The Mark of Salvation (15 page)

THE WARM AFTERNOON SUN felt wonderful and while the others continued to swim, Orelia climbed out and got dressed. She wandered downstream, searching the creek bank for wildflowers to make a bouquet. She added her latest find to the ones in her hand and raised her head.

Orelia knew she shouldn't stare, 'twas impolite. Ceallach stood with his back to her, still as a deer that knew it was being stalked. His back was bare—he'd removed his shirt—and he was apparently adjusting the folds of his plaid. His damp, disheveled hair told her that he'd already taken a swim, so she was in no danger of embarrassment from having him disrobe further.

Yet from what little she knew of Ceallach, she was sure he wouldn't like to have her see him thus. She began to turn away to give him privacy when her gaze lowered from his head to his shoulders and she saw the scars. Deep and red even after what must be years of healing.

She nearly reached for him, barely restraining a gasp, the instinct to comfort overwhelming. Yet the scars were well beyond need of such emotion. What ever could have caused such marks?

The welts and stripes rippled and bunched with the movement of his muscles. Deep striations, ridges of flesh, shiny reddened skin that looked fragile. Now she could see the full extent of wounds that were barely hinted at by the redness on his neck. Here lay clear evidence of the reason for his secretiveness about his past.

Slowly he turned and saw her standing there. She knew when he realized what she was looking at. A moment's hesitation, a hitch of his shoulders. Without a word he pulled on his shirt and drew the laces at the neck closed. Only then did he speak to her.

Quietly, his voice hoarse with emotion, “Go away, Orelia.”

Why did his words sting so? Because behind them she heard the anguish of a sheep without a shepherd. A man who'd lost his faith. It wasn't just her that he hid from; it was their Lord. From the looks of his back, he'd suffered unbearable pain. “Who did that to you?”

He shook his head, and droplets of water splashed his shirt.

She walked forward, stopping an arm's length away. He stood with his head bowed and again he shook his head. “Leave it, Orelia. Forget what you saw. The wounds healed a long time ago and I am not in need.”

But she couldn't let it go, couldn't leave without knowing who had done this to him and if this had driven him from his faith. “You were whipped, weren't you? Why?”

He raised his head and looked at her. Angrily he said, “I was punished for crimes I didn't commit.”

Puzzled, she quizzed him further. “I don't understand. Why?”

With finality he said, “It doesn't matter. It's done.”

“And this is why you believe God has deserted you?”

He looked toward Dunstruan. “May I walk you back to the keep?”

Orelia wanted to press him to talk about what happened, not only so she could understand but to try and help him heal the wounds she could not see. But now was not the time.

They did not speak on the walk back to the castle.

LATE THAT NIGHT a violent gust of wind agitated the coals in the fireplace into swirls of light that quickly ebbed into darkness. The gusts also crept through the drafty main hall of Dunstruan Castle.Over the years the once heavy tapestries that lined the walls had become threadbare and moth-eaten, allowing a breeze to waft through Ceallach's hair.

Ceallach sat in the glow from the dying fire, waiting for morning. He couldn't sleep. The gale had risen, causing the shutters to bang against the walls. His sword lay on the bench next to him. The noise of the wind, the smell of smoke that seeped into the room from the fireplace, the faltering light, all contrived to bring back the nightmare that had plagued him since he'd left France. Tonight, before the crashing shutter had brought him upright in his bed, the nightmare had been unusually vivid.

Probably as a result of his conversation with Orelia this afternoon. A noise from behind startled him and he jumped to his feet, sword at the ready.

“Ceallach,” a soft feminine voice said. Orelia came into the light. “Did the wind awaken you, too?”

Her hair hung in a thick braid over one shoulder. He couldn't speak, feared to speak, unsure if he was in his right mind. Sometimes the demons lingered, teasing and goading him. He continued to hold his sword on the chance that the woman wasn't real but a tormentor from the darkness of his past.

He shook his head. The vision remained. “Orelia?”

