The Mark of Salvation (11 page)

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” she whispered, as if speaking aloud might make the sight disappear.

“Look there,” Ceallach said, pointing to the left shore. A flock of sheep moved out of the trees and onto the meadow. A faint trail, brown against the verdant green, wound its way to the water's edge and the sheep followed it, single file.

As the animals reached the water they spread out and drank, the lambs frolicking in the shallow wetness. How Orelia wished she had some parchment to sketch the wondrous view! She continued to stare, forgetting that they'd come out here to round up the sheep.

Ceallach said, “It's glorious, isn't it?”

His voice had lost its gruffness—he seemed as genuinely moved by the pastoral sight as was she. “Yes, that it is.” She looked at the blue water. “When I see such beauty I see God's hand at work and I want to capture it somehow, preserve it so I can see it anytime I wish.”

He paused and shifted. “Are you an artist, then?”

“I can sketch. But what I would truly love is to create a tapestry of it.”

“Then we'd best round up the sheep so you have yarn to do so.” Abruptly he turned and walked away. “Keifer! Come along!” he shouted.

Orelia hurried after him, wondering at his changeable moods. But she forgot the warrior and his moodiness when they came to a small hut. A man worked in a garden behind the round building. From the shade at the side of the hut a good-sized collie dog got to its feet and came over to greet Orelia.

The dog's tail wagged lazily and Orelia offered her hand to him. He sniffed and his tail wagged harder so Orelia scratched his head. When he sat down beside her she knew she'd made a friend.

Ceallach said, “You have a way with animals.”

“I was raised on a country estate as was my husband.” Indeed the collie reminded her of one of John's favorite dogs on their own estate and for a moment she fought the tears that came with the memory. But crying wouldn't change anything, and it certainly didn't make her feel better. The lovely view of the lake had soothed her heart and reminded her of John's assurance of God's presence. She drew comfort from the knowledge that she didn't have to face her problems alone. She would concentrate on that rather than her sorrow.

A short, dark-haired peasant came out of the hut and greeted them shyly.

“Lady Radbourne, this is Joseph. He and his dog are going to help us with the sheep.”

They walked back toward the overlook of the lake but now took a path that led to the lower land where they'd seen the flock. The collie stayed close at the peasant's heels, ears alert, nose testing the air. When they drew closer to the sheep the dog's agitation was palpable. Clearly he wanted to race ahead to join Keifer and get to work.

A word from his owner calmed the dog. They rounded a bend in the path and there were the sheep. They'd moved into the shade of the woods after getting their fill of water. Keifer stood on the edge of the lake, tossing pebbles into the water. “Keifer, come here,” Ceallach called.

Orelia quickly counted about seventy-five animals. She spotted the rams with their horns right away. The lambs were all several months old and in good health. They eyed the dog with suspicion, but when he sat on the edge of the herd and merely watched them they soon went back to their feeding.

Great clumps of wool hung from most of the sheep and clung to the branches of heather. “Why did no one shear the wool this spring?” she asked.

The peasant said, “A few of us took enough for our own needs, but didn't see the need to gather the rest.”

Ceallach nodded. “It's not too late to remedy the lack. We'll set some of the local children to work collecting it from the woods. We'll roo the rest of it once the sheep are penned.”

Using her shawl as a makeshift bag, Orelia gathered wool as they herded the sheep back toward the castle, wondering what it meant to roo a sheep. She would ask Ceallach when she had a chance. Tufts of wool hung from anything the animals rubbed against—trees, bushes, and even stones. The challenge lay in finding it when the darker brown and black fleece blended in with the surroundings. The white wool, though less common, was easier to find. It looked like balls of snow against the green of summer.

Perhaps she should resent being asked to work, but she just couldn't. The weather and exercise and healing touch of the sun had lifted some of the grief that had followed her here. And like kneading the bread, the task gave her time to think, to remember John and how she had loved him, how she had tried to be a good wife.

