A Sword Upon the Rose

“Bruce might attack, Gran.”

For a moment, Eleanor was silent. Then, “At least you did not see Brodie Castle burning,” she said.

There was finally some small relief in that truth. She had not seen Brodie aflame.

* * *

ALANA STRAIGHTENED, wiping perspiration out of her eyes in spite of the cold. She held a shovel, as did a dozen others, mostly young boys, old men and women her own age. They were helping to enlarge the ditch that surrounded the castle, in case they were attacked.

Her hands were frozen in spite of the mittens she wore. The sun was finally in descent and clouds were rushing in, indicating a coming snowfall. It had taken several hours to remove the frozen and crusted snow from the moat, and now, they were digging out frozen dirt. It was a task best suited to strong and grown men, but most of the adult men from the area had gone to war years ago; a handful remained to defend Brodie, should the need ever arise.

One of Godfrey’s sergeants signaled them that they could go inside for the evening; they would finish on the morrow. Alana leaned on her shovel, exhausted.

Even as she did, images danced about in her mind’s eye. She continued to recall the dark, powerful Highland warrior who had been commanding his small army as they battled English knights not far from the burning manor. How she wished he did not haunt her thoughts.

She did not even recognize the manor they fought for. She kept trying to remember if she had seen a banner, or the colors of a plaid. But nothing came to her. And she had not recognized the land, what little she had glimpsed of it. There was only one new detail—she had seen patches of snow about the ground.

So the battle had been in winter.

But what she truly wished to know was the identity of the Highland warrior—and the reason for her vision about him.

Alana followed the others inside. Although Godfrey was pacing in the hall, she went to one of the hearths there to warm her frozen hands. He whirled and stalked to her.

His expression was dark and so ugly. Then she saw the unrolled parchment in his hand. He waved it at her.

“You will be pleased to know that my father cannot spare a single man, and Brodie’s defense falls to me.” He threw the vellum at her.

Her heart thundered. “That hardly pleases me.”

“Oh, come! We both know you covet Brodie Castle, that you think you have a claim to it, that you hate me because I will be lord and master here—over you!” He wasn’t gloating. He was angry.

“This place belonged to my mother, so I do have a claim, but not unless something ill befalls you,” she said carefully.

“And you pray for just such an ill fortune, do you not? I don’t trust you, Alana!”

“I do not want Brodie to fall to Robert Bruce.” She meant it. Her father might have forgotten her very existence, but he was her father, and she would be loyal to him in the end. “How can we defend Brodie?”

Godfrey looked at her oddly as he paced, his energy pent up. “I see no way to prevail if Bruce attacks us. We must hope his interest lies in Nairn, Elgin and Banf. The earl is on his way to Nairn as we speak, where my father is, to plan a defense of all the Buchan lands.”

Godfrey was frightened beneath the anger. She almost felt sorry for him, for he was in a terrible position—he could hardly defend Brodie against Bruce without any men. “I heard that Bruce destroyed Inverlochy, Urquhart and Inverness. That he left few stones standing. Is that true?”

“It’s true.” His gaze was sharp. “I know what you are asking. I don’t know if he would burn Brodie to the ground. He is the devil. He destroys every castle he takes, so we cannot retake the ground and use it against him!”

She could not bear to see Brodie reduced to rubble and ashes, and she closed her eyes to ward off such terrible images. She felt faint.

She prayed she would not have a vision—that she would not see Brodie burned to the ground.

“You might want to know one other thing, Alana.” His harsh voice broke into her thoughts and her eyes flew open. “Sir Alexander is on his way to Nairn, as well.”

She froze.

“What is wrong, Alana?” Godfrey leered, but with anger. “You are white! But this is not the first time your father has been but a short distance from us—without his ever calling.”

Her heart lurched, hard. This would not be the first time her father had been in the vicinity, although he had never come to Brodie except that one time when she was a small child. Did she foolishly hope she might see him again? And what would she gain if she did?

He had tried to arrange a marriage for her when she was thirteen, but his efforts had been short-lived. Since then, there had been no word. If he wished to see her, he would have simply sent for her. So either he had forgotten about her, or he simply did not care.

It hurt, when the hurt should have died ages ago. “You are the bastard he does not want,” Godfrey said.

She faced him, suddenly furious. “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 die to save an old woman and a witch.” Suddenly Connaught was galloping away.

Alana choked, shocked that he would leave them there—two women alone and defenseless!

“Alana, if they are coming this way, you must hide! Forget me!” Eleanor’s eyes were wide with fright.

Alana reached for the mule’s bridle. “I am not forgetting you, Gran. Let’s get you hidden.”

“And what about you?” Eleanor demanded. “I am an old woman. My life is done. You are young. Your life is ahead of you!”

