Читать книгу A Sword Upon the Rose - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 9
ОглавлениеBrodie Castle, Scotland—December 1, 1307
FIRE RAGED EVERYWHERE, a blazing inferno. Men screamed in agony, horses whinnied in terror, and swords rang.
The smoke cleared. Horror overcame Alana.
A manor had been set afire, and before its walls, men fought with sword and pike, both on foot and from horseback. Some were English knights, mail-clad, others, bare-legged Highlanders. An English knight was stabbed through by a Highlander’s blade; a huge destrier went down, impaled through the barrel, a Highlander leaping off....
Where was she?
Alana was confused. The ground tilted wildly beneath her feet. She thought she fell, and she clawed the ground, looking up.
Amidst the brutal fighting, she saw one man. The warrior was on foot, bloody sword in hand, his long dark hair whipping about his face, his leine riding his bare thighs, a fur flung back over his broad shoulders. He was shouting to the Highland warriors, urging them on—every man bloodied and desperate and savagely fighting for his life now.
The tides of the battle changed, some of the English soldiers fleeing, some of the knights deciding to gallop away in retreat. But the dark-haired Highlander did not cease, now engaged in fierce combat with an English knight. Their swords clashed viciously, time and again.
Alana tensed. What had she just heard?
Her gaze flew to the burning manor. A woman was screaming for help from inside. And did she hear children crying, as well?
Somehow Alana got to her feet. But the dark-haired Highlander was already at the burning manor door.
Smoke burned through the wood, and flames shot out of an adjacent window. He pushed his shoulder hard against the door, oblivious to the smoke, the heat and the flames....
Suddenly she was afraid for him. As suddenly he turned, and for one moment, she could see his hard, determined face. His blue eyes pierced hers.
And then he was rushing into the burning manor. A moment later he reappeared, carrying a small child. A woman and another child ran outside with him.
Relief overcame her. He had rescued the woman and her children—they would not die.
The roof crashed in. More flames shot into the sky. He covered the child with his body, now on the ground. Burning timbers fell around him.
Then he leaped up, racing away to some safer distance from the burning house where he returned the child to its weeping mother. He turned, his gaze searching the woods where Alana hid—as if to look for her.
As he did, a man with shaggy red hair, another Highlander from the same army, came up behind him, raising a dagger at the warrior’s back.
“Behind you!” Alana screamed.
The dark-haired Highlander must have sensed danger, for he whirled as the dagger came down. He did not scream—he stiffened, the dagger penetrating his chest. And then his sword was cutting through the air, faster than her eyes could see.
The red-haired traitor fell to the ground, stabbed through his chest. The Highlander delivered another clearly fatal blow, and paused, towering over his victim.
He staggered and fell....
“Alana! Wake up! Yer frightening me!”
Alana gasped and tasted mud and snow. And for one more moment, she could not move, overwhelmed by the sight of the battle—the treachery—she had just witnessed.
The hair was raised on her skin, her nape prickling. She had the urge to retch.
“Alana! Alana! Quick! Before someone sees!” her grandmother cried.
Alana became aware of her surroundings now. She was lying in the snow, facedown. Her cheek was freezing, as were her hands, for her mittens were stiff and frozen. She did not know how long she had been lying there.
She fought for air, for composure, waiting for the nausea to pass. Her nape stopped prickling. Her stomach calmed.
She inhaled, but her relief was short-lived as she sat up with her grandmother’s help. Dismay consumed her.
She was near the stream that ran just outside the castle walls in the spring. It had been a clear and cold winter day and she had gone outside the castle with some of the maids’ children, who had wanted to play. She must have frightened them when she collapsed; they must have rushed to find Alana’s grandmother.
She stared at the stream. It was mostly frozen now, but patches of water where the ice was melting were visible. Dear God. The water...even now, it beckoned, dark and mysterious, offering up secrets no soul had any right to....
She hadn’t had a vision in months. She had been praying she would never have one again. She jerked her gaze away from the dangerous water, releasing her grandmother and standing up.
Her grandmother stared, her lined face filled with worry. Eleanor quickly pulled Alana’s wool mantle more securely about her. Alana saw now that they were not alone.
Duncan of Frendraught’s son was standing behind her grandmother, his pale face twisted with fear and revulsion. “What did you see?” Godfrey demanded, blue eyes wide. He was wrapped in a heavy fur, and his booted feet were braced in a belligerent stance.
