A Sword Upon the Rose

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She could not have a vision that he did not like. Fate could not be so cruel. “Gran, I must see a good future for the earldom!”

Her grandmother said, very low, “Perhaps you should create the vision he seeks.”

Alana started, her heart lurching. Speaking as low, she whispered, “I do not want to lie to him. He is my uncle.”

“Do not be deceived. He does not care about any blood ties!”

Alana tensed. “I am not sure of that.”

“Please, Alana, be wary of him.” Eleanor took her hand. “I know how much you yearn for affection from that family. I know how you hope for it. But you must keep your wits about you—now more so than ever.”

Eleanor was the wisest person Alana knew, and she sensed she was right—though she wished that wasn’t so.

“Mistress Alana.” The knight came forward. “The earl has told me you are allowed five minutes and that time is over. You must return to your chamber.”

“Already?”

“You will be allowed to walk in the afternoon—and to sup with his lordship this evening,” Sir John said.

Alana suddenly realized the extent of her confinement. “Gran—are you well cared for?” she asked quickly as the knight took her arm.

Eleanor nodded. “I am fine, Alana. But it is you we must worry about. I am praying for you. The sooner you have a vision pleasing to the earl, the sooner we will be able to go home.”

With dismay, Alana comprehended her meaning exactly. She sent her grandmother a last smile, and went with Sir John up the stairs.

* * *

SEVERAL DAYS PASSED, each day exactly like the one before it. In the morning Alana was summoned to the hall for the breakfast, and there, Buchan asked how she had passed the night. He would then ask if she had had a vision. But there were no visions in the glass bowl of clear water, and with trepidation she would tell him that she had no prophecies to make. He would smile politely, but his displeasure was obvious.

Eleanor was always present for the breakfast, and they would briefly speak before Alana was taken back to her room. There she would stare at the water and pray for a vision of the earldom’s future—one pleasing to Buchan.

Each afternoon she strolled about the courtyard with her grandmother and Sir John. In the evening, she supped with the earl and his men.

And at night, in the glow of the bedchamber’s firelight, she stared at the glass of water, desperately awaiting a vision. None came. There was only a growing sense of despair.

And would she ever be allowed to go home? Brodie Castle was her home, even if it belonged to Duncan, and even if, one day, it would be Godfrey’s. She had been at Nairn almost a week, and the four walls of her chamber were beginning to feel like a jail cell.

It was dusk now, and Alana entered the great hall, Sir John behind her. To her shock, only her grandmother was present. Eleanor hurried toward her. “There is rampant gossip about the castle this afternoon!” she cried.

Alana seized her arm. “What has happened, pray tell?”

“Your father defends Lochindorb Castle—from Iain of Islay!”

Alana froze.

She had thought about the dark Highlander who fought for Robert Bruce. He had been impossible to forget, and not simply because of her vision about him. His dark, powerful image haunted her. So did his inexplicable kiss.

She did not want to recall the brief time she had spent in his camp. She did not want to be interested in him, not even remotely, not in any way. But she had wondered how he fared. She even worried about Duncan’s plan to assassinate him should he attack Nairn. And she did fear that her father and Iain might cross paths in this war, with Sir Alexander left in the south to defend them. And now, it seemed as if the worst had happened.

“Where is Lochindorb?” Alana asked.

Eleanor looked at Sir John, who came forward. “It is two days to the south, if one rides without interruption,” he said.

“Is it true?” Alana asked him. “Is my father at Lochindorb—defending it from Iain of Islay?”

Buchan stormed into the hall, followed by a dozen knights, everyone in full armor. Obviously he had heard her question, for he snapped, “It was true. Lochindorb has fallen.” His eyes were burning with barely repressed anger.

Alana could not quite breathe. “My father?” she managed to ask.

“I do not know where he is, but the keep fell two days ago. The battle did not last an entire morning!” Buchan cried. He began to pace in a frenzy, head down, as he clearly deliberated the next course of action.

Alana stared at him. Her uncle wasn’t just angry—he was uneasy and anxious. Was he afraid that Sir Alexander was hurt? She prayed her father had survived his encounter with Iain. “Can we send a man for news of Sir Alexander?”

He stared at her, as if in disbelief. “I cannot worry about my brother now, when I must defend my land from Bruce!”

Her heart sank. Didn’t he care about his brother? Or was he only afraid of losing this war to Bruce? Everyone was dressed for battle. Clearly, her uncle was leaving to take his army to war.