At moments like this, she even contemplated not returning to England. After all, that had been their plan, to stay here in Scotland at this very castle. What did she have to return to besides Alice's nastiness and Richard as earl? Yes, she had friends in England but no one who would really care whether or not she returned, if Orelia were honest with herself. And Radbourne Hall would be full of painful reminders of all she'd lost.

But she wasn't the lady of this estate, nor a welcome guest. She was a prisoner, soon to be sent away whether she wanted to be or not. Sent back to Radbourne Hall.

Bringing her thoughts back to the present she saw that they were very near to the castle. With the help of the well-trained dog, Ceallach and Keifer herded the sheep toward the pens awaiting them inside the bailey. Orelia removed the wool from her shawl and placed it in a basket before helping to move the animals into their temporary quarters.

THE ENGLISHWOMAN STOOD NEARBY and listened as Ceallach explained to Keifer what they were going to do. “Sheep are docile if not too bright. They are also stubborn,” Ceallach warned Keifer. “We are going to have to catch each of them so I can decide which to keep for slaughter. You may mark those with dye.” He handed the boy a bucket and a brush, wondering just how much of the paint would end up on Keifer.

Lady Radbourne said, “What shall I do to help?”

Ceallach had enjoyed showing her the lake—her reaction to the beauty of the place had drawn him to her even as he rejected her mention of God. He didn't understand her, and in his confusion he spoke with more than his usual gruffness. “You can
roo
the excess wool.”

She looked puzzled rather than put off. “Roo? Could you explain that, please?”

He scowled, though a part of him wanted to smile, wanted to ease her grief and see her enjoy herself. “I keep forgetting you're a proper Englishwoman. Pluck it off them, like this.” He seized a nearby sheep with one hand and laced the fingers of the other hand into the fleece. Gently tugging upward, he loosened a clump of wool. “With your small hands, you'd do better just to comb your fingers through before trying to pluck it free. Here, try it.”

She came close to the ewe, which having had quite enough already, began to buck and struggle. But he easily held it in place and Lady Radbourne plucked the wool just as he'd shown her. She placed the wool into the willow basket at her feet.

“These highland sheep molt every spring. Push the wool apart— there where you haven't pulled any away yet.” She did as he said and he continued. “See where the wool broke off about an inch from the body?”

“Yes. That's strange.”

“Well, it looks strange to you, aye. But 'tis the way of these sheep. The wool keeps growing and the break grows out with it.”

The woman said, “And the poor beasts rid themselves of the loose wool by rubbing it off. That's why there was so much of it hanging on the rocks and shrubs.”

“Aye, and now we are removing what remains and the sheep will no doubt be glad to be rid of it. Take as much as you can from the back and sides where the wool is in the best condition,” he said. “But leave a sufficient pelt to keep them warm this winter. Keifer, mark this one when the lady is done.”

“You sure know a lot about sheep,” the boy remarked with what sounded like respect.

“My . . . family raised them at one time.” Not quite the truth, but close. He and Peter had tended the monastery's flock, and Ceallach smiled, remembering for the first time in years a pleasant time with the older man as they prepared wool for weaving. Working with Keifer reminded him of the teacher-pupil relationship Ceallach and Peter had shared.

Lady Radbourne said to the boy, “We have sheep at Radbourne Hall but the men shear them. We've never
rooed
them.” She continued to pluck the wool. “I love the feel of the wool—the oil softens my hands. Is this one finished?”

“Aye, Lady Radbourne. You've done a fine job.”

“My given name is Orelia. If we're going to sweat over these sheep, I think it only right that we dispense with formality, Ceallach.”

“All right.”
Orelia.
A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. He held the animal while Keifer swiped a brush of red dye on its back and then he let the animal go. It raced back to its companions, bleating.

“Listen to him, warning his friends of the terrible fate they must face,” Orelia said.

Keifer's eyes grew wide. “They know what the dye means?”