“I saw nothing,” she lied quickly, lifting her chin. They lived in the same place, but they were not related, and although they were on the same side in the war that raged across the land, he was her enemy.
“She tripped and fell,” Eleanor said firmly. Her tone was filled with an authority she did not have.
He sneered. “I’ll ask you again—what did you see, Alana?” There was warning in his tone.
She trembled as she stood. “I saw your father, victorious in battle,” she lied.
Their gazes locked. He stared, clearly trying to decide if she told the truth or not. “If you’re lying to me, you will pay, witch,” he spat. And then he strode away.
She sagged against Eleanor, relieved he was gone. What had she just seen?
“Why do you fight him? When he can strike you down if he wishes?” Eleanor cried.
Alana took her hand. “He goads me, Gran.”
Her grandmother stared at her with worry. Eleanor Fitzhugh was a tiny woman, her eyes blue, her hair gray. But she was as determined as she was small. Her body had aged, but her wits had not. Alana did not want her to worry, but she always did. She was the mother Alana did not have, even though they were not actually related.
“He is rude and arrogant, but he is master here,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “And Godfrey will have a fit if we don’t have his supper ready. But, Alana? You must not let your hatred show.”
It was impossible, Alana thought. They had had this same conversation many, many times. She hated Godfrey not merely because he goaded her to no end, and not because he hated her, but because one day, he would be lord of Brodie Castle.
“I do try,” she said.
“You must try harder,” Eleanor returned. Though she was sixty and Alana just twenty, she put her arm around her, helping her back toward the castle’s front gates, as if their ages were reversed. But Alana was weak-legged and still slightly queasy; the visions made her feel faint.
The huge wood gates were open, large enough to admit two wagons side by side at a time, or a dozen mounted knights, and the drawbridge was down. Godfrey had already vanished from her view. Unfortunately, he could not be easily avoided, not when Brodie was one of the Earl of Buchan’s castles.
Brodie Castle had belonged to Alana’s mother, Elisabeth le Latimer. It had been her dowry when she had married Sir Hubert Fitzhugh, Eleanor’s son. Sir Hubert had died in battle without children, and Elisabeth had turned to Alexander Comyn, the Earl of Buchan’s brother, for comfort. Alana had been the result.
Elisabeth had died in childbirth, and Lord Alexander Comyn had married Joan le Latimer, Elisabeth’s cousin. Two years after Alana was born, Joan gave birth to a daughter, Alice, and a few years later, to another girl, Margaret.
Alana had met her father exactly once, by accident, when he was hunting in the woods, and his party had become lost. They had come to stay at Brodie Castle for the night. Alana had been five, but she would never forget the sight of her tall golden father in the hall’s firelight—as he stared at her with similar surprise.
“Is that my daughter?”
“Yes, my lord,” Eleanor had answered.
He had strode over to her, his stare unnerving. Alana had been frightened, uncertain of what he would say or do, and she had not been able to move. He had seemed so tall, unnaturally so, more like a king than a nobleman. And then he had knelt down beside her.
“You look exactly like your mother,” he had said softly. “You have her dark hair and blue eyes...she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen when we met, and to this day, I have yet to meet anyone as fair.”
Alana was thrilled. Shyly, she had smiled. Somehow, Alana had known that was praise. And before leaving Brodie, he had told Eleanor to take good care of her. Alana had been in earshot, and she had heard. Her father cared about her!
But he had never come to Brodie again. She had expected another visit, and disappointment had become heartache. But the pain had dulled and died. She was just a bastard, and so be it.
When she was thirteen, she had been told he meant to arrange a marriage for her. Alana had been in disbelief. By that time, she had come to believe that her father did not even recall her very existence. And before she could become excited about the prospect of having a husband and a home of her own, she had learned that her dowry would be a manor in Aberdeenshire.
Eleanor told her she must be grateful, but as much as Alana wished to be grateful, she was disappointed. Brodie Castle had belonged to her mother. But an illegitimate daughter could not inherit such a stronghold, and as there had not been any other heirs, Brodie Castle had been awarded to the Earl of Buchan by King Edward of England, and in turn, he had given it to his loyal vassal, Duncan of Frendraught. Alana had been eight at the time. Foolishly, when her father revealed that he would give her a dowry, she had thought he would somehow—miraculously—return Brodie to her.
