The Mark of Salvation (9 page)

“He died last winter of the same ailment that killed our laird. Suisan can make the smaller things, but she's not skilled at designing material for plaids.”

The sight of the great loom rekindled conflicting emotions. Ceallach had always loved working the loom. But he'd not touched one since Peter's death, had not wanted to. He ran his hand along the smooth roller where finished cloth would wind. The loom and the memories drew him.

Maybe it was time to try his hand again. He took a deep breath and released it. “I have some experience. Perhaps . . . perhaps I will weave after I've fixed the beam.”

“Excellent, my laird. I'll let Suisan know.”

They left the hut, and as they walked toward the front of the keep a group on horseback entered the bailey. Friend or foe? Ceallach couldn't recognize faces from this distance, but the fact that there were women in the party eased his anxiety somewhat.

Ceallach knew he would have to find a smith to mend the portcullis if he wanted to truly secure the castle. Or do it himself. In the long years spent waiting to go on a crusade, Ceallach had not only learned to weave, but also to shoe horses. He might be able to fashion whatever was needed to mend the gate. But the thought of working with hot implements and fire—he didn't think he could do it. Not now—maybe never.

By now he was close enough to recognize Fergus and Morrigan as his visitors. Ceallach strode across the bailey to greet them. In no time he was surrounded by chaos. Suisan and the other women of the castle came out to greet the guests. Devyn and his men were there as well. Only the Englishwoman was absent. Ceallach assumed she was resting, as she'd spent a good deal of time in her chamber since her arrival.

Years of quiet living as a monk and another seven years as a soldier with Bruce had not prepared Ceallach for interaction with crowds. At least not with friendly crowds. In camp, the men had left him to himself, if he so pleased. Certainly his experience at dealing with women, especially more than one at a time, was limited. He withdrew to the edge of the throng and just observed.

He watched as Fergus dismounted and went to help Morrigan from her horse. She refused to take his hand and nimbly swung her leg over the horse's back and dropped to the ground. Ceallach grinned. The look she gave the poor man did not bode well for Fergus's continued employment as her steward. Fergus wisely went to help Morrigan's mother and younger sister dismount.

Suisan shooed the servants off to their chores and invited the guests to come into the keep. As Fergus and the others walked toward the steps of the keep, Ceallach stepped forward. “Welcome to Dunstruan.”

Fergus said, “We thank ye for the hospitality.”

Ceallach exchanged greetings as the women walked into the keep but drew Fergus aside before he entered. “Have you any news from Bruce?”

Fergus shook his head. “Not much has changed. Negotiations for the prisoner exchange have come to a halt.”

Ceallach nodded. “We can talk more over food. Come inside.”

They sat down at a trestle with Morrigan's family, and she and Fergus made introductions. Devyn the Steward helped his wife with the added work of having guests by setting up an additional trestle. Suisan gave him a hearty kiss for his efforts and Devyn grinned with pleasure.

The natural affection between the two fascinated Ceallach. He couldn't remember his parents ever treating each other with such ease, and theirs was really the only marriage he had first-hand knowledge of. Fergus caught him staring.

“Aye,” Fergus said with a nod. “It would be nice to have someone who cared that much about ye, wouldn't it?”

Ceallach wasn't sure he shared the sentiment but he remembered Lady Kathryn's comment at Fergus's knighting ceremony. “Have you started looking for a wife, then?”

“Oh, I'm done looking. I've found her. She just needs persuading.”

How had the man found a wife in the few days since they'd left Stirling? His eyes searched the room. “Morrigan?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Aye.” “

Ceallach shook his head. “I wish you luck with that one.”
Fergus said, “I'll be needin' it.”

ORELIA WALKED INTO THE MAIN HALL for the midday meal. There were a number of strangers in the hall today. Perhaps passing travelers had been invited to partake of Dunstruan's hospitality.

As she walked toward an empty table Orelia froze, unable to move forward. She stared at the back of the man seated with Ceallach. John was here. The sight of his dark, unruly hair and broad shoulders made her heart race and she started forward with joy. But then the man laughed a strange-sounding laugh and she realized the absurdity of her reaction.

