The Mark of Salvation (8 page)

She must not dwell on what might have been.
Focus on what you
can change, Orelia.
This cart would be bad enough to ride in without the added misery of the elements beating down on her. But the forbidding look on the warrior's face did not bode well. She stiffened her back. She had faced worse opposition than him in her time!

“I will wait in the shade of that tree, sir, until you've made the necessary repairs.” She didn't wait for him to respond and walked away. The man would never have thought of her comfort—she would have to speak up if her needs were to be met.

Why was he chosen to be her jailer? His insistence on such crude accommodations only added to her misery. There had been little privacy to mourn her dead husband. This wagon was the final insult, and she just couldn't take any more.

Given a choice, she would sit right here in the dust and die. Then she would be reunited with John. Without him there was nothing to live for. She'd been assured that she would be returned to England when Bruce's wife was freed. But she had no idea how long that would be. In the meantime, she had no say over her life, her accommodations, or anything else. The riches she was to have enjoyed with John had no doubt been given to the victorious Scots. She would return home to England a widow, a childless widow despite her pleas with God to give them a babe.

Her brother-in-law would feign grief over John's death and then would most likely put her on some remote holding to molder away until she died, alone and bereft.

Yes, better to simply lie down and die right here.

Instead she would have to climb into the wagon and ride to the estate that was to have been given to John.

HE HATED TO ADMIT IT but the woman's demand for shelter was not all that unreasonable and would be easy enough to accommodate. But what would Ceallach do if she came up with another request that he didn't know how to respond to?

He found a piece of oilskin and took it back to the wagon. With broken pieces of pikes he managed to create a makeshift cover.

Then he and the men who accompanied him placed provisions in a second wagon that carried additional supplies as well as the household goods Robert had sent along for the castle and its new owner.

As the oxen moved off and started up the trail to Dunstruan, Ceallach pondered the fact that his knowledge of women would be greatly expanded before this responsibility was over.

The trip to Dunstruan should have taken less than a day but by late afternoon they were still an hour away. The track they followed was barely accessible by cart, and the beasts labored to pull the carts, especially the horses. Horses were Ceallach's first love, but unlike the team of oxen, they struggled with the cart in their charge. He was glad to have a team of both—the oxen could be eaten if necessary.

He didn't want to ask Lady Radbourne to drive and, not wanting to add his weight to the wagon, Ceallach walked beside the lead oxen's head to guide them. Two other men dealt with the second wagon and its team of horses.

Silently, he worried about Lady Radbourne. She had eaten very little when they stopped at noon, and what she did eat hadn't stayed down long. The morning's sun had disappeared, and clouds covered the sky. Soon the threatened rain began—a light rain but one that gave no indication of quitting. Lady Radbourne scurried to sit farther under the oilcloth and out of the worst of the wetness. Ceallach pulled his plaid over his head.

But the rain made the cart track slippery where it was rocky and sticky where the dirt turned to mud. The beasts trudged forward, however, and finally, an hour after the rains had begun, the wagons turned onto the path that led to Dunstruan.

Ceallach glanced back to the wagon and the woman huddled there, feeling guilty over her discomfort. He hoped Bruce negotiated her release quickly.

THE OILCLOTH THAT COVERED THE WAGON leaked and Orelia was hard pressed to stay dry. She watched as the Scot pulled his plaid over his head to ward off the wetness. She had once questioned a merchant of such cloth as to its properties and uses and learned that the weave was so tight it was nearly waterproof.

She'd wanted to try to weave it herself—the challenge of counting out the threads to create the variegated checks of the Scots cloth appealed to her. But she hadn't been able to do so without risking John's wrath. Perhaps she'd get an opportunity during her captivity.

The wagon jolted over a rock and sent her scrambling for a hold to keep from tipping out. As the tension eased from her arms, she looked up again. The outline of a modest castle emerged from the wooded hillside.
How long will I be a prisoner in the home I should be
sharing with John?
But what awaited her when she returned to England? In which place would she suffer more?

