The Mark of Salvation (3 page)

They shared a pallet of sheepskins, and John stirred in his sleep. Awakening, he stretched like a cat as he had every morning of their marriage. She smiled, fighting the urge to cling to him and beg him to take her home, take himself from danger. But she did not embarrass either of them by such an unseemly display. It would have done no good. He was pledged to fight and must do so.

John sat up, instantly alert in the way of a soldier. He leaned on one arm, staring down at her. “I can see by that frown on your face that you are already worrying.”

“Yes. And don't tell me not to. It won't do any good.”

He kissed her cheek and stood up. “I know. But I'll say it anyway—don't worry.” As he donned his clothes, he continued. “We outnumber the Scots four to one. Our supply train stretches nearly twenty miles long. We will make short work of Bruce and his rabble.”

She stood also and began to dress. “That's what you've been saying, and yet look at what happened to Henry yesterday.”

“Yes. Well. Bruce is a notable warrior. I've never before seen anyone stand in the stirrups and deliver such a blow as Bruce dealt Henry.”

Orelia shuddered. Henry de Bohun was—had been—young and somewhat rash, but he'd been their friend. Now he was dead at the hand of the Scottish king himself. The first of many, she feared.

Apparently aware of her apprehension, John continued his attempt to reassure her. “Fortunately, few of Bruce's men are trained in the art of war. Most are simple highlanders with crude weapons and insufferable tempers.”

“John, how can you speak so about your fellowman?”

“They aren't my fellowman, Orelia. They are England's enemies. The sooner we subdue them and civilize them the better.”

The heat in his voice warned Orelia not to press further. She didn't approve of such disparagement but did not want to send him off to battle with angry words between them.

He struggled with the fasteners on his chain mail. “Call my squire to help with this.”

“Nonsense. I don't want to share our time together with young George. Here, let me.”

He bent his knees to accommodate her shorter stature and she tied the leather bindings. John was a good man and a worthy husband. Their marriage had not been a love match but they had found love together. When she finished the task she stepped around him and finding her boots, sat on a chest to put them on.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome.” She frowned at her tangled bootlaces.

“You're frowning again.” He bent and stilled her hands with his. “Today will be better, love. England will be victorious and then we shall take our share of the spoils. We can stay in Scotland on our new estate and create a home in peace.”

Orelia had come north with John to help him establish their new home and to escape her brother-in-law's wife and her increasingly hostile behavior toward Orelia. Alice and Richard had already produced a daughter, and the woman never passed an opportunity to remind Orelia of her own childless state.

Orelia shook her head. She would not waste time thinking of that woman. Orelia was here to begin anew with John, to begin a new chapter in their marriage. One that did not include Alice.

A number of other men had brought their wives and household goods to Stirling. They were so sure of victory that they didn't want to waste time returning home before taking over the promised Scottish estates.

She and John had come together as man and wife again last night, no longer in hope of creating a child. After seven years of marriage they had no children and were resigned that there would be none.

Still, like Hannah of the Bible, Orelia petitioned the Lord daily, hoping that he would hear her prayers and promising to raise the child for God's work if only he would bless her with a son. But John had suffered a serious fever as a child, and the healer had warned him that he might not father children as a result.

John tipped her chin up. “The battle won't last long; I'll be back for supper. Make plans for furnishing Dunstruan and leave your worries to God. What will be, will be.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed. “And if you should die?”

He touched her cheek and she opened her eyes. His gentle smile should have eased her anxiety, but it didn't. “If that should be God's will, Orelia, then I will see you again in eternity. Don't lose faith. No matter what happens you will not be alone.”

She threw her arms around him and clung to him. He allowed it briefly, then gently put her aside and finished donning his armor. With a quick kiss and a confident dip of his head, he left her.