“Do not speak that way! Come.” Alana led the mule and the wagon off the road, no easy task. The mule was balking and unruly, while the snow became deeper, until finally the wagon was stuck. But they were off the road, and not as obvious as they had been. In any case, she could not coax the mule any farther.

Alana glanced around and saw an outcropping of rocks. She could leave Eleanor in the wagon—or hide her in the cavern there.

Eleanor understood. “I’d rather stay here.”

Alana nodded. “I will not be long.” She covered her grandmother with a second fur.

Eleanor took her hand. “I am frightened for you. Why, Alana? Why won’t you hide here with me?”

Briefly, Alana stared. What was wrong with her? Why did she wish to see if the battle just beyond the woods was the one from her vision? Why was she determined to warn the dark-haired Highlander of treachery? Perhaps sparing him any injury—and saving him from death?

For she had seen him stabbed, and she had seen him fall. She did not know if he would live, or if he would die.

“I am coming back. I am not leaving you here.” She hugged her, hard.

Eleanor clasped her face. “Your mother was stubborn and brave, too.”

Alana somehow smiled and hurried off.

She was too agitated to be cold, as she trudged through the snow back to the road. She headed toward the line of trees that lay ahead, and the sounds of the battle became louder as she approached it. The stench of smoke and fire increased. Filled with fear and dread, her pulse pounding, Alana reached the edge of the wood. She halted, grasping a birch to remain upright.

Her vision was before her, come to life!

The manor was aflame, and English knights and Highland warriors were in a savage battle before it. The snow was bloodred. Swords rang, horses screamed. And then a steed went down, the Highlander astride it leaping off....

Shaken, she felt her knees buckle. But she did not collapse. Frantically, she scanned the fighting men.

Her heart slammed.

A fur flung over his shoulders, bloody sword in hand, long dark hair loose, the Highlander was viciously fighting an English knight. Their huge swords clashed, shrieking, again and again, in the midst of the bloody, battling men.

He looked exactly as she had envisioned him.

Alana was stunned. What did this mean? To happen upon one of her visions this way?

Screams sounded from within the manor.

The Highlander heard them, too. He sheathed his sword and rushed to the door, which was burning. Flames shot from an adjacent window. He rammed his shoulder into the door.

And then he suddenly turned and looked at the woods—as if he was looking at her.

Alana stiffened.

For it almost felt as if their gazes had met, which was impossible.

Within a moment he had vanished inside the burning manor. Flames shot out from the walls near the door.

Alana did not think twice. She began to run out of the trees, toward the battling men—toward the manor.

He appeared in the doorway, a small boy in his arms. A woman and another child ran past him; he let them go first. As he ran out of the house, more of the flaming roof crashed down. He dived to the ground with the child, protecting the boy with his body.

Alana tripped, fell, got up.

He had risen, too, and was ushering the boy into his mother’s arms. Then he whirled to face her.

This time, Alana knew she was entirely visible. This time, in spite of the warring men between them, she knew their eyes met.

For one moment, she paused, breathing hard as they stared at one another, in surprise, in shock.

And then she saw the man behind him. He was approaching rapidly, and was but a short distance away. His hair was shaggy and red.

Her heart seemed to stop. This man meant to betray his fellow Highlander, meant to murder him. “Behind you!” she screamed.

The Highlander whirled, sword in hand. Apparently he did not see any danger, for he faced her again. But the red-haired Scot held a dagger and his strides were unwavering....

Alana tried again. “Behind you! Danger!” As she cried out, he whirled, and his assailant swiftly stabbed him in the chest. Almost simultaneously, the Highlander thrust his sword through the traitor, delivering a fatal blow. Slowly, the other man keeled over.

The Highlander looked across the battle at her, staggered and fell. His blood stained the snow.

Alana heard herself cry out. She began to run toward him again. The English knights who remained mounted were galloping away. Those on foot who could flee were doing so. All that remained was the small, victorious Highland army, the wounded, the dying and the dead.

Alarm motivated her as never before. She had to swerve past bodies, and she tripped on a dead man’s outstretched arm. Someone tried to grab her; she dodged his hand. And then she reached him.

She dropped to her knees in the snow, beside him. “You are hurt,” she cried.

His blue gaze pierced hers, and he seized her wrist, hard. “Who are ye?”

She felt mesmerized by his hard blue eyes. They were filled with suspicion. “You’re bleeding. Let me help.” But his grip was brutal—she could not move.

“Ye wish to help?” he snarled. “Or do ye think to harm me?”

CHAPTER TWO

ALANA’S TENSION WAS impossible to bear. He would not release her wrist, and his stare was colder now. “Dughall,” he said harshly, his gaze unwavering upon her face, “take the dagger from my chest.”

“Aye, my lord.” A tall blond Highlander knelt and ruthlessly yanked the blade from the flesh and tendon where it was embedded.

Alana cried out. The Highlander did not make a sound, although he paled and his grasp on her wrist eased as his blood spewed.