In a few minutes, the cart drew up to the gate and Ceallach halted the beasts. He spoke to one of the guards before turning to her. “Wait here, my lady.”With no more explanation than that, he went into the bailey and left her sitting in the rain at the mercy of the elements.

Orelia didn't know how long she must remain in the man's company, but at some point, she would certainly have to take him to task for his lack of simple courtesy.

NO ONE HAD BEEN ON THE WALLS as a lookout and the gates were wide open. Ceallach had no idea if word had been sent ahead so that the people of Dunstruan were expecting him. Lacking that assurance, he'd chosen to leave the wagons outside the gates until he could be sure of his welcome.

A small group of common folk approached him as he walked toward the keep. No one was carrying pitchforks or weapons so he assumed he was safe for the moment.

One man, taller than the rest, emerged as the others hung back. He stopped and tugged his forelock in obeisance. “Sir Ceallach?”

Ceallach relaxed. “Aye.”

“Welcome to Dunstruan, sir. I am Devyn the Steward. We have been expecting you.”

“You received word?”

“Aye. A messenger from the king came two days ago.” He turned slightly to include the others. “We've made everything ready for you.”

Heads bobbed in the crowd, and smiles broke out as they realized who he was. A woman stepped forward, the castle keys hanging from the girdle at her waist. Devyn grasped her hand. “This is my wife, Suisan. She has been acting as chatelaine.” Suisan reached for the keys.

Ceallach held up his hand. “Keep them, madam.” He didn't want to explain that he wasn't planning to stay. “I will rely upon you to continue your duties, if that suits you?”

She smiled. “Aye, my laird. I should be very pleased to oversee your home.”

Your home.
Robert had been right—Dunstruan seemed to be in good hands. All that was needed was a laird to protect them. They looked at him with such hope and longing that he wanted to turn away and run. Who was he fooling, pretending to be a protector? But he sensed their innate goodness and he could not be impolite. He was here, and for the time being he would pretend that he could be their laird.

But the tightness in his chest told him he would pay a price for this farce.
If they knew me, they wouldn't trust their lives to me.
He shook off the thought and went to the gate to tell the men to bring the wagons in. The beasts, sensing the end of the journey, moved quickly into the bailey.

Ceallach told the guards to see to the animals. Devyn and Suisan and their folk began to unload the supplies. They were efficient and courteous, and he relaxed further. This might turn out to be a pleasant interlude after all. He turned to help Lady Radbourne from the cart.

“Welcome to your temporary home, my lady,” he said as he reached for her hand.

But the lady stared at Dunstruan, her expression so filled with pain Ceallach actually took a step backward.

“Lady Radbourne, are you all right?”

A tear trickled from her eye and she swiped it away. “I didn't think this would be so hard,” she whispered. “To be here of all places . . .”

FIVE

Brothers may not rise from the table unless they have a nosebleed.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

L
ady Orelia has the most incredibly delicate hands. They
seemed lost in mine as I helped her from the wagon, just as lost
as she seemed on arriving at Dunstruan.

She is a beautiful woman, despite her sorrow, and her presence
in my life is a constant reminder of my vows as a Templar,
as a warrior monk. For fifteen years I struggled, as would any
mortal man, to keep those vows. Poverty wasn't difficult—I am
a man of simple needs. Obedience was easy—a military man
learns discipline and the life and death reasons for it. But
chastity. Perhaps St. Paul was mistaken in his belief that man is
better off living chaste. Of course, he did also say better to marry
than to burn. But my vow was to live chaste, and I burned.

To ease myself, I often drank more than a prudent amount
of wine and ale. Big as I am, I can down more than most men
and still keep my wits about me. But on more than one occasion,
I'm ashamed to say, I drank enough to loosen my wits, my
tongue, and nearly my braes. And each time I drank I got closer
to breaking my vow. It was only a matter of time and wine
until I did so.

