A Sword Upon The Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  She hugged her fur close now, entirely intimidated. “No.”

  “Do ye belong to Boath Manor or Nairn Castle? Or do ye belong somewhere else?”

  Her mind raced. Should she give up her deception? And at least admit that she was from Brodie Castle? For then, perhaps, he would stop interrogating her.

  “So ye still wish to deny me yer identity? Ye only pique my curiosity!”

  She knew she must avoid revealing her relationship to the Comyn family, at least. God only knew what he would do to her if he knew she was Buchan’s niece. “What does it matter, my lord? When you have survived this battle, and this last act of treachery? When I will leave—and we will never see one another again?”

  His smile was hard. “And why would ye think we will never see one another again?”

  She started, incapable of comprehending him.

  “Treachery is like a serpent with many heads,” he said abruptly. “Take one, and others appear, ready and able to strike.”

  What did he mean? “I do not know treachery as you do.”

  He made a harsh sound. “Ye knew of the treachery yesterday. Yer first shout is the proof.”

  Alana finally whispered, “I have tended your wound, my lord. I believe you are in my debt. Will you let us leave? We are expected in Nairn.”

  He slowly smiled at her, not pleasantly. “Are ye certain ye wish to play that card now, Alana?” He tilted up her chin. “That is a marker ye might wish to collect another time.”

  She flinched and he dropped his hand. “What do you intend?” she gasped, shaken.

  “It is hardly safe for two women, one old, one young and fair, to travel about the country.” His gaze was hooded now.

  “Do you refuse to allow us to leave?”

  “Ye have refused to answer my questions. Until ye do, aye, I refuse to allow ye to leave.” His gaze hard, his tone final, he turned abruptly away from her.

  From behind, Alana seized his arm, shocking them both. He whirled to face her, eyes wide, and she dropped her hand. Touching him had somehow been a mistake, she knew that, although she did not know why. She gave up. “I am from Brodie. I am the daughter of Elisabeth le Latimer,” she said hoarsely.

  His stare widened with surprise.

  She could not withstand his intense interrogation, his cold badgering, his distrust—she could not. If she told him something of the truth, some part of it, he might lose interest in discovering the rest, and let them go.

  “Elisabeth le Latimer,” he slowly said. “Is her sister Alexander Comyn’s wife?”

  She swallowed. “Her cousin married Sir Alexander,” she somehow said. She could not believe her father had so quickly entered the conversation. “My mother married Sir Hubert Fitzhugh, bringing him Brodie Castle, a part of her dowry.”

  He studied her with no expression, and then said, “I take it Sir Fitzhugh is not yer father?”

  She flushed. “No. He died before I was born. I am Mistress le Latimer, my lord.” She could barely breathe, and the conversation had become far too dangerous. “Duncan of Frendraught is my liege, and he has summoned us to Nairn.” She tried to smile and knew she failed. “You will probably march on Nairn today or tomorrow or in the next week. I did not think it wise to reveal myself to you.”

  He was considering. “Duncan is lord of Brodie. Fitzhugh had no heirs?”

  She shook her head. “Duncan became lord of Brodie when I was eight.”

  “Why would he summon ye in a dangerous time of war? Surely there are others in Nairn with healing potions.”

  She did not wish to lie again. “Duncan has no care for me. He never has. We did have an escort, a single guard, but he fled, abandoning us.”

  His gaze darkened. “Ye did not answer, mistress.”

  She hugged herself. “Have I not said enough?”

  “I cannot imagine what could be so urgent that he would summon ye to Nairn now. But clearly, it is a wartime matter.”

  She was grim. How right he was.

  “Ye have no husband.”

  Taken by surprise, she stared. But she had introduced herself as Mistress le Latimer. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She tensed.

  Just then, Eleanor stepped up to them. “Alana, are you ill? You’re pale this morning.”

