A Sword Upon The Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  She grimaced. She did not want to discuss Buchan now! “Iain, I am so sorry. I should have told you about the child.”

  He stiffened. “Aye, ye should have. Ye kept another secret from me—that ye carried my child!”

  “I am sorry...so sorry!”

  His gaze was hard, anguish in its shadows. “It’s finished now.”

  “I am so sorry I lost our child.” Tears ran down her face.

  “’Tis not yer fault, Alana. God has His ways.” He was harsh. “I must go. Send word if there is danger.”

  He was leaving—and they were at such odds! “Iain, you must stay safe!” She laid her hands on his bare knee. “You must come home to me!” Pain stabbed through her. “I cannot lose you, too.”

  “I am a warrior, Alana, and one day, God willing, I will die by the sword, with great courage and greater honor. But that day is not today.”

  She was not comforted. “Beware, Iain, always.”

  He studied her and lifted his reins. “Do not do anything foolish while I am gone.” He whirled his horse and he and his men began trotting from the courtyard and through the entry tower, and out the castle gates.

  Feeling so sick in her heart, so frightened, Alana stepped back, hugging the mantle she wore to her chest. “Go, Iain,” she said hoarsely. “Go with God.”

  He gave her a last look, and cantered after his men.

  Alana did not move, watching him vanish into the vault beneath the entry tower. She heard his horse’s thundering hoofbeats as he galloped through the castle gates. The sound receded—and vanished.

  He was gone.

  Alana turned slowly and saw Eleanor upon the top step, her expression openly worried. She slowly went up.

  Eleanor put her arm around her. “He will be fine, Alana. He is a very good warrior.”

  “He will not be fine if Buchan murders him.” Choking on her words, Alana walked into the hall with Eleanor. “We have hardly spoken since I lost the child, and now he is gone.”

  “He loves you, Alana,” Eleanor said.

  “Does he?” She went to the fire and stood there, thinking about Iain, whom she still loved in spite of her grief over the loss of their child. “He is angry.”

  “He is grieving, Alana, as you are. It will pass.”

  “But I kept another secret, Gran.”

  Eleanor sighed. “Trust me, Alana. This is a difficult time. But the sun will shine again.”

  Alana hoped she was right.

  Eleanor took her silence for acquiescence. “At least you have the will to be up and about. That is a good sign. Do you want to help me in the kitchens?”

  Alana had spent the days since her miscarriage by herself, in her chamber, consumed with her grief. Her back hurt and she rubbed her spine. “How is Godfrey?”

  “He has been asking for you. I have been visiting him in your stead. I told him what happened.”

  Alana straightened. “He hardly needs to remain locked up now.” How firm she sounded!

  Eleanor paled. “Alana, are you certain?”

  “I am certain,” she said. She was suddenly filled with purpose. Godfrey was not her prisoner—he was Iain’s. And she had never approved of his being taken prisoner when Brodie had surrendered. She walked swiftly upstairs.

  A tall, blond Highlander she recognized but did not know by name stood outside Godfrey’s door. She forced a smile and he smiled in return, unbolting the door and opening it for her.

  “Thank you,” Alana said, inflecting her words to pose them as a question.

  “Seoc, my lady.”

  Godfrey was standing at his window. He whirled and stared. “Are you all right?”

  “I will manage,” she said. She prayed she would not start crying now.

  “I heard you lost the child,” he said grimly. “When you did not come to see me, I demanded to know what had happened to you.”

  “I have been sick with grief,” she said. She could barely get the words out. “I know I should not be aggrieved. I know I have no right to bring a bastard into the world. But when the time came, I desperately wanted my child.”

  “Alana!” Godfrey hurried to her and took her arm. “I would have given that child a name.”

  Alana collapsed in his arms. He held her and did not speak, stroking her hair. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I wanted to come see you. Iain would not hear of it.”

  She looked up at him. Godfrey would have married her, for her child’s sake. Godfrey had wanted to see her. “I do not deserve your friendship.”

  He brushed hair from her cheek and eyes. “No, you do not.” He stepped away from her.