It pains me when I break my word, yet I don't understand
why. Why do I
cling to those promises, that sense of morality,
when God has deserted me? He does not deserve such homage.

ORELIA SAT IN THE BAILEY OF THE CASTLE that had been meant to be her home—hers and John's. Now it would be her prison instead. Her heart felt as numb as the leg that had fallen asleep beneath her. She stood and her numbed leg folded. The warrior stepped forward and grabbed her, steadied her, and helped her down. She leaned on his strength, not because she wanted to be anywhere near him, but to steady herself until feeling returned to her feet.

John. The grief stabbed again. She and her husband had journeyed north in trepidation and hope. Hope that when the Scots were finally defeated they could begin a life where John would not be called to serve in war again. But that hope had been smothered somewhere in the marshy bogs of Bannockburn.

Lady Heathrow had spoken of her anxious desire to return home to her children. Again grief stabbed Orelia. She didn't even have that solace to return to. No child with John's laughing blue eyes or untamable mane of dark brown hair.

Stop.
She must stop this at once or her grief would consume her here on the spot, right in front of these uncivilized Scots. She was Lady Radbourne, and she would not give them the satisfaction.

But she was no longer the countess of Radbourne. John's brother Richard would waste no time claiming the title for his own wife. New anxiety rocked Orelia. Would Richard provide for her? He and his pathetic wife would probably gloat. Orelia might be better off here than at home. There was little comfort in the thought.

The needles and pins gradually left her foot and though she still felt unsteady, she withdrew her hand from Ceallach's arm.

“Can you walk now?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” She would not thank him for his concern. She would not give any satisfaction to these people. He led her into the castle, and the interior, though clean, lacked the ornate furnishings of Radbourne Hall.

Orelia's leg gave way and she nearly tripped. Ceallach righted her, and she accepted his help mutely where once she'd have made light of her clumsiness. But her heart would never be light again. Feeling as lifeless as the wooden seat she was led to, she pulled her emotions close. She would not allow these heathens to see her pain.

They had killed John and they could rot.
God forgive me. Forgive
me for turning my pain into hatred. Help me forgive my enemies.

She shivered. How long would she have to stay in such unwelcome surroundings?

ALTHOUGH THE KEEP WAS CLEAN, the inhabitants seemed to thrive in pandemonium, nothing like the orderly life Ceallach had known for so many years in the monastery, and then in Bruce's army. Maybe it was just the constant hum of conversation that caught his attention. In Ceallach's experience, tasks were completed with little or no talking. Here, it seemed that every one was talking at once.

“Where did all these women come from? I only brought one with me and just look . . . just listen.”

Devyn the Steward laughed. “My wife has a fair number of female relatives who live and work here.”

Ceallach shook his head. “Are they always this noisy?”

“No. Sometimes it's worse.”

Ceallach held back a groan of dismay. How would he ever find peace and quiet amongst this cacophony of high-pitched voices? And Morrigan had yet to arrive with her mother and sister. That would mean three more women to listen to. He could only hope that Morrigan, a fellow warrior, would know when to be quiet.

Devyn, seemingly oblivious to the noise, said, “Your men may bed down in the stable. They will take their meals in the hall, of course. Our gates were open when you arrived because we are in need of a repair to the portcullis chain. Perhaps you would take a look at the chain and see if you can repair it somehow?”

“I can do that.”

“Good. Then with your permission, I will show you your quarters first.”

THE NEXT MORNING Devyn showed Ceallach the weaving hut. A giant loom, similar to the one Peter had loved to work on, stood at one end of the room. Smaller looms for making belts and shawls sat at the other.

“The loom needs repair,” Devyn apologized.

“I can fix it.” Ceallach said, lost in memories of days spent in just such a hut, working with his friend.
Peter, I failed you.
Ceallach pushed away the images and the emotions.

“My laird?”

Ceallach took a deep breath to clear his head and then walked closer to the loom. One of the side beams was split and would have to be replaced. “Who is your weaver?”