  Alana took her hand. “Lord Iain said we could leave, if we told him the truth. I told him we are from Brodie, and I am Elisabeth le Latimer’s daughter.” She knew her grandmother would never volunteer information dangerous to her survival. She faced Iain. “I have no husband because I have no significant dowry.”

  He barely glanced at Eleanor. “Really? As comely as ye be, ye hardly need much of a dowry to wed some young knight.”

  Alana shook her head. He knew that something was amiss, of course he did. “I am a bastard, my lord, and my tainted birth has further limited my prospects.”

  His gaze narrowed as they stared at one another.

  Eleanor put her arm around her. “My lord, you owe my granddaughter a great debt. But you discomfort her instead. We must be allowed to go on to Nairn.”

  He never even looked at Eleanor. “Who is yer father, mistress?”

  Alana stared at him, aware of moisture gathering in her eyes. She was ready to admit defeat and tell him all, but Eleanor said, “We do not know. Elisabeth never said, and she died in her childbed.”

  Alana closed her eyes, relieved. A silence fell as Eleanor hugged her close.

  Iain turned, now impatient. “Fergus! Ye will escort both women, but not to Nairn.”

  Alana gasped. “We had an agreement! I have told you the truth!”

  “Did ye?”

  “You let me believe you would allow us to go on our way if I told you who I am.”

  “Bruce’s army is near Nairn. Choose another destination, or I will choose it for ye.” He strode past her.

  Alana was furious. She ran after him and reached for his arm, jerking him back. He whirled, incredulous. “I have done my part. How can you do this?”

  He shrugged his arm free. “I dinna ken what part ye play, but ye cannot go on to Nairn. I will not put ye in harm’s way. Make some other choice or ye can return to Brodie.” He was final.

  “You do not care about me,” Alana finally said, but she felt as if she were asking a question. “Why would you care where we go? Or if we are at Nairn when it is attacked?”

  For a moment, he did not answer. Then, for the second time that morning, he tilted up her chin. “Ye said so yerself—I owe ye a great debt,” he said softly.

  She began to tremble. What was he doing? Were his eyes dark and smoldering?

  “Then let us go to Nairn,” she said.

  He made a harsh, disbelieving sound. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Alana went still, shocked, as his mouth claimed hers—in a hard, demanding, aggressive kiss.

  And when he stepped back, her heart was thundering, her skin aflame and her knees buckling.

  He gave her a look that could not be mistaken before he strode away, calling to his men.

  Alana stared after him. What had just happened?

  Iain did not trust her—but he had kissed her. She had never been kissed before. Men did not desire her, they feared her.

  Except for Iain of Islay—who did not know she was a witch.

  She became aware of Eleanor, for her grandmother had approached. Still stunned and breathless, Alana dared to face her.

  There was no censure in her grandmother’s eyes. Alana saw speculation, instead.

  “Will you speak?” she asked. “Will you berate me?”

  “I have no desire to berate you, but later, we should talk about the Highlander. We must get to Nairn, and we must do so before it is attacked.”

 
Alana was finally jerked back to some sensibility. “He is sending us back to Brodie.”

  “If your father and uncle were not on their way, I would wish to return to Brodie. We must get to Nairn, Alana,” Eleanor said. “I can make up a potion for Fergus, one to make him ill.”

  Alana nodded grimly, as they had no choice but to poison Iain’s soldier. She gazed across the land. His men were all mounted now. The camp had been entirely dismantled, with no sign of it ever having existed. A dozen wagons were filled with their tents and war equipment. Beyond the army, the manor was a pile of rubble, except for one lone chimney that was still standing.

  Their wagon and the mule had been brought forward, and Mistress MacDuff was beside it, with her two children in the back. Fergus held the mule’s bridle, and that of his warhorse.

  Only Iain remained afoot, his long hair streaming about his fur-clad shoulders. It was as if she could still feel his lips on hers.

  His squire led a big dark horse over to him. Iain leaped astride easily enough, gathering up his reins. And for one moment, the land was silent, except for the snorting of horses, the creak of leather, the jangle of bridles. Iain’s gaze was on her.