CEALLACH'S HORSE SHIFTED BENEATH HIM, dancing sideways until Ceallach nudged it with his lower leg. With trembling hands he patted the horse's neck, trying to soothe them both. The clamor of battle truly surrounded him. He tried to concentrate and not slip from the present into memories of a battle from long ago. But Ceallach was as helpless now to stop the pain as he'd been eight years ago in a French prison.

Sweat dripped into his eyes—the white hood he wore to hide his identity only added to the heat of this warm summer day. But he would have perspired if it had been an icy January night.

The English let loose a barrage of arrows, some of them flame tipped. None reached as far as where he sat astride his horse, but Ceallach's heart pounded. Terror and fear swept through him. His limbs froze, just as they had when his torturer had drawn near . . . torch light dancing in his eyes . . . Ceallach's trembling hands clutched the reins as if they alone held him in this time and this place.

Still he did not retreat. Years of training would not allow it and he sat in the middle of this battle wrestling with his painful recollections. Someday he would let the memories return, put them on paper and take away their sting once and for all. But here on the battlefield he would release fury instead—only holding himself in check enough to ensure that his wrath came down on English, not Scottish, soldiers. That much he could do, he was fairly certain.

With a cry he sent the horse forward into the fray, battle-axe swinging, blood lust flooding through him, crazing him, conversely easing him. Now the trembling stopped, and the sweat was the result of effort, not fear. He drove his horse toward the English standard and the king who rode beneath it.

THE EARL OF PEMBROKE on Edward's left and Sir Giles d'Argentan on his right each seized a rein of Edward's horse. “You must leave,Your Majesty. You must not be captured, or the day is truly lost.”

“No, I won't leave the field.” Edward yanked the reins from them and tried to move forward.

His compatriots held him fast, gesturing toward the fields in which his troops were clearly languishing. Then came the final blow. Upon the hill to his right was a sight that would cower the bravest man. Six knights in white surcoats emblazoned with the red cross of the Templars raced their horses down the hill with several thousand reinforcements close behind, clearly headed for Edward's standard. The day was surely lost.

The Scots—sensing victory—pressed forward, steadily advancing.

“Flee!” Pembroke screamed.

Pembroke and d'Argentan and some five hundred English knights, pushed and barged through the ranks, fighting off determined Scots who tried to get to the king. As Edward and his protectors fought their way through the press, Edward's shield bearer was captured along with the royal shield and seal.

Edward kept the Scots that reached him at bay with his mace, flailing it until his muscles screamed with pain. His knights battled furiously to free him. Again and again their horses were trapped, surrounded by furious Scots determined to unhorse the English king. Edward lost count of the number of his knights who were dragged to the ground as they desperately fought to reach the road where they could flee to Stirling.

CEALLACH DODGED THE MACE and nearly got close enough to unhorse Edward before being driven off again by English knights. When the road to Stirling suddenly opened up, the English turned and fled the battlefield.

Good. Let Edward run. Let him taste the fear that daily lived in Ceallach. Fear of recognition; fear of capture; fear of imprisonment in a cold, dark cell. And the even greater fear that he would be taken from that cell to the chamber of horrors too great to think on. Ceallach would follow closely behind, feeding Edward's demons.

The hood covering Ceallach's face had slipped in the melee, blocking his view as the holes cut for his eyes shifted sideways. He pulled the hood off, looking for his fellow Templars. Instead he came eye to eye with a young English squire frantically gathering his master's weapons and horse to flee the field.

Ceallach raised his battle-axe to strike, but the fear evident on the boy's face pierced Ceallach's consciousness. Ceallach hesitated, and the young man scrambled aboard the horse and took off after his king. Ceallach pulled his mask in place and gave chase, hounding him halfway to Stirling Castle.

At the edge of the carse, Ceallach reined in his mount and headed west. Having accomplished what he'd set out to do, he raced to the rendezvous behind Gillies Hill where he was to meet up with the others who'd worn the red crosses. He and his comrades hurriedly removed their surcoats.