  She had betrayed him—returning to Brodie with an army, demanding he surrender, and never telling him that if he did, she would become Brodie’s mistress.

  “Will you forgive me, for all I have done?” She stepped away, aware now that the Highland lad outside the door was watching them closely.

  “Do you mean for stealing Brodie from me and my father? How can I forgive you for that?” He glanced at Seoc.

  Alana stared at his back. Then she turned. “Seoc, leave us.”

  “My lady, Iain has told me to keep a close eye on the prisoner.”

  She felt a sudden outrage. How welcome the feelings were. “I am mistress here.”

  He paled. “Aye, my lady.”

  “Iain is lord of Nairn—not of Brodie.” She squared her shoulders, filled with sheer resolve. “Brodie belonged to my mother, it was her dowry. Now, it is my dowry—King Robert has said so. I swore fealty to him on bended knee, with no weapons in my hands, and for my oath, he has given me Brodie.”

  The Highlander was white.

  “Leave us,” Alana ordered.

  He nodded and hurried away.

  Godfrey began to smile. “Spoken like a true queen...well done.”

  She whirled. “Godfrey.” Her mind raced, her thoughts jumbled, and the one thing she knew clearly was that Iain would disapprove if she simply released Godfrey. But she could not keep him as her prisoner, either. She crossed her arms as they stared at one another now. “You have been imprisoned in this room for almost two months,” she finally said. “I never expected Iain to hold you prisoner. We had never discussed your fate, when we came to take Brodie. I will not keep you locked up in this chamber, now that he is gone. You have my permission to come and go as you please, as you used to do.”

  Godfrey started.

  “You can hardly escape on foot, with no weapons and no supplies,” Alana said. “In fact, it is such a pleasant day, why don’t we walk together?”

  Godfrey nodded, his face pale, his eyes wide. Alana took his fur-lined cloak from a wall peg and handed it to him; the nights were still cold. They left the chamber and saw that Seoc sat on a stool outside the door, sharpening his dagger. She assumed he had been eavesdropping. He did not look at them now.

  Alana was angry. Was she in command or not? Did Iain truly mean to spy on her? He did not trust her? They went downstairs and did not speak until they were outside.

  “What do you think to do, Alana?” Godfrey asked, speaking low.

  “You are free, Godfrey!”

  “You are freeing me?”

  “I am in your debt, many times over. And I have hated seeing you imprisoned here. This is your chance—take a horse from the stables and go!”

  “You will let me run away?”

  “Yes!”

  He halted, reaching for her arm. “Will Iain forgive you for this?”

  “I don’t know if he will forgive me for not telling him about our child, Godfrey—I cannot worry about his reaction to your escape. But you cannot remain here, a prisoner because of my treachery, when I never agreed to taking you prisoner in the first place.”

  After a moment, h
e said, “If I am going to escape, I will need to plan it. I will need a dagger at the least.”

  “I can get you a dagger. If you leave now, Godfrey, you will be at Elgin by the late afternoon.”

  He hesitated. “I don’t think I should leave you,” he said. “If you mean to let me escape, then I have time.”

  * * *

  THE DAYS PASSED slowly as they waited for news of the war. There were rumors that King Edward was sending an army to the north to aid Buchan, even as Buchan’s allies were deserting him. There were whispers that Mortloch had been attacked. Spring finally came in full force, chasing the last of the patches of snow away. Wildflowers began to bloom, thistle came to life, the oaks turned green. And finally a messenger came with real news—Mowbray had concluded a truce with Bruce before any real fighting could begin. So Bruce had attacked Sir Roger Cheyne at Mortloch; those rumors were true. Mortloch had fallen in a day, and Bruce was marching toward Balvenie.

  The messenger also carried a letter for Alana—from Iain.

  She practically tore it open. But Iain only wished for her to know that the war was going well for Bruce, and that he was also well; he asked after her health, and promised to write again soon.

  Alana was shocked to have received such a brief and impersonal missive. She was afraid that her worst fears had come true—that Iain no longer cared about her. She was ready to burn the letter in the hearth, not in anger, but out of despair. Godfrey restrained her.