She looked at him as if his wits might be addled, adding weight to the possibility that she was indeed, real. “Yes,” she assured him. Wisely she remained where she was.

He lowered the sword but did not lay it down. Not yet. “Why are you not abed?”

She gestured with her hand, pointing back up the stairs. “I heard a noise.”

“The shutters banging.”

“Oh. How silly of me.” She stared at him. “Are you all right?”

He took a deep breath and laid the weapon back on the bench. “Aye.”

“May I come by the fire?”

“What? Ah, yes.”

“Will you put some peat on it? We may as well be warm if we are going to be awake.” She smiled.

The rare smile surprised him. But then she certainly had reason to be sad. Something in him wanted to be the cause of her smile, and to give her reason to grace him so again.

Yet he could not relax—any more than he could get close enough to the fire to add peat as she'd asked. He sat down again, pretending he hadn't heard her.

She shook her head and placed a brick of peat on the fire, stirring the embers until it caught before turning her face to him.

“Why did you accompany your husband to Stirling?” he asked.

Guiltily, he acknowledged her pain and the cause of it; he wanted to share the darkness tonight, not be alone in the shadows. Orelia had shadows of her own to face. Why could she smile? Why could he not?

She continued to crouch before the fire, poking at it now and then. “King Edward was convinced that Bruce could not beat him in a pitched battle. John was to receive . . . Scottish lands upon the victory. I came with him so that we might occupy the castle immediately.” Her shoulders stooped a bit more. “This castle,” she whispered.

Her obvious distress overwhelmed him. “I'm sorry, Orelia. I didn't mean to make you cry.”What should he do? How could he comfort her? He knelt beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder, his fingers brushing the thick braid of golden hair. She reached up, still staring into the fire, and placed her small hand on top of his fingers. His heart raced. But he dared not remove his hand and take away whatever comfort she felt from it.

Then her words struck him full force. “This castle? Edward planned to give
Dunstruan
to your husband?”

He felt her take a deep breath, then she twisted to face him and their hands parted from their resting place. The room seemed colder somehow.

She wiped a tear from her eye. “Yes, Dunstruan.”

“Father, have mercy,” he said under his breath. How could she stay here, knowing if her husband had lived this would have been their home?

She looked at him strangely. “I thought you didn't pray, Ceallach.”

He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “A force of habit, nothing more.”

Her expressive face and eyes were full of questions, but to his relief, she let it be. “It's all right, being at Dunstruan. I have made peace with God over John's death and my sojourn here. I believe God has a purpose, a blessing that will come of my hardship. In fact, I am sure of it.”

“I am amazed at your ability to see good in such a tragic situation.” She amazed him and disturbed him—disturbed that buried piece of him that used to know how to love and be loved. Something near his heart warmed like the flame she had coaxed from the fireplace.

“It's easy to feel blessed when life is going well, Ceallach. Not so easy when it feels like God has deserted you. I confess, in those first days after John's death that's exactly how I felt.”

“And now?” Did he really want to hear what she had to say? Would her words brand him as weak?

“Now? Now I see God's hand in my decision to accompany John. We had no hope of having children—having a son—so we came here to expand John's holdings. John wanted his younger brother to take on more responsibility for the inheritance that would eventually be his.”

She stood up and smiled again and he thought it strange. “My husband was told he couldn't father children. A childhood fever, you understand.”

“A fever.” He nodded although he wasn't altogether sure what a fever had to do with begetting children. Still, he certainly wasn't going to ask for an explanation of such a subject from her.

“John was wrong not to believe that God would hear our prayers for a child.”

Ceallach stood also, uncomfortable with looking up at her as she paced. “Wrong?”

Turning to face him, she fingered the cross she'd taken from her husband's body. “John's last words to me were a reminder that no matter what happens, I am not alone.”Tears ran down her cheeks but instead of wiping at them she placed her hands on her stomach. “My faith has sustained me and I have been blessed. In this John could not have been more right.”

