A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

Eleanor to stay with her.

      Duncan laughed. “You are to stay here until you are summoned.” He turned, nodding Eleanor toward the door.

      “What?” Alana cried.

      “You heard me, Alana—you will not leave this room until you are summoned.” He was savagely satisfied.

      “Am I to be imprisoned here?” Alana was in disbelief. She could feel the glass bowl of water behind her—as if the water had a life of its own.

      It beckoned.

      “Come, old woman,” Duncan ordered.

      Alana seized her grandmother’s hand. “Gran!”

      “I will be fine, Alana. And so will you.”

      She was to be locked in her room with water. How could she be fine? Her visions were never pleasant ones. She had spent her life avoiding them—avoiding water. Dear God!

      “You will help him, if you can see the future of Buchan,” Eleanor said. “And then maybe he will help us.”

      Somehow, Alana nodded. Duncan snorted and took her grandmother’s arm, guiding her rudely from the room. He did not look back as the knight who had brought the glass bowl to her room closed her door. Stunned, Alana sank down on the bed closest to the door.

      Behind her, she felt the bowl of water, a forbidding and omniscient presence.

      She heard two pairs of steps departing. She stood and went to the door, taking up the latch. As she did, she heard a movement outside. The knight remained in the hall.

      Tears arose and flooded her eyes. She walked back to the bed and sat down on its end. She folded her hands in her lap. She did not turn her gaze to the glass bowl.

      Was she a prisoner? How could that be? Perhaps the knight was there to protect her, but from what, she could not say.

      She wiped the moisture from her lids. There were secrets in the room now, and they felt heavy. They felt dark. She refused to look up.

      She recalled Iain of Islay, as he was about to break down the door of the burning manor, as he turned and gazed across the battle at her. She closed her eyes in despair.

      This was not the time of think of Iain. She must think about her uncle, her father, her Comyn relations—and the earldom. She must have the courage to seek a vision, instead of dreading one.

      Slowly, Alana turned around until she could see the glass bowl of water.

      It seemed to stare back at her, cool and clear.

      Her heart was rioting in her breast.

      The water was still. Silent.

      Alana stared, the bowl blurring, but not from any vision. She could not see through her tears.

      * * *

      “GOOD MORNING, MISTRESS ALANA,” Buchan said the next morning, his smile pleasant.

      Alana stood on the threshold of the great hall, a knight with her. She had been summoned by her uncle, and the knight had retrieved her from her chamber and escorted her downstairs.

      Alana managed to reply. “Good morning.” But she was filled with trepidation. She had not slept at all last night. And she had not had a single vision, either.

      Buchan gestured her inside. Several knights sat with him at the table, as did Duncan, staring hatefully at her. Her grandmother was not present.

      Alana walked to the table, and took the seat indicated by Buchan. “Did you pass a pleasant night?” he asked.

      Would he be angry when she revealed that she had not had a vision? Or would he be reasonable? This far, he had not been ruthless or unkind, although she could not decide if she was being kept a prisoner. “I am unaccustomed to sleeping alone. My grandmother has shared my chamber since I was born. I did not sleep well, my lord.”

      “I am sorry to hear it.”

      “Will I be allowed to see my grandmother today?”

      “Of course.” He gestured at the knight who had escorted her down. “Please ask Lady Fitzhugh to come down for the breakfast.”

      Alana bit her lip. “Thank you, my lord.”

      “You’re welcome. Did you see the future, Alana?”

      She did not move, hands in her lap. It was a moment before she spoke. “No, my lord, I did not.”

      “Then I am not pleased.” His smile was gone, his stare uncomfortably piercing.

      She flinched. “I tried, my lord. My visions frighten me and I dread them, but I tried.”

      “Trying will not help me and it will not help the earldom,” Buchan said. “We do not have time on our side. Bruce is but a day’s march away. There will be a battle soon. You must try harder, Alana, to see the future for me.”

      “I understand,” she said.

      “Do you? Did you look at the water? Reflect upon it? Pray?”

      “Yes, my lord, I did.”

      He studied her closely. “Your father has never spoken of you. I had heard years ago about his affair with your mother, and that a daughter had been conceived. But I had truly forgotten your existence, until Duncan brought you here. Would it inspire you if I told you I am eager to help you now that you have my protection?”

      Alana somehow smiled, stiff with tension. She was no fool. If she pleased him and had a vision as he wished, he would be helpful to her—he would find her a husband. “I am already inspired, my lord,” she said, when the opposite was true.

      “You should be married, with a manor of your own.”

      “No man will have me.”

      “They will if I say so,” Buchan said.

      Alana could not look away.

      “Do you wish for a husband? A home of your own? Children?”

      She could only recall Godfrey’s bullying and Duncan’s arrogance and advances—and Iain’s courage in the battle for Boath Manor. She suddenly looked at him. “Brodie Castle is my home.”

      “Of course it is. Clearly, you are attached. You do know it would not be out of the question to return it to you.”

      Alana gasped.

      “Would that please you?” he asked.

      She knew she was being played and manipulated. But dear God, it would be a dream come true, to have Brodie returned to her. It would be just.

      “I see you would wish, very much, to be the lady of Brodie,” he said softly.

      Oh, God, she thought, if only I could have a vision—one that will please him! “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it would please me so much.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Duncan, who was in shock.

      But he did not need Brodie! He had two manors and an estate!

      Buchan leaned close. “Bruce murdered my cousin,” he said to her, more softly. “He stole the throne, and even my wife. And now he rapes and plunders Buchan lands. He has destroyed Inverlochy, Urquhart and Inverness.”

      Unable to look away, she trembled.

      “Will he march on Nairn? Will he march on Elgin, on Banf? Will we defeat him? Will I?”

      He was asking for so much! “It is hard enough,” she said, low, “seeking out a vision, much less requiring a specific one to occur.”

      He patted her hand. “But you are a Comyn. You are your father’s daughter as much as your mother’s. As a Comyn, you must do your duty to me and mine.”

      “I want to do my duty,” she cried. And it was true. Never mind that she had not been raised as a Comyn, or that the entire Comyn family