Ceallach laughed and looked at Lady Radbourne. At Orelia. She laughed with them, and he hoped that perhaps her heart had lightened just a bit. As he turned toward the next sheep, he realized that his own heart had lightened for a moment as well.

SEVEN

Brothers must have permission to go out into the city or when on campaign, to leave camp.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

A
fter spending such a pleasant afternoon with Orelia and
Keifer, I find it difficult to write this evening. But I am more
and more convinced that something good may come from
telling my story, difficult as it may be to do so. I would like
to forget it all, but the nightmares won't let me.

On Friday, October 13, 1307, every Templar—15,000
knights, sergeants, chaplains, servants, and laborers throughout
the territories governed by Philip of France—were
rounded up in a single day. Only two dozen escaped arrest. We
were accused of heresy, of adhering to doctrine not accepted by
the church. They said we worshiped the devil. It wasn't true,
but that didn't matter.

How do you prove devil worship, especially when it isn't
true? Torture. Torture so severe that a man would confess to
anything his accusers suggested so long as the agony would end.
Methods favored by Philip's minions were the rack, which
stretched a man's limbs until the joints dislocated. Or rubbing
fat on the soles of the feet and holding a flame to them. Some
men were burned so badly that the bones fell out of their feet.

Aye, Philip and his inquisitors said we worshiped the
devil, and that we had carnal relations with our brothers. But
our real crime was that we hadn't adhered to the vow of
poverty. Our biggest sin in the eyes of the King of France was
that he was in debt to the Templar treasury and he didn't
want to pay it back.

Had he simply confiscated our lands and wealth and forced
us to disband, there might have been an outcry. But who
would defend us against the accusation of heresy and worse?
No one. My body still bears the scars of physical torture, and
my heart bears the scars of betrayal. For when pressed to the
limits of endurance, with my back repeatedly beaten with
flaming pitch, I denied my Lord just like St. Peter. Not only
denied him, but admitted to atrocious sins I never committed,
anything to make the pain go away.

If not for my sergeant, who by some miracle was in the
same cell with me, I would certainly have died. Somehow, Jean
Paul got word to friends on the outside, and we escaped from
prison. But our escape came too late for Peter.

MORRIGAN STOOD IN THE GREAT HALL and groaned at the amount of work it would take to make Innishewan marginally livable. Uncle Angus had been quite thorough in his destruction of the keep. But the families of the men she'd been fighting alongside, as well as her own family, needed food and shelter. And protection. From the previous owners—her former clansmen—now dispossessed of their lands and homes.

Fergus stood next to her as she assessed what needed to be done. “ 'Tis not so bad.”

“No, as it is, it would make a perfect pig sty. But humans need to eat off those filthy tables.”

“They are pretty foul.”

“The kitchen is in shambles . . .” She stopped, took a deep breath. “We will start rebuilding here and in the kitchen. The bedchambers and storage areas will have to wait. I'll go into the village and hire some stonemasons.”

“What shall I do?”

“Set some men to cleaning the fireplaces and shoveling up these reeds from the floor of the main hall. Until the roof and the walls are repaired there isn't much else that can be done.”

He nodded. “I'll make a list of supplies on hand and determine what we need to purchase.”

“Good. Thank you for thinking of it.”

He laid his arm across her shoulder as if they were comrades in arms. “Ye'll manage, Morrigan. Don't worry. Take one thing at a time. Ceallach has said we can stay at Dunstruan as long as we need to.”

He removed his arm from her shoulders, and she relaxed. “Aye, and I'm grateful to him. But I am so looking forward to having a permanent home. I'm sure Mother must feel the same way.”

“Where were ye living before the battle?”

She leaned against the cool stone wall behind her. “Near Loch Dee. My men and I came to Stirling at Bruce's call for warriors for the great battle. Mother and the others have been living with relatives in a small cottage near Inverlochy.”

“Bruce mentioned that Innishewan was the Macnab stronghold under yer uncle. Where is he now?”