John was dead. Whoever this man was, his laughter confirmed what her heart didn't want to believe. It wasn't John. Still she stared at the man's back.

As she drew closer he turned away from the warrior and she had her first glimpse of his face. Laughing blue eyes completed the cruel deception. But the similarity ended there. This man had a pointed chin and a scar over one eye. She'd seen him the day Bruce had knighted him. Fergus, if she recalled correctly.

Ceallach stood and the man followed suit. “Lady Radbourne, may I introduce Fergus Cookson.”

Fergus bowed but Orelia couldn't move to offer her hand or find her voice to speak. Despite the scar, this man looked remarkably like John. Or was it only wishful thinking? When she was able to speak, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “Are you English?”

He seemed taken aback and she said, “Forgive me. You look very much like . . . an acquaintance in England.” She turned to find a seat but Fergus pushed back the bench and moved closer.

He took her hand. “I have upset ye. This acquaintance—ye are fond of him?”

As tears welled, Orelia silently chastised herself for leaving her room. She'd stayed there on purpose, unwilling to break down in front of these people, determined to hide her pain. She feared if she answered the man's question she would burst into tears.

Ceallach unwittingly rescued her when he answered for her. “Her husband was killed at Stirling.”

“I am sorry for yer loss, my lady. “

Orelia pulled herself together. She didn't want their kindness, and she didn't want to feel any warmth towards these people who'd changed her life forever. “Thank you,” she managed to say before moving off to find a place to sit by herself.

As she ate, Orelia stole glances at Ceallach and his companion. When she saw that the men's attention was diverted, she stared at the one called Fergus.

It had been imagination, wishful thinking. The man looked nothing like John.

SIX

Silver or gold decoration of the saddle, bridle, or stirrup is forbidden.

—from the Rule of the Templar Knights

A
number of events conspired to destroy the Templar
Knights. Word has it that sometime in the year 1305, a knight
by the name of Esquin of Floyran was expelled from the
Templar Order for an infraction of the rules. I did not know
the man nor do I have any knowledge of his crime nor of his
guilt or innocence. But Esquin felt he'd been unfairly treated,
and his subsequent actions were to have a devastating effect
on my life and the life of my brothers.

Esquin alleged that the Order itself was guilty of gross
impropriety, and rumors soon spread throughout France.
When King Philip of France heard the allegations, he brought
them to the attention of the Pope, who promised to institute an
inquiry. He asked Philip to be patient, not to take action until
such time as the pope could look into the matter further.

But Philip's royal treasury owed vast sums of money to the
Templar Order, and these rumors of wrongdoing gave him
just what he'd been looking for—a way to discredit the Order
and thus be excused from his debt. He sent secret directions to
his henchmen throughout France, ordering the detention of all members of the Temple on the grounds that we had committed
crimes too terrible to speak of.

And while we rotted in Philip's jails, he confiscated our
properties and wealth, relieving himself of his debt.

MORRIGAN'S FAMILY joined Fergus and Ceallach at their trestle. Fergus blessed the meal and the conversation grew as the meat, cheese, and ale were consumed. Ceallach watered his ale, knowing from experience that doing so would water down his need to drink more than he should.

Ceallach had to ask Morrigan to repeat her question, since he couldn't hear it above the buzz of conversation surrounding them.

She leaned closer. “Have you rounded up your sheep?”

“No, but I've been out to the pasturage to see them.” In fact, he'd spent a blessedly peaceful afternoon walking the land that comprised the holding of Dunstruan. He took a bite of bread.

“All of them?”

He nodded, chewed, and swallowed. Why couldn't she let a man eat in peace? “I believe so.”

“And are they in good condition?”

“Fair.”

“What about the wool?”

“It will do.”

He saw more than heard her breath of exasperation and wondered what he'd said to annoy her. The wool was in as good a condition as one could expect having been left until this late date to be gathered.

Morrigan spoke again. “Will there be enough to bother spinning?”

“Aye.”

