The Mark of Salvation (5 page)

The Earl of Radbourne's lady said, “Is it true that the English army has been vanquished?”

“ 'Tis true, lady.”

She drew herself up. “Will you help us find our husbands?”

Find their husbands? He had no idea how to locate lost husbands. “All the English who were able have fled. Looks like your men have deserted you or . . .” He decided against finishing the sentence. Better to let them come to their own conclusions. He gestured to the other wagons. “Are there more women with you?”

“There were a few others, but their men came for them.”

“You should have left with them.”

She looked at him as if he'd said something particularly absurd. “I assure you, sir, our husbands have not deserted us. They must have been detained.”

“It doesn't bode well that your men haven't returned for you.” What the devil should he do with them? Just leave them here? Somehow that didn't seem wise. “Come with me.”

Straight-backed and haughty, Lady Radbourne asked, “Just who are you and where are you taking Lady Heathrow and me?”

Ceallach was just a little too groggy and far too inexperienced in conversing with women. The woman last night had not demanded that from him . . .

“Sir? I said where are you taking us?” Lady Radbourne's tone of voice and condescending manner were wearing very thin. He'd never dealt with female prisoners. But he guessed the best course was to take them to the Scottish camp.

He untied his horse and mounted. “My name is Ceallach, and I'm the king's foster brother. Now, gather what you can carry and let's go.”

Lady Radbourne scowled.

Now what? The woman stalked off to the wagon. From where he sat atop his horse he heard a great deal of muttering and banging about inside the cart before she finally climbed back out. Empty-handed. Both of them stood there, arms across their chests. The blond woman's eyes flashed icy blue. “I wonder if we might take the cart?”

Ceallach thought on it. “All right. Can you drive it?”

“Yes.”

Her answer surprised him.
She
surprised him. “Well, then let's be off.”

Ceallach reined his horse around and set off for Bruce's camp. Belatedly he glanced behind and saw the women clamber aboard. Lady Radbourne took the reins and got the beasts moving, no small feat since the animals were no doubt tired and hungry.

Now and again he looked back to make sure they were following him. Not entirely sure he could trust the woman, he dropped back and rode beside the lead horse. When they reached the camp, Ceallach gestured for her to pull up and she did so. He looked over his shoulder at the two women, and the fear he saw on their faces pierced him.

A temporary stockade constructed of logs and boards stood in front of them. Inside, several dozen men sat on the ground or wandered aimlessly. Sentries walked the outside perimeter. To his dismay, Ceallach watched as one of the prisoners relieved himself in full view of anyone glancing in his direction.

Ceallach decided then and there that he would not leave these women here—enemies or no—unless their husbands were among the prisoners and could protect them. “Wait here,” he said.

Searching about in the confusion, Ceallach saw a knight nearby saddling his horse. Ceallach rode over to him but did not dismount. The man looked up from his task and Ceallach motioned to the women. “I need to find their husbands. Who's in charge here?”

The man pointed to a knight standing off to one side. “Mactavish.”

“Thanks.” Pleased that he'd found the warden so easily and that he would soon be able to turn over his prisoners, he dismounted and walked over to the man in charge of the prison. He told him who he was looking for and Mactavish checked his list.

“Nay, neither of them's here.”

The men were probably dead and though they were enemies, Ceallach regretted their deaths and what it would mean to the two women.

Mactavish stared at the women, and Ceallach didn't care for the expression on the man's face. “I'm sure we can find a place for them here,” Mactavish said.

Not a place suitable for the genteel.
“Can you tell me where to find King Robert?”

“Last I heard he was inspecting the morgue at St. Ninian's.”

Ceallach hesitated to take the women to the kirk. The gruesome task of burying the dead would be even worse to observe than the prison. Ceallach glanced at his prisoners, huddled together on the seat of the cart. A number of soldiers had gathered around them, taunting them and making crude references, reinforcing Ceallach's suspicion that the ladies would not be safe here. He supposed they would have to stay with him for now.

