A Sword Upon The Rose Read online

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  SEVERAL DAYS PASSED, each day exactly like the one before it. In the morning Alana was summoned to the hall for the breakfast, and there, Buchan asked how she had passed the night. He would then ask if she had had a vision. But there were no visions in the glass bowl of clear water, and with trepidation she would tell him that she had no prophecies to make. He would smile politely, but his displeasure was obvious.

  Eleanor was always present for the breakfast, and they would briefly speak before Alana was taken back to her room. There she would stare at the water and pray for a vision of the earldom’s future—one pleasing to Buchan.

  Each afternoon she strolled about the courtyard with her grandmother and Sir John. In the evening, she supped with the earl and his men.

  And at night, in the glow of the bedchamber’s firelight, she stared at the glass of water, desperately awaiting a vision. None came. There was only a growing sense of despair.

  And would she ever be allowed to go home? Brodie Castle was her home, even if it belonged to Duncan, and even if, one day, it would be Godfrey’s. She had been at Nairn almost a week, and the four walls of her chamber were beginning to feel like a jail cell.

  It was dusk now, and Alana entered the great hall, Sir John behind her. To her shock, only her grandmother was present. Eleanor hurried toward her. “There is rampant gossip about the castle this afternoon!” she cried.

  Alana seized her arm. “What has happened, pray tell?”

  “Your father defends Lochindorb Castle—from Iain of Islay!”

  Alana froze.

  She had thought about the dark Highlander who fought for Robert Bruce. He had been impossible to forget, and not simply because of her vision about him. His dark, powerful image haunted her. So did his inexplicable kiss.

  She did not want to recall the brief time she had spent in his camp. She did not want to be interested in him, not even remotely, not in any way. But she had wondered how he fared. She even worried about Duncan’s plan to assassinate him should he attack Nairn. And she did fear that her father and Iain might cross paths in this war, with Sir Alexander left in the south to defend them. And now, it seemed as if the worst had happened.

  “Where is Lochindorb?” Alana asked.

  Eleanor looked at Sir John, who came forward. “It is two days to the south, if one rides without interruption,” he said.

  “Is it true?” Alana asked him. “Is my father at Lochindorb—defending it from Iain of Islay?”

  Buchan stormed into the hall, followed by a dozen knights, everyone in full armor. Obviously he had heard her question, for he snapped, “It was true. Lochindorb has fallen.” His eyes were burning with barely repressed anger.

  Alana could not quite breathe. “My father?” she managed to ask.

  “I do not know where he is, but the keep fell two days ago. The battle did not last an entire morning!” Buchan cried. He began to pace in a frenzy, head down, as he clearly deliberated the next course of action.

  Alana stared at him. Her uncle wasn’t just angry—he was uneasy and anxious. Was he afraid that Sir Alexander was hurt? She prayed her father had survived his encounter with Iain. “Can we send a man for news of Sir Alexander?”

  He stared at her, as if in disbelief. “I cannot worry about my brother now, when I must defend my land from Bruce!”

  Her heart sank. Didn’t he care about his brother? Or was he only afraid of losing this war to Bruce? Everyone was dressed for battle. Clearly, her uncle was leaving to take his army to war.

  “His army has turned north,” Duncan said grimly. “They have left Lochindorb standing, perhaps because it is so small, and Iain of Islay leads them once again.”

  They were marching north. They were marching north and Iain was leading them.

  Her heart had turned over, but not with dread. Oddly, she was not afraid.

  She had always assumed they would never meet again. Now she had the strongest feeling that the reverse was true—that they would meet again—and soon.

  Buchan turned. “This would be an excellent time for a vision,” he said harshly.

  “I want to help,” she whispered. “I truly do!”

  “Good!” It was a shout. Buchan turned and seized a pitcher from the table and thrust it under her nose. “Then help! Do your duty! Prove your loyalty! Are you a witch or not?”