Ceallach couldn't quite grasp her meaning. “What are you saying, Orelia?

Beaming with obvious happiness she said, “I am carrying John's child, Ceallach. A miracle and a sign of God's gracious love.”

Ceallach could only stare at her. Her prayers had certainly been answered and he was happy for her. But she was carrying another man's child. The tiny flame near his heart sputtered and nearly went out.

ORELIA YAWNED and pulled her nightdress close to ward off the chill. The fire had burned down again. How long had she been talking with Ceallach? And why did he stare at her so? “Now you will understand why I am anxious to return to England.”

He seemed to come out of a trance. “Of course. You must claim the child's inheritance.”

She glanced at the window opening. “It will soon be light. Perhaps I will return to my bed and rest a bit more.”

“Yes, of course.” His voice sounded strange.

She looked at him. “But you will not.”

“Nay, I'm done for the night. Go on. I'll keep watch.”

What a strange thing for him to say. 'Twas only the wind causing trouble tonight. But she did find it reassuring to know that he would keep them safe. “Thank you for keeping me company, Ceallach. For letting me talk about John. It eases the pain to remember him. And to think ahead to the joy of having his child to raise.”

She started for the stairs when he called to her. “Orelia?”

She turned back to him.

Looking decidedly uncomfortable he asked, “Would you add some more peat to the fire?”

“If I don't, you will sit here in the cold, won't you?”

He didn't answer, and she wondered about his aversion to tending the fire. She walked back and after building up the flames she looked at the scar on his neck.

One of the kitchen servants at Radbourne had been burned in a cooking accident and her skin had looked much like this. How had Ceallach received this mark? He'd looked stricken when she'd first seen him tonight, as if he'd seen a spirit. What secrets did he hide? Remembering his look of terror, did she really want to know? “Some day I would like to hear your story, Ceallach.”

“My story?”

“Why you fear the fire. How you came to have those scars on your back.”

She saw his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. But he didn't look as despairing as he had earlier. Orelia was drawn to the big man. His size and quiet dignity gave shelter without realizing, without awareness. Like a shade tree giving shade simply by existing.

“Goodnight, Orelia.”

She would not get an explanation tonight. But one day soon, she would insist. “Goodnight, Ceallach.”

She climbed the stairs to her chamber pondering the fact that she had made a number of friends here among her enemies. Eveleen, Morrigan, and perhaps Ceallach, too. How could she explain the comfort she drew from his presence? He asked for nothing in return, was unaware of his affect on her. So she gave him the only gift she could, a smile she hoped conveyed her appreciation. Gentle reminders that God still loved him, no matter what had happened to make Ceallach think otherwise.

The wind had died down, and she crept quietly to her room. Before climbing under the covers, she knelt and said a prayer for Ceallach, that he might find peace from whatever plagued him from the past. And with her hand on her stomach, she prayed for the safety of the future she carried.

NlNE

Each brother knight is alIowed three horses; at the discretion of the Order his squire may have one also.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

M
orrigan once said that the love of a woman might heal
me. For a time I hoped that woman might be Orelia, that
perhaps she would stay at Dunstruan. But it cannot be. She
carries a reminder of the life she left in England.

Even were it not for the babe, Orelia wouldn't want a
man as scarred and weak as I am. The scars on my body are
not the worst of it. Those I can hide from sight. 'Tis the scars
on my heart that I fear will never heal.

Especially if Orelia leaves Dunstruan.

ANOTHER WEEK WENT BY, nearly six weeks since the battle, and still there was no word from Bruce that the prisoner exchange had been arranged. Knowing that Orelia was anxious to go home and why it was important for her to do so, Ceallach sent Fergus to Stirling to find the cause of the delay.

While they waited for Fergus to return, Ceallach and Orelia and even Morrigan prepared the wool for spinning. First the wool was sorted according to fiber length. Long-fibered fleece made the best yarn for the hard cloth with its tight weave that could keep out all but the worst weather.