Unhappy but resigned, Ceallach turned back to the warden. “I think it would be best if I take them to the king.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Ceallach returned to the wagon and tied his horse to the back. Seeing Lady Radbourne's pale face and trembling hands, he said, “Your husbands aren't here, and this is no place for you.” Conscious that men were still gathering to stare and taunt the women he shouted, “Stand aside! These women are prisoners of war, and I am taking them to the king.”

Ceallach climbed aboard the wagon and took over the reins with one hand, keeping the other one near his sword hilt as he made his way through. He breathed easier when they had left the crowd of men behind. Though the women certainly continued to draw attention as Ceallach drove the wagon through camp, they reached the kirk without further incident.

The place was busy with graves being dug and wagons coming and going, bringing in more dead. Rows of bodies lay in the warm sun and Ceallach halted well away from the sight and smell.

Ceallach addressed Lady Radbourne. “I will inquire about your husbands while I search for the king.”

Her face grew even whiter. “You think they are here?”

Until now Ceallach hadn't realized that while he assumed her husband was dead, Lady Radbourne still obviously assumed the man was alive. He considered her question and then quietly answered, “I think it is likely, my lady.”

She drew a deep breath and said, “How will you know if . . . if our husbands are here? Will you, or anyone else, recognize their coat of arms?”

Ceallach shook his head.

Lady Radbourne straightened her spine. “Then I think we shall have to search for them ourselves. Angela?”

The other woman nodded reluctantly.

Ceallach tried to imagine his mother or sister facing such a task. Though they'd both died a dozen years ago, he still remembered his sister's aversion to dead things. And he knew only too well the damage a sword or battle-axe could do to the human body. “Are you sure? It won't be a pleasant task.”

“We didn't expect it to be,” Lady Radbourne snapped.

“Very well.” There had been a time in his life when Ceallach would have asked God to comfort the women. Looking at their grim, fear-laden faces, he wished he still could. But since he no longer trusted in God's intervention, Ceallach sought another means of encouragement.

He motioned to a knight standing nearby. When the man walked over, Ceallach explained the situation, and the knight joined them, taking Lady Heathrow's arm.

Lady Radbourne accepted Ceallach's offer and laid her hand upon his arm.

They walked along the rows of dead. Lady Heathrow and her escort worked their way quickly and were soon a distance away. But Lady Radbourne paused at each man, as if she mourned each one's passing. Though her back remained stiff, she swiped at tears more than once. Gently Ceallach urged her forward.

When she nearly tripped over a carelessly discarded weapon, Ceallach pulled her close. “Careful, my lady.” She did not pull away as he expected her to, and Ceallach stood still, allowing her to gather her composure. He admired her strength, for it took nearly all his will to glance at the maimed bodies. And she must search the faces, looking for a beloved face and no doubt praying that it wasn't there.

They turned up the next row, and halfway along she cried out. Pressing her hand to her mouth she moaned, “No, dear God. No!”

Her other hand grasped his so tightly it was if her pain became his. She swayed and he held her upright as her moans tore at his heart. He felt helpless. Useless. Abandoned. Just as he had when Peter died. And just as it had been then, God was nowhere to be found when Ceallach needed him.

ORELIA STOOD IN MUTE CONFUSION as she stared at John's body. His face seemed at peace, giving her hope that he had not suffered too much before death claimed him. Tears raced down her cheeks and she let go of her companion's hand and sank to her knees beside her husband's body.

The man named Ceallach knelt beside her. “Is this your husband?”

She nodded, and once again grasped the big Scot's hand, needing to draw strength from the living so she could face the dead. With her other hand she touched John's face, recoiling at the coldness, at the proof that this was not a nightmare from which she would soon awake.

“Would you like me to search him for valuables?”

Revulsion at the thought of this man handling John hit her. “No! Don't touch him!” She snatched her hand away from his, the Scotsman's closeness no longer a comfort but rather a reminder that he and his kind had killed John.