As he laid the tattered cloth into the chest in a hole in the ground, Ceallach mourned the loss like a death. How proudly he'd worn this mark of honor from the very first day it was bestowed upon him. And now that mark could cause his death. Shaking off the melancholy he hurriedly slammed the lid. Quickly they filled the hole with dirt and covered the chest, then scattered leaves and twigs until the spot looked quite natural.

The others mounted their horses and fled. Three of them planned to sail together to Norway. Another would return to his family deep in the northern highlands of Scotland, far from King Edward, far from France. The fifth man's plans were undecided, but they all had agreed not to contact one another. Their good-byes had long been said, this last mission together their homage to the past, what had once been right and true and good.

Ceallach did not watch them ride away. But he couldn't leave without marking the spot. He picked up a large rock and placed it on top of the chest's resting place. Using his knife, he carved a cross on the side of the stone to mark it.

Perhaps one day he would return to this spot and retrieve what he had lost.

CEALLACH REJOINED BRUCE. For eight years Bruce had avoided such a fight, ever since the defeat at Methven. The Scottish army was relatively small and ill-equipped for a pitched fight and yet they'd just defeated the might of England in precisely such a battle. From the insane promise to relieve Stirling that Bruce's brother Edward had made a year ago had come the greatest victory in Scotland's history.

Bruce got down on his knees and prayed aloud in gratitude for this deliverance. Ceallach did not join him.

When the king stood up, he gave Ceallach a questioning look. But he simply looked away from his brother. Ceallach had stopped praying years ago—when God had turned away from him in his time of need.

Ceallach surveyed the battlefield once more, watching as the English foot soldiers madly dispersed in all directions. “The commanders have deserted the field.”

“Aye. The few who remain are making no effort to organize or lead their troops.”

Ceallach shook his head. As a result of the lack of leadership, many of the English foot soldiers had already been swept away and drowned in the swift current of the Firth of Forth or were sucked into the swamps surrounding the river. Others seemed to be making their way to Stirling Castle, trudging up the narrow road to huddle under the mighty crags surrounding the fortress.

“The field is ours, Your Majesty. We've won the day.”

“Aye, it would seem so. But the English may very well reform and launch an attack from the castle.”

Just then James Douglas rode up to them, pulling his horse to a quick stop. “My laird, let me go after Edward. He can't take refuge in Stirling; he'll have to keep riding, and I can crown the day with his capture.”

“Granted,” Bruce said. “But you may take only sixty of our cavalry. The rest must remain close at hand—they are not to follow Edward under any circumstances. I will need them if Edward launches an attack from Stirling.”

“Aye. Then I'm off,” Douglas declared as he spurred his horse into a canter.

Bruce turned to Ceallach. “Go and tell our commanders to keep their men in formation and to brace for a possible attack from the castle.”

TWO

Meat will be served three times a week except during active campaigning when it may be served once each day.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

T
oday's successful fight against the English reminded me of
my early years as a warrior. By the time I joined the Order,
Acre—the last Christian outpost in the Holy Land—had
fallen three years before. Few of us were sent to Outremer after
that, though we all hoped that another Crusade would be
mounted against the Saracens. We trained for war, but as a
practical matter, we also learned more domestic skills. While I
could see the need to learn such skills to help provide for the
Order, still I chafed at the lack of military action.

I apprenticed as a weaver with a man named Peter, a
master weaver and fellow Templar. The years went by and
Peter taught me everything he knew about weaving and
creating patterns with the loom. My tapestries and cloth were
much in demand. Opportunities to sell my work were
numerous—commissions from wealthy Parisians were plentiful,
and the Templar treasury benefited from my craft.

Perhaps I took too much pride in my skill and that is why
God took it all away.

EDWARD AND HIS KNIGHTS raced to the gates of Stirling Castle, the great fortress that overlooked the countryside in every direction. Edward ordered his men to pound on the closed gates until they were opened. Anxiously he watched the road behind them lest Bruce attempt to attack while they waited to gain entrance.