A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

was no outpouring of welcoming support from his old tenants, he had taken to the forests to terrorize the villagers and squires at will—until they sued him for peace, paying dearly in tribute for it. He had then gone to war upon all of Galloway, to exact revenge for the capture and execution of two of his brothers. He had met and defeated Aymer de Valence at Loudoun Hill. And recently, he had turned his attention to the north of Scotland—to Buchan territory.

      For the Earl of Buchan and the entire Comyn family was his oldest and worst enemy.

      Bruce had taken a series of small strongholds since the fall, before attacking and destroying the Buchan fortresses at Inverlochy and Urquhart, in a quick sequence. And apparently, he continued to march up the Great Glen, for he had just taken and destroyed Inverness!

      Was it now possible that Robert Bruce might be triumphant?

      Would he even think of attacking Brodie Castle? Alana wondered with a shrinking sensation. Until now, the war had not concerned her—it had been a distant affair, the concern of her father and the family she had never been a part of.

      Brodie was such a tiny stronghold! Why would Bruce bother?

      What about the odd vision she had just had? Had she seen a battle in the war for Scotland’s throne?

      She hurried after Godfrey.

      “Alana!” her grandmother called.

      Alana ignored her, racing after Godfrey and catching up to him in the hall. “Where does Bruce go now?” she asked.

      He glared at her. “He continues to march north, and he will surely descend upon Nairn or Elgin,” Godfrey said furiously, referring to two of the greatest Comyn strongholds. “And Brodie lies betwixt them!”

      Alana trembled. “Will he attack us?”

      “I hope not! We are not fully provisioned,” Godfrey said. “I have sent a messenger to my father, asking him for more men. Surely Duncan will send us soldiers. And I am hoping Buchan will send us men, as well. Meanwhile, I am rousing up every tenant and villager that I can, to bear arms in defense here if we must indeed defend the keep.”

      Alana stared. It was one thing to know that a terrible war raged throughout the land for Scotland’s crown, it was another to be so close to the battlefront—to the path of destruction waged by the ruthless Robert Bruce.

      Godfrey suddenly leaned over her, far too closely for comfort. He spoke and his breath feathered her face. “You should have a vision, Alana, a vision about Brodie and its future!”

      She flushed. “You know as well as I do that I cannot see upon command.”

      “Truly? Or is it that you simply have no care for us here at Brodie?” He snorted in disbelief and strode to the table, where his men remained. “Bring more wine, Alana,” he ordered, not looking back at her.

      She watched him for another moment. No matter how she tried, she could not control how much she disliked him. And he was right—partly. She had no care for his welfare, none.

      When she returned to the kitchens, where the lamb was now on a platter and about to be served, Eleanor took her hand. “What is it, Alana?”

      “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