A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

two years ago, by the Earl of Buchan. She wondered if the earl had arrived; she wondered if Sir Alexander was within.

      She wondered if Iain of Islay would be amongst those attacking Nairn, if that is what Bruce did.

      “They have seen us,” Eleanor said.

      Alana smiled grimly and lifted the mule’s reins, clucking to him. Her tension felt impossible to bear. It had been difficult enough forgetting her every encounter with Iain, especially that shocking kiss. She felt fortunate to have escaped him, and she was determined not to dwell on their strange meeting or even stranger parting. No matter what he had said, it was unlikely that she would ever cross paths with him again.

      She had more urgent matters to consider. She would soon meet her powerful uncle, and see her father for the second time in her life.

      The journey up the road to the castle’s front gates seemed endless now. The hill was steep, the road rutted and frozen. The going was slow, made the worse by anticipation and dread. She wished she knew if the earl and her father had already arrived at Nairn, if they were within, and preparing to receive her.

      When they finally reached the very top of the road, and were but a shout away from the watchtowers, a group of English soldiers galloped out of the barbican to meet them. Alana halted the mule, her heart skipping as the knights thundered up to them.

      The knights formed a tight circle around them. They were clad in full armor, but each man had his visor up. Alana saw a dozen hard faces, the elderly ones lined, the young ones boyish and pale, and a dozen pairs of hard, cold eyes.

      A middle-aged knight with a gray beard and chilly blue eyes rode up to her. “Identify yourself.”

      “I am Alana le Latimer and this is my grandmother, Lady Fitzhugh,” she said quickly.

      “Sir Duncan has been expecting you,” the elderly knight said. “I am Sir Roger, Duncan’s sergeant at arms. You’re a day late. What has kept you?” He was harsh.

      Alana somehow smiled. “There was a battle at Boath Manor. We were put out to hide, and then we wished to aid the mistress and her children. So we had to wait until Bruce’s men were gone. They did not leave until dawn.”

      The knight nodded, glancing at Mary and her children in the back of the cart. “I will escort you to Sir Duncan. He is impatient to speak with you.”

      Alana did not look at her grandmother as they drove the mule into the keep. Because of Mary’s presence, they had not discussed the impending interview with Duncan. But Alana had spent the past few hours considering it.

      Duncan of Frendraught would want to know about her encounter with Iain of Islay. She could not tell him that she had succored his enemy. He would be enraged. He might even accuse her of treachery. It seemed better to insist that the battle at Boath Manor had delayed them, and that they had spent the night in hiding.

      Iain might be the enemy, but just then, she preferred him as her ally against Duncan. She was acutely aware that how she felt was inappropriate, but Duncan was even more intimidating than his son. He had absolute control over her, and Alana despised him even more greatly than she did Godfrey.

      In the courtyard, Sir Roger helped her and Eleanor from the wagon. Mary slid down by herself, then got her two children out. Alana went to her.

      She had hardly had a word with her, but she smiled kindly. The woman had no belongings, no home, and her husband was at war, fighting in Buchan’s army. “I will insist that Duncan give you a chamber. But what will you do next?”

      Mary was very fair and though she was in her late twenties, her eyes were filled with fatigue, her face lined with worry. “I will try to get word to my husband, and when this war is over, we will rebuild our home.”

      Alana took her hand. “You are welcome at Brodie Castle, Mary, until your home is rebuilt.”

      Mary’s eyes widened. “How could I accept such charity?”

      “I am certain we could find a place for you in the household, until you are settled at Boath Manor again.”

      Tears of gratitude filled her eyes.

      Sir Roger was waiting impatiently, and Alana turned away. She and Eleanor followed him up the steps and through the great hall’s pair of wooden doors.

      Duncan of Frendraught was awaiting them. He stood in the center of the hall, hands on his bulky hips, scowling. Like Godfrey, he was blond, blue-eyed and arrogant. Unlike Godfrey, he had spent most of his life fighting for the Comyn family, and was a hardened soldier. He had been awarded command of Elgin last year, as well as several manors and an estate.

      He strode toward her, clad in a dark blue cote, the sleeves tight and fitted, a short brown surcote over it. Rings glinted on his thick hands. He wore his sword, a sign of the war that raged so close by. “What has kept you, mistress?”

      “There was a battle at Boath Manor,” she said, unsmiling. “We had to hide in the woods, even through the night, as the army camped there.”

      “You spent the night in the woods with your grandmother? I am amazed you did not freeze to death.” He reached up and toyed with a tendril of her hair.

      She pushed his hand away.

      Duncan smiled mockingly. “Perhaps you should have allowed a maid to attend you before meeting me, Alana.” He reached out again and tucked the tendril behind her ear, his fingers lingering upon her skin.

      She flinched, furious. Duncan had been toying with her since she was twelve—when he had tried to touch her breasts and thighs in a most lecherous manner. For several years, only her quick wit—and the threat to curse him—had left her unharmed. When she was fifteen, he had assaulted her after a night of heavy drinking. Alana had crashed a pot upon his head, and ever since, he had kept some distance, but his behavior remained rude and suggestive.

      “Still afraid of a man’s touch?” He laughed.

      “Afraid? I am not afraid, I loathe your touch.”

      “Only because you are as cold-blooded as your mother was not.”

      Alana wanted to strike him. But he had referred to her mother as a whore so often that the insult had lost much of its significance. She could control her rage—she had had years of practice doing so. “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “I did not come here to trade old barbs with you.”

      “No, you came because I commanded it.” His stare had turned to ice.

      “Yes, I came upon command, for you are my liege.” She looked at her feet and curtsied. Now they had an uneasy truce. She knew he disliked her as much as she did him.

      “As your liege, I will tell you I am tired of your lies. So do not claim you spent the night on the road in the midst of winter. Lady Eleanor would be dead,” he snapped.

      She lifted her chin and stared. How she felt like taunting him—and telling him that she had succored Iain of Islay. “We spent the night in an abandoned farmhouse, down the road from the manor.”

      He eyed her with suspicion. “If I ever learn that you have lied, Alana, you will pay dearly.”

      She smiled coldly, even as dread formed. “What else could have possibly kept us?”

      “I intend to find out!” He turned his back to her and called to a serving maid. Then he faced her anew. “We heard about the battle,” he then said to her. “I had sent a small force south, and Iain of Islay defeated my men at Boath Manor. Did you see the fighting?”

      “When we heard the battle, we hid in the woods until it was safe to escape to the farmhouse, where we spent the night, waiting for the army to leave.” She would repeat this story until the end of time, if need be.

      “You forget, I know you well, I have known you since you were six or seven.” Duncan had become her guardian when she was six, which was when he had also become castellan—not lord—of Brodie. “You remain as curious as a wild little