  “He does not seem like a man of letters, Alana....Do you even know if he can write?” Godfrey asked.

  “He can read.”

  “He may be able to read, a little, but that does not mean he can write. And even if he can, I cannot imagine him penning a love letter.” Godfrey took the letter from her and scanned it. “I do not think he wrote this—I cannot even read the signature, which looks like an I and a Y, while the rest of the letter is perfectly penned.”

  Alana took the parchment back and stared at the beautiful cursive and the crude signature. Godfrey was right. Iain had dictated the letter, and only then had he signed it. She did not burn the letter.

  The news brought a terrible pall to the castle. Iain would never express his personal feelings in a letter, she decided, but his failure to do so was hurtful, anyway. She feared that her miscarriage—and her deception—had ended their relationship. She wondered if he still cared about her at all.

  And Alana was agonizingly aware that Sir Alexander remained at Balvenie, finalizing its defenses. Images kept returning to her now, of her vision of her father’s bloody corpse. Iain had forbidden her from going to Balvenie, and he had been right. Only a fool would have walked into the jaws of the enemy. Going to Balvenie had been too dangerous then, and doing so now remained as dangerous. She was Bruce’s vassal after all. But Alana was afraid she might not see her father again. She was tempted to go.

  Were her sisters and Joan at Balvenie, even as Bruce prepared to besiege it?

  She had told Godfrey of her vision, and he insisted she must not even think of going to Balvenie. Sir Alexander would need help to defend it from Bruce. Not only was Robert Bruce beginning to appear invincible, he was becoming popular. Every village he passed through was turning to take his side, and his army was growing by leaps and bounds. Buchan could show up at Balvenie at any time to aid his brother in its defense. And they both knew that if she was there when he returned, she would instantly be taken prisoner.

  But Alana was torn, and she was not convinced. She felt an urgency to see Sir Alexander now.

  Although he never spoke of it, Godfrey was restless and grim. She knew he was as torn as she was, but for different reasons. Duncan had left Elgin to see to Banf’s defenses, and while Godfrey did not want to leave her at Brodie, so close to the war, it was his duty to join his father in the fight against Bruce. She knew he yearned to be at his father’s side now.

  On March 28 it snowed again, but the snow had melted by nightfall, when a second messenger was found hiding in the woods.

  Alana was in the hall with Godfrey and Eleanor, about to sup, when Angus escorted a man inside. She instantly tensed, for the man wore English mail over a doublet and jerkin. As Angus dragged him toward her, she saw that his hands were manacled in front of his body. “My lady, we found this English dog in the woods, hiding. He claims he is not a spy, but a messenger.” He shoved the man to his knees. “Show proper respect, dog.”

  “Angus!” She leaped up. Such a messenger had to come from her uncle or her father. “Who has sent you?” Alana hurried forward. “Or are you a spy, indeed?”

  Still on his knees, the man looked up. He was grizzled and gray. “I come from Balvenie. I have a missive from Sir Alexander Comyn for his daughter, Mistress le Latimer.”

  “I am Mistress le Latimer,” Alana cried.

  “Rise,” Angus said harshly, “and give the letter to my lady.”

  The man stood, clearly relieved that he still had his head, and handed Alana a rolled-up parchment. Alana felt her heart thundering. The image of her father as a bloody corpse flashed through her mind. She feared terrible news. “Is my father well?” she asked. “Is Balvenie under siege?”

  “The castle is under siege, my lady, but when I left, your father was well.”

  She could barely breathe. “Are his daughters and his wife with him? Is Buchan there?”

  “The earl has not yet returned to Balvenie, but yes, Lady Joan and her daughters are with Sir Alexander.”

  So the family had gathered at Balvenie. She suddenly imagined how the hall must appear, with the women of the castle cowering there in fear as the siege engines rammed the gates, as catapults rocked the castle walls. She could imagine Joan there, an elegant and well-dressed lady, comforting her frightened daughters.... She broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.

  The message was brief.