But he had not, and it did not matter in the end, for Alana remained unwed.
No one wanted to marry a “witch.”
Eleanor held her arm as they hurried through the frozen and muddy courtyard. They passed long-haired cows, standing with their backs to the walls, their faces to the sun. A pair of maids was bringing in water from the well. A boy was carrying in firewood. They did not speak.
They stepped inside the great hall, which was warmer, two huge fires roaring there in two facing hearths. Godfrey and his men were seated at the trestle table before one hearth, and were in a heated discussion. Alana hoped they were arguing over her fabricated vision of his father being victorious in a battle. The idea gave her some small satisfaction, even when she knew it was petty of her.
Once they were safely in the kitchens, Eleanor pulled her aside.
“What did you see?” Eleanor asked carefully, keeping her tone low.
Alana glanced about the kitchens, where Cook and her maids were bustling to prepare supper. Venison and lamb were roasting on spits. She removed her fur-lined wool mantle, hanging it on a wall peg. “A terrible battle, and a stranger, a warrior, stabbed in the back by his own.”
Eleanor started as their gazes locked. “Since when do you see strangers?”
She shook her head. “You know I have never had a vision about someone who was not familiar to me.” It was true. Now, as she recalled her vision, she was shocked. Why had she seen some stranger in the midst of a battle with the English? The memory was causing her nape to prickle uncomfortably again.
Her stomach roiled—as if another vision was imminent. Yet there was no water to lure her into its depths....
“Are you certain you didn’t know the man?”
Alana was certain, but she visualized him now, with his hard face and dark hair, his blue eyes. “He did seem familiar,” she decided. “Yet, I don’t think we have ever met. What could such a vision mean, Gran?” Would she now be cursed with seeing the future when it belonged to those she did not know? Wasn’t it bad enough that she could foresee the future of her friends and family?
“I don’t know, Alana,” Eleanor said.
Suddenly the door to the kitchens burst open and Godfrey stood there, appearing furious. “Where is our meal?” he demanded, his hands on his hips.
Alana stared coldly at him. When he was in such a foul temper, there were always consequences to pay, and it was best to be meek—and to avoid him. His temper was so easily set off, and he was a cruel man—just as his father was.
“Your meal is to be served at once,” Eleanor said easily.
“Good.” Godfrey scowled.
“My lord, did the messenger that arrived at noon bring ill tidings?” Alana asked as politely as she could.
“He brought very ill tidings!” Godfrey swung his hard gaze to Alana. “Robert Bruce has sacked Inverness. He has burned it to the ground.”
Alana froze. Inverness was a short distance to the south, within a day’s march of Brodie!
For as long as she could recall, various families and clans of Scotland had been at war with England—and each other. But almost two years ago, Robert Bruce, who had a claim to the throne of Scotland, had murdered Red John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch—her father’s cousin. He had then seized the throne, and Scotland had been at war ever since.
Her mind raced frantically now, as a silence fell over everyone in the kitchens.
“Aye, you should all be afraid!” Godfrey cried. “Bruce has been on the march all year, destroying everything and everyone that he can! If he comes here, he’ll destroy Brodie—he’ll destroy us all.” He stormed out.
Alana glanced at the staff—everyone was white with fear.
She was afraid, too. When Bruce had first been crowned at Scone by a handful of bishops loyal to him, the coronation attended by his closest allies and friends, it had seemed impossible that he might actually be triumphant. How could he defeat the great power of England, and the great power of the Comyn family? And his army had been decimated at Methven that summer, by the mighty Aymer de Valence, who was now the Earl of Pembroke. Bruce and his ragtag, starving army had spent the rest of the summer of 1306 hiding from Aymer and the English army in the forests and the mountains, while retreating across Scotland on foot. They had finally found a safe haven with Angus Og MacDonald, the mighty chieftain of Kintyre. During the rest of that year, Angus Og and Christina MacRuari had given him men, arms, horses and ships.
Bruce had returned to Scotland last January with a terrible vengeance. He had spent the winter attempting to gain back his lands in Carrick, and when there 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 had tried to arrange a marriage for her when she was thirteen, but his efforts had been short-lived. Since then, there had been no word. If he wished to see her, he would have simply sent for her. So either he had forgotten about her, or he simply did not care.
