A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

Iain was wounded. There was a great deal of blood. Did you see him bleeding out? If I am very fortunate, he is dead!”

      “There was blood everywhere! There were wounded men and the dead!”

      Duncan stared angrily. “I think you enjoy lying to me. Well, you will not enjoy it when Nairn falls to those bloodthirsty Highlanders.”

      Alana shivered and pulled her wool mantle closer.

      “Is he such a terrible enemy, my lord?” her grandmother asked.

      Duncan faced her. “Before he was given this army, he was but one more mad Highlander eager to slit our throats in the night. He preyed upon our ships on the western seas. Upon our merchants on the high roads. But that has changed. Bruce has come into the habit of having him advance first in every fray, to secure a path for Bruce’s larger army. He has not been defeated since his cousin provisioned him.” He turned his stare upon Alana, and she glimpsed dread and fear in his eyes. “If he takes Nairn, none of us will survive.”

      Alana finally spoke, but thickly, “Is a peace possible?”

      “No.” Duncan was vehement. “Bruce intends to be king—just as he intends to destroy the earldom of Buchan.”

      And it seemed as if he was succeeding. The greater ramifications of the war began to sink in. Buchan destroyed, Brodie lost, her uncle and father hanged as traitors...

      “If Nairn is attacked—if any of my castles are attacked—I will instruct my archers to place all their attention upon any man who resembles Iain of Islay.” Duncan was final.

      Alana was aghast. Duncan hoped to assassinate Iain? Eleanor quickly put her arm around her. “We should go up,” her grandmother murmured.

      But Duncan walked over to her and rudely clasped her shoulder. His grip was hard, and Alana was forced to meet his gaze, as she could hardly get free.

      “Buchan will be here tomorrow,” he said. “By tomorrow, I expect you to have the answers you did not have today.”

      “I have told you everything.”

      “Have you?”

      “I cannot tell you what I do not know.”

      “Then try harder, Alana, to know what you must. Unless you wish to displease me another time, and displease your mighty uncle, as well.” Duncan released her and turned his back on them.

      Alana looked at her grandmother and, as one, they hurried from the hall. Outside, they paused, clasping hands. “He is threatening me!” she cried.

      Eleanor was as shaken. “We must be careful, Alana, truly careful, now.”

      “Yes, because suddenly I am valuable to them! But I am to please my uncle? How will I do that?” Alana cried. She lowered her voice. “Lying to Duncan is one thing. I do not think it wise to lie to the Earl of Buchan.”

      “You must not lie to your uncle—but you will not please him if he ever learns you care about Iain of Islay,” Eleanor said in a terse whisper.

      Alana flinched. “He is a stranger, Gran, that is all, and I doubt I will see him again.”

      Eleanor gave her a pitying look.

      * * *

      “IT IS THE EARL OF BUCHAN,” Eleanor said, hurrying into the small tower chamber they shared.

      It was the next afternoon. Alana took one look at her grandmother’s grim countenance and worried eyes and she rushed to the room’s single window. The shutters were closed to ward off the cold but she opened them and looked outside.

      It was another sunny day, with bright blue skies, the countryside patched with snow. A huge army was below the castle, a sea of tents being formed. And dozens of knights were riding up the road at a rapid trot, the earl’s banner waving above them. A black bear and gold lion were rampant atop a field of red, against a black, red and gold shield.

      She gripped the stone ledge of the window. Buchan would be amongst the first knights, wouldn’t he? She did not have a clue as to which rider he was.

      And was Sir Alexander with him?

      Would she finally see her father again, after all of these years? She was so afraid of what their reunion would be like!

      Eleanor put her arm around her. “Whatever you do, be polite, and do not displease him,” she said.

      Alana felt ill. “He will soon ask me about my vision—and it is a lie. I could not sleep at all last night. Every tale I have ever heard about the earl recurred to me. I do not know what to do.”

      “Then maybe it is time for the truth,” Eleanor said, low. “Without revealing your feelings.”

      Alana jerked, shocked by the suggestion. Was she saying that Alana should reveal her true vision about the battle at Boath Manor—about Iain of Islay? For if she did, Buchan would value her not as his niece, but as his witch.

      Both women turned back to the window and watched until the knights had ridden beneath the tower gates, and could be seen no more. Alana gripped her hands in front of her. She knew she would be summoned downstairs soon. She was frightened. “Is Buchan as ruthless as is claimed?” Alana whispered.

      Eleanor gave her a reassuring smile. “When I knew him as young man, he wasn’t ruthless at all,” Eleanor said. “Infamy is never kind.”

      Alana did not answer. Her uncle was infamous now. All of Scotland, and perhaps all of England, knew of the Earl of Buchan and his ruthless rage. For his young wife, Isabella of Fife, the Countess of Buchan, had betrayed him by crowning Bruce two years earlier at Scone. It was even said that she had been Bruce’s lover, and Bruce had gone to great lengths to keep her safe with his queen and daughter. But all the women of Bruce’s court had been captured by the English that summer. And now, Isabella was kept in a cage at Berwick, a spectacle for all the world to gawk at and scorn.

      The mighty Earl of Buchan did not care; in fact, he wanted her dead.

      A knock sounded on their door. Alana jumped as Eleanor opened it. Sir Roger nodded at them. “The earl wishes to see Mistress Alana,” he said.

      Alana’s anxiety spiraled uncomfortably. “Come with me,” she said to Eleanor, taking her hand.

      The two women followed Sir Roger down the narrow stairwell. Hard male voices could be heard from within the great hall. One was Duncan’s. The other had to belong to the great Earl of Buchan.

      They had reached the threshold. Alana faltered and stared.

      There was no mistaking the Earl of Buchan, and not because he was well dressed in the fashion of the French and English courts, his rings gold, the hilt of his sword bejeweled. Middle-aged and gray of hair, he emanated power and an air of command. He instantly turned to stare at them.

      “Lady Fitzhugh and Mistress le Latimer,” Sir Roger said, but informally.

      Buchan stood alone with Duncan, not far from one hearth. Her father was not with them.

      Buchan smiled. “So you are my niece.”

      Alana nodded and curtsied. “My lord.”

      Buchan paced over to her, his gaze filled with speculation. “I remember your mother, Mistress Alana. You so resemble her.” He spoke firmly, but not unpleasantly.

      Alana did not know what to say.

      “She was very beautiful. And you are from Brodie Castle? The place that was once your mother’s?”

      Alana nodded, her gaze glued to his. He did not seem ruthless. He seemed kind. “Brodie was my mother’s dowry, my lord.”

      “Yes. I recall that. But the circumstances of your birth prevented you from having a claim. Duncan tells me you are twenty, and unwed.”

      She so hoped the subject of witchcraft would not arise. “I am not wed.”

      “So