  Alana flinched. She could not stand to look into her uncle’s cold, hard eyes. She looked into the pitcher, but was blinded by her tears. It was not that his words were hurtful, which they were, it was that his tone was so cruel.

  The pitcher vanished, replaced upon the table, and she heard Buchan and Duncan heatedly discussing the defense of Nairn and Elgin—they did not know which castle would be attacked first. Buchan wanted to know where his damned spies were. Alana closed her eyes tightly, the tears burning.

  Lochindorb had fallen—to Iain. Her father had been in the battle, and now, Buchan did not know where he was, or even if he lived. He desperately needed her help, and she desperately wished to give it!

  She glanced at her uncle, who remained in a furious and frantic conversation with Duncan. Neither man looked her way.

  He had just shouted at her—almost as if he despised her.

  Impulsively Alana lifted her skirts and ran from the hall. As she did, she glimpsed her grandmother’s startled expression. She did not care, and no one shouted at her to stop, to return.

  Twilight had fallen over the hills surrounding the castle, and the courtyard was filled with long, dark shadows. Alana tripped as she ran. No one called after her still.

  Because no one cared what she did—no one cared for her at all.

  She sank down on the ground, curling up, and cried.

  She cried because Buchan was using her, and she had known it from the beginning, even if she had tried to believe otherwise. She cried because she had yet to see her father, who might be hurt or, dear God, dead. She cried because neither her uncle nor her father gave a damn. And she cried because Iain of Islay was the enemy, yet he was the only man who had ever looked at her with interest.

  Realizing that she was mired in self-pity, she choked back her tears. Crying would not solve anything. A brief stay at Nairn would not change a lifetime spent being shunned by the Comyn family. Alana wiped her eyes.

  I am a fool, she thought.

  Why not lie to Buchan and give him the prophecy he wished for? She might be given Brodie—and if not, at least she would be able to go home.

  Alana slowly stood up, filled with desperation. Was she truly considering more deception? Lying to her uncle felt so immoral. How could she live with such a choice?

  There was a well in the center of the courtyard.

  She tensed, staring at the dark shape of the wood fence surrounding it. A bucket hung upon a rope pulley above it. A ladder lay against the fence. There was a full moon in the dark night sky.

  Alana slowly walked over to the well, her heart now thundering. The stockade fence was chest high. She reached it and clutched its top.

  The wild pounding of her heart increased. She began to feel tipsy, faint. Her stomach began to churn.

  I am going to have a vision, she thought, but there was no relief. Instead she felt dread—horror.

  From where she stood, if she wished to, she could stare down into the well and into its black depths.

  But Alana didn’t look down. She did not have to.

  For she could feel the water below her. It was so heavy, and like a huge weight attached to her limbs, it began pulling her inexorably down.

  Alana moaned and looked down into the darkness.

  Flames blazed from its black depths. The fire shot up at her face.

  She was scorched, but she did not move—she could not move. In the flames, she saw the terrified faces of men
, women and children, their eyes white, mouths wide. For one moment, there was no sound.

  And then she heard their screams.

  They were being burned alive....

  She did not want to see any more and she closed her eyes as she fell. Vaguely, she felt the dirt and rocks under her face, her hands. But now she saw the men, women and children running from the fires—entire villages aflame. Houses, shops, barns were blazing...crops were burning...forests were an inferno! Horses and cattle ran from the fires, frantic, a stampede....

  Then suddenly, the fires were gone. The sky was blue, marred only by passing white clouds. A Highland army appeared, astride. Bruce’s yellow banner with its red dragon waved above them.

  The army was galloping now across the countryside, the forests black, the hills scorched and barren, roadside farms gutted, villages burned to the ground, a castle reduced to rubble, one tower partly standing.

  Women and children cowered in the woods, watching the passing army, clad in rags, gaunt from starvation, sobbing in fear and anguish....

  And when the army was gone, there was a banner upon the road. Trampled into shreds, she knew whose red, black and gold banner it was.

  “Mistress Alana!”

