The Mark of Salvation Read Free Page A

would do so willingly, for I have no home, no country, not even a church to pray in.”
    â€œNowhere else to turn.” A gleam came into Robert’s eye, and Ceallach relaxed. “Then join with me. We shall be free men once more.”
    Ceallach the Warrior, weary, desperate, at his strength’s end, wiped tears from his eyes and followed his king into the night.

ONE
    When not engaged in military duties brothers shall lead the life of a monk.
    â€”from the Rule of the Templar Knightss
    I woke from a nightmare again last night. As I’m sharing Robert’s tent, I awakened him with my shouts for the third time this week.
    This morning he offered me a bundle of precious parchment, a quill, and some ink. “If you won’t talk about it, then you should write it down.”
    â€œI’m not sure I can.” I don’t want to revisit my past—the dreams are bad enough.
    â€œI think you must tell the story before your nightmares consume you.”
    Maybe he’s right. It’s been eight years and still I cannot sleep without . . . no, I cannot begin with those visions, yet I need to understand what happened. And why. Perhaps if I start with the hopes and dreams of my youth I will eventually be able to write down the events that have scarred me as an adult.
    As a child I listened with awe to my foster father’s stories of going on crusade to the Holy Land, especially his tales about the Templar Knights. Their bravery in battle and devotion to God stirred my imagination, and by the time I was but ten years old, I felt called to become such a religious warrior.
    At the age of sixteen I earned the golden spurs of knighthood and took vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience as a Templar Knight. At that age, a young man’s blood runs hot, but I learned to cool mine with prayer and fasting. I was determined to honor Christ and myself by keeping my vows.
    Ah, the idealism of youth.
    Let it simply be said that all I’ve ever wanted is to serve God and use my skills as a warrior to win souls for him. As a man of the sword, Robert understands that desire better than anyone. He, too, longs to go on Crusade and to devote his warrior’s skills—gifts from God—to the defense of the faith. That is a laudable aspiration, but I applaud his decision to see Scotland freed from tyranny before taking on such a quest. Perhaps one day we will ride to the Holy Land together.
    June 23, 1314, Bannockburn
    THE NIGHTS WERE SHORT THIS FAR NORTH and dawn broke especially early this Midsummer’s Day, or so it seemed to Countess Orelia Radbourne. Once again she had accompanied her husband, the Earl of Radbourne, to the site of a battle. She studied their tent’s walls, glowing with the early light of a warm summer sun, something that usually pleased her. But this time, for reasons she could not explain, she desperately wished they were back home and safe at Radbourne Hall.
    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.”
    â€œYes. 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