A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce
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began to eat.
Alana did not move. Although she had never given any thought to her future, not as a man’s wife, not as a child’s mother, tears arose. Was it possible that she might one day have a husband, children—a family?
“You are not eating,” Buchan said.
Alana was jerked out of her hopes and dreams. She smiled at him, and picked up her utensils. Dutifully, she began to eat.
THE MEN WERE leaving the table. Alana made no move to get up, as Eleanor had joined them, but they had had no chance to speak privately yet. “My lord?” she called to Buchan’s back.
In the doorway, the earl turned.
“Dare I ask you about my father?” She trembled as she spoke. She had not heard Sir Alexander mentioned, not even once.
Buchan returned to her. “Your father was on his way here, Alana, but I sent him a missive ordering him to remain in the south—to hold the line against Bruce if Bruce marches north toward Nairn or Elgin.”
Her mind raced. Didn’t Iain always lead Bruce’s army? Would Iain’s army clash with her father’s?
“You seem dismayed,” Buchan said.
She forced a smile. “I was hoping to see him. It has been many years.”
“I am sure you will see Sir Alexander, in time. I will let you know when he is on his way to Nairn.” Buchan turned to go.
“My lord? Could I visit with my grandmother, just for a bit?”
He glanced at her. “You may have a few minutes, Alana, but then I wish for you to return to your chamber and seek out a vision for me.” He left with Duncan and the other men.
Alana stared after him. So that was how it was to be? She would now spend her days closeted in her chamber with a bowl of water? And would she only be allowed a brief moment with her grandmother—her best friend, her closest confidante?
And her father was not on his way to Nairn.
Eleanor took her hand. “Alana?”
She stole a quick glance at the door, but the men were gone. Only a single knight remained—the English knight who had been outside her door since the previous day. Clearly, Sir John was now her guard. “I am fine—but I have not had a vision.”
Eleanor squeezed her hand. “I have been so worried about you! He is keeping you locked up with that glass of water.... Shame on him, to use and abuse you so!”
“Gran! Hush! We must not speak ill of the earl!” Alana shot a glance at Sir John, who was listening to their every word. She flushed, as he did not try to conceal his interest. Although it was not quite true, she said, “I do not feel exactly like a captive, Gran. I think he believes that solitude will aid me in my quest for a vision. I so want to help. He is my uncle.” She pulled her grandmother toward the hearth, farther from Sir John.
She realized she was defending her uncle—and that she wanted to defend him. Was it not inexplicable? Yet he had treated her far better than anyone in the Comyn family had ever done. She did not need a guard—she would obey him if he merely asked. Surely, she was not a prisoner.
“I do not recognize the earl anymore,” Eleanor said. “The young man I once liked has grown up into a ruthlessly ambitious man.”
“He has been kind to me,” Alana began.
“Oh, child! He is tossing you crumbs, and you devour them as if they are an entire loaf! The earl is using you for his own ends. He does not care that you are his niece.”
How her grandmother’s words hurt—and how they rang true. Alana refused to listen to her now. “He has suggested he will return Brodie Castle to me if I please him with a vision.”
Eleanor cried out. She finally said, “And what if your vision is not what he expects? What if the future is not to his liking?”
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