  Alana clawed the cold dirt and rough stones beneath her hands, still consumed by the horrific images. She heard Sir John call urgently to her again. But all she saw was the devastation and carnage left by Bruce’s army, the starving women and children.... She got onto all fours, retching.

  “Alana?” This time it was her grandmother, her hands on her back.

  Alana had never been as ill, and she thought she would vomit again. She had never shaken as violently, nor could she stop. The tears flowed.

  She had never witnessed such death and destruction, such merciless savagery, before.

  Dear, dear God. She had just foreseen the annihilation of the earldom and its people.

  “Mistress Alana?” It was Sir John. “If you have had a vision, you must go in and tell the earl!”

  Alana closed her eyes, fighting the nausea, which refused to recede. Her head continued to spin. Surely, this vision was a warning, not a prophecy. Buchan was the most powerful earl in the north of Scotland! How could he be so thoroughly destroyed?

  “You are shaking as if with fever,” Eleanor cried, helping her to sit up.

  Alana heard her. But the grotesque images of terror, fire, blood and death would not go away. She could still see those frightened men, women and children in vivid detail!

  But she somehow forced herself to see past their terrified faces until Eleanor’s worried countenance came into view.

  “Alana?” she cried, aghast, for she knew the vision had not been a good one.

  Alana could not yet speak. She could hardly think. She only knew that they must never let such destruction come to pass. “Sir John! Could you get her some water, please?” Eleanor cried.

  Sir John whirled and lowered the bucket into the well. As he did, Alana leaned heavily upon Eleanor who sat with her on the ground. A moment later he returned with a ladle of water. Alana used it to wipe her mouth, and then took a long draught.

  Sir John knelt. “I am sorry, mistress, but I must take you inside. I am under orders.”

  Alana wanted to protest, she wanted to delay. She did not want to face her uncle now! But when she finally looked at the knight he was ashen.

  “Alana! What did you see?” Eleanor cried.

  Alana met her gaze, finally somewhat lucid, but not yet coherent. What was she to do?

  Should she lie? When lying to her uncle was so abhorrent? Could she lie, after such a horrific and devastating experience?

  “We must go in, Lady Fitzhugh.” Sir John was firm. He helped both women up, avoiding all eye contact now.

  Alana shrugged free, aware that she frightened him now and he did not want to touch her. “I am fine,” she said, a complete lie. She continued to tremble uncontrollably. She still felt faint and ill.

  Alana went inside with Eleanor, Sir John following.

  Buchan turned as they came inside. He took one look at her and his eyes widened. “What has happened?” he demanded, hurrying toward them.

  “I found Mistress Alana on the ground, crying and screaming. She then became ill,” Sir John said gravely. “I think she had a vision.”

  “Is it true?” Buchan demanded.

  Alana somehow nodded. “Yes.” Her mind raced, but uselessly. She did not know what to do next, or what she would say when asked.

  “What did you see!” he cried.

  Alana stared at her uncle. How could she deceive him? If she told him of some pleasant future for the earldom, and her vision came to pass, she would never forgive herself. Should he not be warned? This vision must never come true! “Niece!” Buchan grasped her shoulder and shook her.

  “I saw our villages being burned to the ground, our villagers being murdered,” she whispered, feeling ill yet again. “I saw Highlanders murdering the innocent people of Buchan.... I saw the land, scorched and destroyed, from one end to the other, no village, no farm, no castle left standing.”

  Buchan’s eyes were wide. He stared speechlessly. “How do you know it was Buchan land you saw burned and destroyed?”

  Tears fell. “Bruce’s flag flew above—yours lay in shreds in the ashes.”

  He roared in rage. “This is the vision you give me?”

  Alana meant to speak, but his hand flew across her face so swiftly that she could not utter a word. Pain exploded and she was knocked off her feet.

  “This is your vision after all I have promised you?” he roared again.

  His fist was raised. Beneath him on the floor, she cringed. “Maybe it is a warning!” she cried.

  He struck her again, even harder, across the same side of her face.