Wordlessly she searched for John's crucifix, praying that the necklace had not been lost. Of all the things she wanted to remember of her husband, his steadfast faith was the one thing she felt sure she would need to cling to in the difficult days to come.

She sobbed as she found the silver chain beneath John's surcoat. Gently she lifted his head, removed the precious cross and wrapped her fingers tightly around it. Orelia clung to it, held it to her own chest as she fought waves of despair and anger at John for leaving her like this. She clenched the cross until the pain from it dug into her flesh and brought her back to the present.

A shadow fell across Orelia as Angela Heathrow knelt beside her and folded her into an embrace. “I'm so sorry, Orelia.”

“Did you find—”

Angela shook her head. “Nigel may be wounded, at the hospital. This knight is going to take me to search for him.”

Orelia nodded. “I'm glad for you.” Glad that Angela might be spared this pain and grief.

“I'll stay with you until . . . the burial.”

“Oh, you mustn't. Go to your husband. It will be days until the funeral at Radbourne.”

Angela looked at her sadly. “You won't be allowed to take him home, Orelia. The dead are being buried here.”

Frantically, Orelia sought the man who'd brought her here. Seeing he was still beside her, she jumped to her feet and demanded, “Is it true? I won't be allowed to take my husband home to be buried?”

He rose to his feet. His expression showed compassion but his words gave no solace. “Aye, it's true. You will be detained until Bruce arranges your ransom. You will not be allowed to leave until then, and it is better that we bury your man here and now.”

Orelia's shoulders sagged. John was dead. Truly gone. And rather than burial at home in Radbourne Hall's graveyard, he would be forever kept from her in this foreign land.

THREE

All daughters of Eve are banned from the order's properties in their entirety.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

L
ady Orelia is lovely, even with a tear-stained face. Her
grief tugs at my heart. She seems to take comfort from prayer,
and I envy her that solace.

But Lady Orelia is a distraction from my purpose with
these pages.

Namely, to rid myself of the memories which haunt me.

The Templar rules governed every aspect of my life.
Despite the restrictive nature of living as a monk, I found
some measure of security in knowing the appropriate response
for any situation. Expectations for behavior were clear, and
those few times when I acted rashly, my infractions were dealt
with justly.

The one thing I found most difficult to accept was not being
able to see my mother or sister. On their rare visits to my cloister
near Paris, I was forbidden to hug them or kiss their cheeks in
greeting. I longed for the simple pleasure of embracing my dear
mother. When she died within a week of my sister from a lung
ailment, I wasn't allowed to travel home for their funerals.
How I struggled with my grief! Only Peter's assurance that I
would be reunited with them in heaven kept me from total
despair.

After their deaths I reconciled myself to the lack of female
company and indeed became quite used to the society and
friendship of men. After so many years of cloistered life, I fear
I've quite forgotten how to relate to the fairer gender.

LADY ORELIA'S TEARS were more than Ceallach could take, and he hurried off to see to the burial. He found the man in charge and arranged for the English nobleman to be buried within the hour.
Take care of this last obligation and she'll be off your hands,
he told himself.
Robert must see to her welfare as a prisoner of war.

When Ceallach returned with the priest, Lady Radbourne's eyes were dry, her face reddened from crying. Ceallach stood across the open, shallow grave from her. The simple, hurried ceremony left little time for meditation or farewells. All about them, men toiled over more graves. The priest apologized for the brevity of the service before rushing off to attend to another burial.

The two women hugged, then Lady Heathrow left with the knight who would escort her to the hospital and a possible reunion with her wounded husband. Head bowed, Lady Radbourne stared down as the grave diggers shoveled dirt on top of the crude casket. Covertly, Ceallach stared at her. With her blond hair and delicate features, she was a beauty, undoubtedly bred to be a lady of some stature. He'd seen color high in her cheeks himself at the campsite; now she looked weary and peaked. Saints above, the lass wouldn't faint now, would she?