Alana jerked free and seized the hem of her skirts; she pushed a wad of it down hard on his wound. What had he been thinking?

“That was a fine way to remove the blade,” she said tersely. But the enemy blade had missed his heart; she was relieved to see the wound was high up, almost in his shoulder.

He eyed her exposed knee as another man handed her a piece of linen. Alana quickly put it on his wound in place of her skirt. The wound continued to bleed. Dughall knelt, offering the warrior a flask. He took it with his right hand and drank.

Now on both knees in the frozen snow, she shivered—but not from the cold. She was terribly aware of the Highlander she was trying to help. His presence—his proximity—seemed overwhelming. “Your wound needs cleaning. It needs stitches.”

His blue eyes were ice. “Why would ye help me—a stranger?”

She had no answer to give. She did not know why she was compelled to aid him. She did not know why she was worried. But he had clearly survived the attack—and she was relieved.

She had no explanation for her relief, either.

When she made no answer, his eyes darkened with suspicion. He struggled to stand. Instantly he reeled, as if he were a tree buffeted in the wind.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, left holding the bloody linen. She rushed to him to brace him to stand.

“Dughall, tell the men to raise our tents. We will spend the night here.” He did not glance at her, shaking her off, his gaze on the burning manor. It was mostly rubble and smoldering ash now, although some timbers still burned. He appeared satisfied. “No one will use this place against us now.”

Alana recalled what she had heard about Bruce—how his armies left no stones standing. So it was true.

He turned to Alana. “So yer an angel of mercy.” He was mocking.

She flushed. He did not seem grateful for her aid. He seemed highly skeptical.

“I could not let you bleed.”

He turned as if he hadn’t heard her. “And, Dughall, get a needle and thread.”

“Aye, Iain.” Dughall raced off.

Her pulse was racing. His name was Iain. Why did that seem to matter to her? “I can see a simple knife wound will not kill you. You should sit back down, my lord.”

“A true angel.” He eyed her. “Why not, mistress? Why not let a stranger bleed to death?”

She did not know the answer herself!

“Why were ye in the woods? Did ye flee the manor when we attacked?” He spoke sharply.

“No.” She hesitated, now thinking about the fact that Eleanor was hiding in the woods, and it would be dark in another hour. And he was fighting for Robert Bruce. He had been in battle with Duncan’s men. It would be dangerous to reveal who she was, or where she had been going—or why. He was the enemy, even if she had been compelled to help him. “I was on my way to visit kin in Nairn.” A version of the truth would surely do.

“Ye journey alone?” He was obviously doubtful. “And then ye rush into a battle, to aid a stranger?” His stare was unnerving.

She wet her lips. She could not blame him for being so suspicious. “I am not alone. My grandmother is in the woods, where I left our mule and the wagon. We heard the battle....” She stopped. Now what could she say?

“And ye decided to come closer? Ye’ll have to tell a far better tale, my lady.” But now, his gaze swept over her, from head to toe. “Who are ye? Whom do ye visit in Nairn?”

“I am not from the castle,” she managed to say. Had he just looked at her as if she were in a brothel and awaiting his pleasure? “We are simple folk, farmers....” She could barely speak. Men did not look at her with male interest—they were too frightened to ever do so.

For a moment he stared.

“My grandmother carries healing potions.” That much was true. She could finally breathe, somewhat. “If you will allow it, we will clean the wound and put a healing salve on it, then stitch it closed. I must get her, my lord. She is old and it is cold out.”

He turned. “Fergus, go into the woods and bring back an old woman and a wagon.”

A Highlander with long blond hair rushed off to obey.

Alana hoped that was the end of the conversation, but it was not. He said, “Ye still cannot explain why ye rushed into the battle, mistress, when all other women would hide in the woods and pray.”

She again had no answer to make.

His gaze narrow, he took her shoulder and guided her with him to the largest of the tents that had just been erected. He gestured and Alana preceded him inside.

It was warmer within. A boy was laying out furs and a pallet. From outside, she could smell meat roasting—a cook fire had been started. Alana hugged herself. She felt uncomfortable, and not just because of her lies. Twilight was near, and they were alone. He did remain the enemy, he was a warrior, and as such, was frightening.

Dughall stepped inside, carrying a small sack. “Do ye want me to sew it?”

Alana was alarmed. “My lord, the wound must be cleaned first.” He could so easily die of an infection if it were left dirty and unwashed.

His blue gaze upon her, he sank down on the pallet, shoving off the fur that had been loosely draped about his shoulders. For an instant, Alana stared at his broad shoulders, his huge biceps. The upper half of his leine was blood soaked. “Come, angel of mercy,” he said.

Mockery remained in his tone. She looked aside and hurried to him. “Pressure must be kept on the wound.” She tried to sound brisk. “Or you will certainly bleed to death.”