  Alana stared back. He had been hostile and suspicious since meeting her, but he had kissed her with unimaginable passion. She did not know what to think.

  He turned to face his men, standing in his stirrups, and he lifted his hand. “A Donald!” he roared.

  A hundred men roared back at him, a reverberating Highland war cry. And then the army was galloping away from the burned ruins of Boath Manor.

  Beside the mule and the wagon, Alana held her grandmother’s hand, staring after Iain until he was gone and only snowy mountains remained.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “NAIRN,” ELEANOR SAID.

  Alana trembled, seated beside her grandmother in the front seat of the wagon, Mary MacDuff and her children huddled under wool blankets in the back. The dark stone castle rose out of a promontory on a hill above the town, the skies blue and sunny above it. Snow was clinging to the rocky hillside, and the deep blue waters of the Moray Firth were visible behind it.

  It had taken them a few hours to travel the short distance from the MacDuffs’ burned manor to Nairn. Poor Fergus had been left in the woods not far from last night’s camp, retching up his breakfast. In a few hours he would be well enough to go on his way.

  From the towers, shouts rang out.

  Alana tensed. She had been to the town of Nairn many times, as it was a bustling port and she enjoyed the market there. But she had never been within the castle, which had always seemed threatening.

  It had been garrisoned with royal English troops for years because the great barons of north Scotland were at war with England more often than not. Edward I had taken Nairn and provisioned it for his use, and now, English archers loyal to his son were upon its walls, staring down their bows at them.

  Of course, they would not fire upon a wagon with women and children, not unless ordered to do so. Duncan had been given command of Nairn two years ago, by the Earl of Buchan. She wondered if the earl had arrived; she wondered if Sir Alexander was within.

  She wondered if Iain of Islay would be amongst those attacking Nairn, if that is what Bruce did.

  “They have seen us,” Eleanor said.

  Alana smiled grimly and lifted the mule’s reins, clucking to him. Her tension felt impossible to bear. It had been difficult enough forgetting her every encounter with Iain, especially that shocking kiss. She felt fortunate to have escaped him, and she was determined not to dwell on their strange meeting or even stranger parting. No matter what he had said, it was unlikely that she would ever cross paths with him again.

  She had more urgent matters to consider. She would soon meet her powerful uncle, and see her father for the second time in her life.

  The journey up the road to the castle’s front gates seemed endless now. The hill was steep, the road rutted and frozen. The going was slow, made the worse by anticipation and dread. She wished she knew if the earl and her father had already arrived at Nairn, if they were within, and preparing to receive her.

  When they finally reached the very top of the road, and were but a shout away from the watchtowers, a group of English soldiers galloped out of the barbican to meet them. Alana halted the mule, her heart skipping as the knights thundered up to them.

  The knights formed a tight circle around them. They were clad in full armor, but each man had his visor up. Alana saw a dozen hard faces, the elderly ones lined, the young ones boyish and pale, and a dozen pairs of hard, cold eyes.

  A middle-aged knight with a gray beard and chilly blue eyes rode up to her. “Identify yourself.”

  “I am Alana le Latimer and this is my grandmother, Lady Fitzhugh,” she said quickly.

  “Sir Duncan has been expecting you,” the elderly knight said. “I am Sir Roger, Duncan’s sergeant at arms. You’re a day late. What has kept you?” He was harsh.

  Alana somehow smiled. “There was a battle at Boath Manor. We were put out to hide, and then we wished to aid the mistress and her children. So we had to wait until Bruce’s men were gone. They did not leave until dawn.”

  The knight nodded, glancing at Mary and her children in the back of the cart. “I will escort you to Sir Duncan. He is impatient to speak with you.”

  Alana did not look at her grandmother as they drove the mule into the keep. Because of Mary’s presence, they had not discussed the impending interview with Duncan. But Alana had spent the past few hours considering it.