  March 27, 1308—Balvenie

  My Daughter,

  We are under siege. I await reinforcements and my brother’s arrival, but fear the strength of Bruce’s army. Even more, I fear for my wife and daughters. If we are defeated, I will be executed as a traitor, but they will become Bruce’s hostages.

  I was pleased to hear your vows of loyalty to me. I must send my wife and your sisters to Brodie, immediately. Can you hide them until I can arrange for their transport to the south or possibly to England? They must not fall into Bruce’s hands.

  I eagerly await your reply.

  Your Father, Sir Alexander Comyn

  Shaking, Alana sat down hard on the bench by her grandmother.

  “Alana?” Godfrey asked.

  She did not hear him, and looked instead at the messenger. “You are to return to Balvenie at once. Tell my father that I will do as he asks.” She stood. “Lady Joan and my sisters will be safe here.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE WOMEN ARRIVED at midnight.

  Alana was expecting them. Her father’s messenger had told her that Sir Alexander intended to send them to Brodie the moment he received word from her.

  Alana held up a taper as the three women were escorted into the hall. Alana stared intently, but all three women wore their hoods.

  Then she turned to Angus. She had sent him with six other soldiers to fetch the women. “Were there any problems?”

  “No, my lady. We waited safely in the woods while Sir Percy took your answer to Sir Alexander. It took but an hour for the women to steal from the castle, using an underground tunnel. No one saw us.”

  “Thank you,” Alana breathed, touching his arm. “Why don’t you get some rest?”

  As Angus and his men left, the smallest woman removed her hood. She was in her mid-thirties, strikingly fair, with very dark hair. Lady Joan stared at Alana. “I suppose I owe you a great debt.” She did not smile and her blue eyes were hard and cold.

  “
You owe me nothing.” Alana smiled, but as she spoke, she thought about how Joan had insisted her father have nothing to do with her when she was born. “I am Mistress Alana le Latimer.”

  “Even if we had met in different circumstances,” Joan said, refusing to smile, “I would know who you are. You look exactly like my cousin Elisabeth.”

  Alana did not know if she was receiving a compliment, as clearly, Joan did not like her. Either that, or she was very angry. “This is Lady Fitzhugh,” she said, gesturing to her grandmother, who came forward. “And Sir Godfrey, Duncan’s son.”

  Joan nodded at Lady Fitzhugh and Godfrey.

  Eleanor inclined her head. “You have hardly changed in the past twenty years, Lady Joan.”

  “Actually, I have changed a great deal,” Joan said, glancing at Alana again.

  Alana was now filled with tension. She realized she must be a constant reminder of her father’s love for another woman during their betrothal. If Joan did not hate her, it was clear that she disliked her intensely.

  “You could be mistaken for one of your daughters,” Eleanor said with a smile.

  Finally, Joan’s expression eased. Her daughters were taking off their cloaks. Alana stared at the two young women, who stared as unwaveringly back.

  Margaret was slender, blonde, not even sixteen and terribly beautiful. She was blushing as their gazes met, her eyes wide and curious. Alice stood beside her, holding her hand tightly, her expression frozen. She was fair-skinned, dark-haired and very attractive, as well. In fact, Alana felt a frisson of shock as she stared at Alice, for it was almost like gazing into a mirror. Their coloring and features were so similar—no one would ever mistake them for anything but sisters.

  Dismay flooded her. Iain would find her very attractive, she thought. And she was Buchan’s heir.

  Godfrey touched her elbow as if to steady her. Alana was so grateful for his presence.

  “As you know, these are Sir Alexander’s daughters, Lady Alice and Lady Margaret,” Joan said tersely.

  Alana was acutely aware that Joan had referred to them as if they were Sir Alexander’s only daughters, but it did not matter. They were her sisters. She did not know what to think or feel. Her sisters had been raised by her father in grand castles and fine halls, and they had had everything; she had been raised as an unwanted ward by a man who had molested her. Iain might marry Alice, who was a great heiress, when Alana loved him so—when she had nothing but Brodie. She was relieved that they were safe, but there was dismay in her heart, too, and even, perhaps, jealousy.