A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce
“Does it please you, to be cruel?”
“It pleases me greatly. And, Alana? You are to go to Nairn, immediately.”
Was this a cruel jest? She stared, trembling, trying to decide.
He slowly smiled. “My father demands you go to him now.”
“Why would Duncan send for me?” she asked carefully, for she knew Godfrey might be toying with her.
“Why do you think? Witch!”
Alana was aghast. “What did you tell him?”
“Did you not see my father victorious in battle?”
She trembled. Duncan knew about her sight—everyone at Brodie did. “You told him about my vision,” she said slowly, with growing dread.
“Aye, I did. And he wishes to speak with you.” He bent down and retrieved the parchment. He then placed it in the fire, watching it begin to burn. “If I were you, I would begin to think about what I saw. He will want to know everything.”
“I told you what I saw,” she cried. Her mind raced frantically. She had lied about having a vision of Duncan. And she despised Duncan, feared him in a way that she did not fear Godfrey. What should she do? Duncan might beat her if he learned of her lie. He would surely punish her in some way.
“You are not pleased? Do you not wish to see Sir Alexander?” Godfrey asked.
Alana could not even think clearly. However, foolishly, she must admit that she did hope to see Sir Alexander again.
And now, she must hope Nairn was not attacked, not anytime soon.
* * *
“THIS IS MADNESS!” Eleanor cried. She was pale.
Alana smiled grimly. “I cannot refuse Duncan, Gran, and you know it. You also know he will be displeased if he learns I lied about my vision.”
Eleanor sat down, stricken. The women were in the small tower chamber they shared, two narrow beds beneath one window, a small table between them. The only other piece of furniture in the chamber was a chest, in which they kept their belongings. Alana was folding an extra cote carefully, placing it with the other garments she meant to take with her.
“Well, perhaps some good will come of this.” Eleanor was grim. “You will see your father again—and he might recall the fact of your existence!”
The stabbing of hurt was dull, like the taped tip of a knife’s blade. Carefully, she said, “If Duncan had not summoned me, I would not be going.”
“Do not play me, my girl. We both know you would be pleased to see your father again—and it would please me if he finally made good on his promise to see you wed properly.”
“He cannot change how the world sees me.” She smiled, not wanting to reveal that she did care about the opinion everyone held of her, a great deal.
“Of course he could—he is the great Sir Alexander, the earl’s closest brother!”
Alana was suddenly overcome. “What would I do without you?”
Eleanor walked to the open chest and began removing garments from it. They were her clothes. “I am an old woman, Alana, and one day, you will have to get on without me. Which is why I wish for you to have a good husband at your side.” She now removed a burlap sack from the chest, and began packing it. “I am going to Nairn with you.”
Alana was surprised. “Gran,” she began, instinctively protesting. Eleanor was agile and spry, and Nairn was but a half day’s horseback ride from Brodie. Still, the woman could hardly ride—they would need a wagon or a litter. And the journey would be in the midst of winter, with snow threatening to fall. She should not come.
“Do not argue. I have not seen your father or Buchan in years. And you have never met Buchan. He has never met you. If your father has no care for your future, perhaps we can convince the earl to provide for you. You are his brother’s daughter.”
Alana did not want to jeopardize her grandmother’s good health on a winter journey, even if it was a short one, and she had heard—everyone had heard—that Buchan was a cold and at times a ruthless man.
“He cannot change my infamy,” Alana said.
“Of course he can. He is the most powerful man in the north of Scotland.”
* * *
THEY LEFT THE next morning. The sun was high, but it had snowed the previous afternoon and night, and a fresh fall blanketed the road and the woods. The mountains surrounding them were white. Alana rode in a small wagon with her grandmother, driving the mule in the traces. Godfrey had not cared that Eleanor wished to accompany her, and had given them a single man as an escort. Connaught rode beside them, a mail tunic beneath his fur cloak.
The wagon and the snow made the going slow. In the midafternoon, when they were but a short distance from the castle, Alana stiffened.
Something was wrong.
She did not need a vision to know it. She simply sensed danger, and as she did, she noticed a gray pall beyond the line of trees that lay ahead. She smelled smoke.
“There is a fire nearby,” the soldier said sharply, abruptly drawing his mount to a halt.
Alana’s nape prickled. The gray pall staining the blue sky was definitely smoke. She pulled hard on the reins, halting the mule. It snorted, long ears pricked, alarmed.
“Alana,” Eleanor cried.
But Alana heard the horses whinnying in fright, saw the glow of a fire beyond the trees. And was she imagining it or did she hear men shouting in fear and agony?
Because the sounds of the horses and men were so familiar—exactly like the sounds in her last vision!
Her heart slammed. “Can you go ahead and see what is happening? Without being remarked?” she asked Connaught.
“Aye.” He spurred his horse aggressively forward, galloping away.
Alana felt entirely exposed, sitting in the wagon with her grandmother, on the deserted and snowy road, no longer hidden by the surrounding woods.
Eleanor took her hand. “We should turn back.”
She hesitated. “I am wondering if we are about to encounter the battle from my vision, Gran.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened as Connaught galloped back to them. “They have attacked the MacDuffs’ home, Boath Manor! They are burning it to the ground! And they carry Bruce’s flag!”
Alana’s tension increased. “Surely Bruce’s army is not beyond those trees?” she cried.
“It is but a few dozen Highlanders, mistress. Still, they are warring with Duncan’s men.”
Her heart thundered. They were but minutes away from a terrible battle, a part of the great war for Scotland’s throne.
“Turn the wagon, Mistress Alana,” Connaught ordered. “We must go back before we are discovered.”
She thought of the dark-haired Highlander who had been betrayed by one of his own men. If she was about to encounter him—and witness such treachery—she could not go back. She did not know why, but she was compelled to warn him.
Alana began to get down from the wagon. “Will you take Eleanor back to Brodie?”
“Alana,” Eleanor gasped. “You cannot stay—we must turn around!”
“I have to see what is happening. But I will hide in the trees, I promise you.” Before she had finished speaking, she could hear the men shouting, the horses neighing, more loudly. The battle had moved closer to them.
She turned, and she could see the fire on the other side of the trees far more clearly, bright and brilliant. “You’ll never outrun them with a wagon. But damned if I will