  Duncan of Frendraught would want to know about her encounter with Iain of Islay. She could not tell him that she had succored his enemy. He would be enraged. He might even accuse her of treachery. It seemed better to insist that the battle at Boath Manor had delayed them, and that they had spent the night in hiding.

  Iain might be the enemy, but just then, she preferred him as her ally against Duncan. She was acutely aware that how she felt was inappropriate, but Duncan was even more intimidating than his son. He had absolute control over her, and Alana despised him even more greatly than she did Godfrey.

  In the courtyard, Sir Roger helped her and Eleanor from the wagon. Mary slid down by herself, then got her two children out. Alana went to her.

  She had hardly had a word with her, but she smiled kindly. The woman had no belongings, no home, and her husband was at war, fighting in Buchan’s army. “I will insist that Duncan give you a chamber. But what will you do next?”

  Mary was very fair and though she was in her late twenties, her eyes were filled with fatigue, her face lined with worry. “I will try to get word to my husband, and when this war is over, we will rebuild our home.”

  Alana took her hand. “You are welcome at Brodie Castle, Mary, until your home is rebuilt.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “How could I accept such charity?”

  “I am certain we could find a place for you in the household, until you are settled at Boath Manor again.”

  Tears of gratitude filled her eyes.

  Sir Roger was waiting impatiently, and Alana turned away. She and Eleanor followed him up the steps and through the great hall’s pair of wooden doors.

  Duncan of Frendraught was awaiting them. He stood in the center of the hall, hands on his bulky hips, scowling. Like Godfrey, he was blond, blue-eyed and arrogant. Unlike Godfrey, he had spent most of his life fighting for the Comyn family, and was a hardened soldier. He had been awarded command of Elgin last year, as well as several manors and an estate.

  He strode toward her, clad in a dark blue cote, the sleeves tight and fitted, a short brown surcote over it. Rings glinted on his thick hands. He wore his sword, a sign of the war that raged so close by. “What has kept you, mistress?”

  “There was a battle at Boath Manor,” she said, unsmiling. “We had to hide in
the woods, even through the night, as the army camped there.”

  “You spent the night in the woods with your grandmother? I am amazed you did not freeze to death.” He reached up and toyed with a tendril of her hair.

  She pushed his hand away.

  Duncan smiled mockingly. “Perhaps you should have allowed a maid to attend you before meeting me, Alana.” He reached out again and tucked the tendril behind her ear, his fingers lingering upon her skin.

  She flinched, furious. Duncan had been toying with her since she was twelve—when he had tried to touch her breasts and thighs in a most lecherous manner. For several years, only her quick wit—and the threat to curse him—had left her unharmed. When she was fifteen, he had assaulted her after a night of heavy drinking. Alana had crashed a pot upon his head, and ever since, he had kept some distance, but his behavior remained rude and suggestive.

  “Still afraid of a man’s touch?” He laughed.

  “Afraid? I am not afraid, I loathe your touch.”

  “Only because you are as cold-blooded as your mother was not.”

  Alana wanted to strike him. But he had referred to her mother as a whore so often that the insult had lost much of its significance. She could control her rage—she had had years of practice doing so. “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “I did not come here to trade old barbs with you.”

  “No, you came because I commanded it.” His stare had turned to ice.

  “Yes, I came upon command, for you are my liege.” She looked at her feet and curtsied. Now they had an uneasy truce. She knew he disliked her as much as she did him.

  “As your liege, I will tell you I am tired of your lies. So do not claim you spent the night on the road in the midst of winter. Lady Eleanor would be dead,” he snapped.

  She lifted her chin and stared. How she felt like taunting him—and telling him that she had succored Iain of Islay. “We spent the night in an abandoned farmhouse, down the road from the manor.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “If I ever learn that you have lied, Alana, you will pay dearly.”

  She smiled coldly, even as dread formed. “What else could have possibly kept us?”