Fergus leaned over to Ceallach and spoke quietly. “She doesn't mean to be annoying. It's just her way.” Louder he said to Ceallach, “Can ye be more specific?”

Ceallach frowned, setting down his bread. “The sheep have rubbed it off from here to the far reaches of the estate. It will need to be handled carefully—it's been compressed by the rain.”

“You are a man of few words, Ceallach,” Morrigan remarked.

“Silence has its rewards,” Ceallach replied calmly. He looked across the way where Lady Radbourne sat with Devyn and Suisan. The lady picked at her food, and her sadness tugged at him. As he watched her, she stood and quickly left the hall.
More tears to shed.

He suspected the lady would not return to the hall, and he allowed himself to be drawn into a lively discussion about the merits of plucking wool by hand versus cutting with shears.

“What do ye say, Ceallach?” Fergus asked.

“These highland sheep shed their wool. 'Tis easy enough to
roo
it from them with your fingers or gather it where they rub it off. No need to use shears.”

The conversation ebbed and flowed around Ceallach as he remembered such meals from his childhood. He'd not sat at a table of women, at any table with such conversation, for more than half his life. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

Morrigan turned to her mother and said, “So, how does Grania like married life?”

Eveleen answered, “Your sister and her husband seem quite happy with one another. I have no doubt I'll be a grandmother by Easter.”

Ceallach looked at the woman. Though Morrigan was maybe twenty-five, Eveleen Macnab couldn't be more than a few years older than he was, and she would soon be a grandmother. Sometimes the sacrifices of his chosen profession came home with a vengeance.

Morrigan's younger sister, Cassidy, pouted. “I don't see why I can't marry. Evan has asked more than once, Mother, and you refuse.”

“Actually,” Morrigan said, “I'm the one who said no. Evan will thank me when you've had time to grow up before he weds you.”

Cassidy retorted, “Just don't make me wait until I'm an old maid like you, Morrigan.”

Ceallach expected Morrigan's quick temper but she surprised him by calmly saying, “That will be enough, Cassidy. If you can't speak to me respectfully, then let's not hear more from you at all.”

Cassidy seemed aware that she was treading marshy territory and wisely changed the subject.

Ceallach caught the eye of ten-year-old Keifer Macnab. The boy rolled his eyes. He finished his meal and asked to be excused, evidently as overwhelmed by the chatter as Ceallach. Eveleen gave permission, and the lad shot from his seat like he'd sat on a tack.

Ceallach wished he could join him. Instead he asked Morrigan, “Have you been to Innishewan yet?”

“No. I thought Fergus and I would ride over tomorrow and see what it will take to make it habitable.”

Eveleen said, “I look forward to seeing Morrigan engaged in such a womanly pursuit as managing a castle.” She turned to her daughter. “Perhaps then you'll stop wearing trews.”

“I doubt it. They suit me.”

“You'll never find a husband dressed like that, Morrigan.”

The young woman's face blushed pink and to Ceallach's surprise, she stole a look at Fergus. Fergus continued to eat his meal and said nothing. But as Fergus looked down at his plate, Ceallach saw him struggle not to grin.

“I could see the need for wearing trews when you were a warrior, Morrigan. But now that we are to have peace with England, you are free to seek a mate and set up a household.”

From the stormy look on Morrigan's face, Ceallach guessed that mother and daughter had had this conversation more than once.

“I have other responsibilities, Mother. I have no time nor any need for a husband.”

“Perhaps in a few months, then,” her mother conceded.

“You are still young, Mother. Perhaps you, too, should seek a husband and help to lighten my responsibility for our family.”

Eveleen sputtered and nearly choked. Fergus, sitting next to her, patted her back until the woman's breath came easily. “You are disrespectful, Morrigan. I have no need of a husband at my age.”

“But if you would marry, your husband would take responsibility for my siblings, and I would have more time to search for a husband of my own.”

Eveleen stared at her daughter, and Ceallach suspected this was an ongoing argument between the two headstrong women. He would not want to bet against either of them in this contest of wills.