Free The Mark of Salvation by Carol Umberger Page B

Scots. She was Lady Radbourne, and she would not give them the satisfaction.
    But she was no longer the countess of Radbourne. John’s brother Richard would waste no time claiming the title for his own wife. New anxiety rocked Orelia. Would Richard provide for her? He and his pathetic wife would probably gloat. Orelia might be better off here than at home. There was little comfort in the thought.
    The needles and pins gradually left her foot and though she still felt unsteady, she withdrew her hand from Ceallach’s arm.
    â€œCan you walk now?” he asked.
    â€œYes, of course.” She would not thank him for his concern. She would not give any satisfaction to these people. He led her into the castle, and the interior, though clean, lacked the ornate furnishings of Radbourne Hall.
    Orelia’s leg gave way and she nearly tripped. Ceallach righted her, and she accepted his help mutely where once she’d have made light of her clumsiness. But her heart would never be light again. Feeling as lifeless as the wooden seat she was led to, she pulled her emotions close. She would not allow these heathens to see her pain.
    They had killed John and they could rot. God forgive me. Forgive me for turning my pain into hatred. Help me forgive my enemies.
    She shivered. How long would she have to stay in such unwelcome surroundings?
    ALTHOUGH THE KEEP WAS CLEAN, the inhabitants seemed to thrive in pandemonium, nothing like the orderly life Ceallach had known for so many years in the monastery, and then in Bruce’s army. Maybe it was just the constant hum of conversation that caught his attention. In Ceallach’s experience, tasks were completed with little or no talking. Here, it seemed that every one was talking at once.
    â€œWhere did all these women come from? I only brought one with me and just look . . . just listen.”
    Devyn the Steward laughed. “My wife has a fair number of female relatives who live and work here.”
    Ceallach shook his head. “Are they always this noisy?”
    â€œNo. Sometimes it’s worse.”
    Ceallach held back a groan of dismay. How would he ever find peace and quiet amongst this cacophony of high-pitched voices? And Morrigan had yet to arrive with her mother and sister. That would mean three more women to listen to. He could only hope that Morrigan, a fellow warrior, would know when to be quiet.
    Devyn, seemingly oblivious to the noise, said, “Your men may bed down in the stable. They will take their meals in the hall, of course. Our gates were open when you arrived because we are in need of a repair to the portcullis chain. Perhaps you would take a look at the chain and see if you can repair it somehow?”
    â€œI can do that.”
    â€œGood. Then with your permission, I will show you your quarters first.”
    THE NEXT MORNING Devyn showed Ceallach the weaving hut. A giant loom, similar to the one Peter had loved to work on, stood at one end of the room. Smaller looms for making belts and shawls sat at the other.
    â€œThe loom needs repair,” Devyn apologized.
    â€œI can fix it.” Ceallach said, lost in memories of days spent in just such a hut, working with his friend. Peter, I failed you. Ceallach pushed away the images and the emotions.
    â€œMy laird?”
    Ceallach took a deep breath to clear his head and then walked closer to the loom. One of the side beams was split and would have to be replaced. “Who is your weaver?”
    â€œHe 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.