The Mark of Salvation by Carol Umberger Page B

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?”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œAll of them?”
    He nodded, chewed, and swallowed. Why couldn’t she let a man eat in peace? “I believe so.”
    â€œAnd are they in good condition?”
    â€œFair.”
    â€œWhat about the wool?”
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œAye.”
    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.”
    â€œYou are a man of few words, Ceallach,” Morrigan remarked.
    â€œSilence 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.
    â€œWhat do ye say, Ceallach?” Fergus asked.
    â€œThese 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.”
    â€œActually,” 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