceallach stood as the king waved away the others. They moved to the other end of the cottage, giving the king privacy.
Robert laid his hand on Ceallach's shoulder. “All right. How can I be of help?”
Ceallach managed not to flinch from the touch; he simply moved away so Robert had to remove his hand. His wounds were barely healed and even an innocent touch could cause the skin to break open and ooze. “I think we can help one another, my laird. I have need of sanctuary. You have need of weapons and money.”
Ceallach had nothing to lose. Either Robert accepted him and gave him refuge, or Ceallach's life would end here in the wilds of Carrick. No sense mincing words. “I have no home, Robert. I am not safe in any country in all of Europe, save possibly for Scotland. All I held dear was stripped from me, and I'm lucky I escaped with my life.”
Robert's expression turned bleak, and suddenly Ceallach feared Robert would banish him, since his very presence endangered anyone that harbored him. Hoping to forestall such a possibility, Ceallach confessed. “I would pledge myself to your cause, Robert.”
“You would fight for Scotland's freedom?”
“I am a warrior. 'Tis the only life I know.”
“This is no holy war, Ceallach, fought to uphold the Church.”
Ceallach laughed. “No war is holy, Robert. To think otherwise is a fool's game, and I'm done with being a fool.”
“But you would fight for freedom?”
“If that is your cause, then, yes. I would do so willingly, for I have no home, no country, not even a church to pray in.”
“Nowhere else to turn.” A gleam came into Robert's eye, and Ceallach relaxed. “Then join with me. We shall be free men once more.”
Ceallach the Warrior, weary, desperate, at his strength's end, wiped tears from his eyes and followed his king into the night.
When not engaged in military duties brothers shall lead the life of a monk.
âfrom the Rule of the Templar Knightss
I
woke from a nightmare again last night. As I'm sharing
Robert's tent, I awakened him with my shouts for the third
time this week.
This morning he offered me a bundle of precious parchment,
a quill, and some ink. “If you won't talk about it, then
you should write it down.”
“I'm not sure I can.” I don't want to revisit my pastâthe
dreams are bad enough.
“I think you must tell the story before your nightmares
consume you.”
Maybe he's right. It's been eight years and still I cannot
sleep without . . . no, I cannot begin with those visions, yet I
need to understand what happened. And why. Perhaps if I
start with the hopes and dreams of my youth I will eventually
be able to write down the events that have scarred me as an
adult.
As a child I listened with awe to my foster father's stories of
going on crusade to the Holy Land, especially his tales about
the Templar Knights. Their bravery in battle and devotion to
God stirred my imagination, and by the time I was but ten
years old, I felt called to become such a religious warrior.
At the age of sixteen I earned the golden spurs of knighthood
and took vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience as a
Templar Knight. At that age, a young man's blood runs hot,
but I learned to cool mine with prayer and fasting. I was
determined to honor Christ and myself by keeping my vows.
Ah, the idealism of youth.
Let it simply be said that all I've ever wanted is to serve
God and use my skills as a warrior to win souls for him. As a
man of the sword, Robert understands that desire better than
anyone. He, too, longs to go on Crusade and to devote his
warrior's skillsâgifts from Godâto the defense of the faith.
That is a laudable aspiration, but I applaud his decision to see
Scotland freed from tyranny before taking on such a quest.
Perhaps one day we will ride to the Holy Land together.
June 23, 1314, Bannockburn
THE NIGHTS WERE SHORT THIS FAR NORTH and dawn broke especially early this Midsummer's Day, or so it seemed to Countess Orelia Radbourne. Once again she had accompanied her husband, the Earl of Radbourne, to the site of a battle. She studied their tent's walls, glowing with the early light of a warm summer sun, something that usually pleased her. But this time, for reasons she could not explain, she desperately wished they were back home and safe at Radbourne Hall.