  She choked on the blazing pain.

  “Stop! Stop it, John, stop it!” Eleanor screamed at him.

  But Buchan did not hear. “I asked for a vision of victory, Alana! Instead, you tell me Buchan will be destroyed? Damn you! Damn you to hell!”

  “I cannot help what I saw,” she sobbed. “Please! You must make certain I am wrong!”

  Buchan seemed about to kick her. Instead, he caught himself and stood over her, panting from his exertions, the hall so silent, only his heavy breathing was audible.

  Alana curled up, trying not to cry, her face on fire. Eleanor scooted to her and knelt, taking her in her arms. Alana clung to her grandmother.

  “We have a war to attend,” Buchan finally said harshly. “We will ride out now, as planned.”

  Alana dared look at him over her tiny grandmother’s arm and cringed.

  He was staring furiously at her.

  Duncan stepped forward. “What about her?” He nodded at Alana contemptuously.

  Buchan was now striding across the hall, past Alana and Eleanor. He did not look at them again. “Take her and the old woman back to the tower. Lock them both up until I decide what to do with them.”

  * * *

  THEY WERE THE Earl of Buchan’s prisoners now.

  Alana stood at the window of her small tower room, which she now again shared with her grandmother.

  Three days had passed, and she had not been allowed to leave the chamber. Neither had Eleanor.

  Meals were brought to them. A maid came to attend the fire, bringing kindling for them. She also changed their chamber pot. Both women had taken up sewing to pass the time.

  There was no news. No news of Buchan, no news of Bruce and his army, no news of her father—if he had lived, or if he had died. Alana prayed for him.

  Now she stared outside at the deserted and snowy hillside, lightly holding the sill. She had had an odd feeling all day—of expectation. She wasn’t exactly afraid. But something of great
import would soon happen, something with grave consequences. She was certain.

  “Are you watching for someone?” Eleanor asked. She came to stand beside her. “The road has been deserted all day.”

  “If only a messenger would come, and at least bring us news of the war...and my father,” Alana said. She should not be wondering about Iain just then, but he remained on her mind. But then, he might lead the attack on Nairn when it came—if it came.

  She sighed and turned away from the window. She heard the bolt being lifted upon the door. A maid stepped inside, holding a dinner tray.

  Alana knew Mairi well now, and she started, for the young blonde girl’s eyes were wide and her freckled cheeks were flushed. “Mairi?” Alana asked warily.

  Breathlessly the maid set down their dinner of bread, cheese and wine. “Buchan is returning. The watch has seen his knights on the south road!”

  Alana seized her arm. Was this the news she had been awaiting? “Do you know what has happened? Did he battle with Bruce’s army? Was he victorious?” Had her uncle chased the mighty Bruce away?

  “I have heard that Bruce is marching on us!” Mairi cried, ashen.

  Alana glanced at Eleanor, who was pale. Bruce was on the march—Nairn would soon be attacked.

  This could not be the event she had sensed coming. She had not felt fear or dread. But she was afraid now—Bruce meant to attack Nairn! “Is Buchan returning to defend us?” Was there time to escape? Would they and the other innocent residents of the castle be allowed to flee?

  “I dinna ken,” Mairi cried. “I ken what the watch has seen—Buchan is returning. Lady! Have ye ever been in a siege?”

  Alana touched her arm. “No, Mairi, fortunately, I have not.”

  “They will rape and murder us.” Tears welled in Mairi’s eyes.

  Alana inhaled. “We do not know that.”

  Mairi looked at her as if she was mad.

  Alana stiffened. She was not a simple maid, like Mairi was—she was Buchan’s niece. And Bruce was on the march, his ambition to destroy her uncle and his earldom.

  Their rivalry went back generations, to the time when Bruce’s grandfather had unsuccessfully sought the throne against John Balliol. But it was worse than that. Two years ago, Bruce had murdered Buchan’s cousin, Red John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch. Buchan had sworn revenge, and the enmity between the families had, impossibly, increased.