It hurt, when the hurt should have died ages ago. “You are the bastard he does not want,” Godfrey said.
She faced him, suddenly furious. “Does it please you, to be cruel?”
“It pleases me greatly. And, Alana? You are to go to Nairn, immediately.”
Was this a cruel jest? She stared, trembling, trying to decide.
He slowly smiled. “My father demands you go to him now.”
“Why would Duncan send for me?” she asked carefully, for she knew Godfrey might be toying with her.
“Why do you think? Witch!”
Alana was aghast. “What did you tell him?”
“Did you not see my father victorious in battle?”
She trembled. Duncan knew about her sight—everyone at Brodie did. “You told him about my vision,” she said slowly, with growing dread.
“Aye, I did. And he wishes to speak with you.” He bent down and retrieved the parchment. He then placed it in the fire, watching it begin to burn. “If I were you, I would begin to think about what I saw. He will want to know everything.”
“I told you what I saw,” she cried. Her mind raced frantically. She had lied about having a vision of Duncan. And she despised Duncan, feared him in a way that she did not fear Godfrey. What should she do? Duncan might beat her if he learned of her lie. He would surely punish her in some way.
“You are not pleased? Do you not wish to see Sir Alexander?” Godfrey asked.
Alana could not even think clearly. However, foolishly, she must admit that she did hope to see Sir Alexander again.
And now, she must hope Nairn was not attacked, not anytime soon.
* * *
“THIS IS MADNESS!” Eleanor cried. She was pale.
Alana smiled grimly. “I cannot refuse Duncan, Gran, and you know it. You also know he will be displeased if he learns I lied about my vision.”
Eleanor sat down, stricken. The women were in the small tower chamber they shared, two narrow beds beneath one window, a small table between them. The only other piece of furniture in the chamber was a chest, in which they kept their belongings. Alana was folding an extra cote carefully, placing it with the other garments she meant to take with her.
“Well, perhaps some good will come of this.” Eleanor was grim. “You will see your father again—and he might recall the fact of your existence!”
The stabbing of hurt was dull, like the taped tip of a knife’s blade. Carefully, she said, “If Duncan had not summoned me, I would not be going.”
“Do not play me, my girl. We both know you would be pleased to see your father again—and it would please me if he finally made good on his promise to see you wed properly.”
“He cannot change how the world sees me.” She smiled, not wanting to reveal that she did care about the opinion everyone held of her, a great deal.
“Of course he could—he is the great Sir Alexander, the earl’s closest brother!”
Alana was suddenly overcome. “What would I do without you?”
Eleanor walked to the open chest and began removing garments from it. They were her clothes. “I am an old woman, Alana, and one day, you will have to get on without me. Which is why I wish for you to have a good husband at your side.” She now removed a burlap sack from the chest, and began packing it. “I am going to Nairn with you.”
Alana was surprised. “Gran,” she began, instinctively protesting. Eleanor was agile and spry, and Nairn was but a half day’s horseback ride from Brodie. Still, the woman could hardly ride—they would need a wagon or a litter. And the journey would be in the midst of winter, with snow threatening to fall. She should not come.
“Do not argue. I have not seen your father or Buchan in years. And you have never met Buchan. He has never met you. If your father has no care for your future, perhaps we can convince the earl to provide for you. You are his brother’s daughter.”
Alana did not want to jeopardize her grandmother’s good health on a winter journey, even if it was a short one, and she had heard—everyone had heard—that Buchan was a cold and at times a ruthless man.
“He cannot change my infamy,” Alana said.
“Of course he can. He is the most powerful man in the north of Scotland.”
* * *
THEY LEFT THE next morning. The sun was high, but it had snowed the previous afternoon and night, and a fresh fall blanketed the road and the woods. The mountains surrounding them were white. Alana rode in a small wagon with her grandmother, driving the mule in the traces. Godfrey had not cared that Eleanor wished to accompany her, and had given them a single man as an escort. Connaught rode beside them, a mail tunic beneath his fur cloak.
The wagon and the snow made the going slow. In the midafternoon, when they were but a short distance from the castle, Alana stiffened.
Something was wrong.
She did not need a vision to know it. She simply sensed danger, and as she did, she noticed a gray pall beyond the line of trees that lay ahead. She smelled smoke.
“There is a fire nearby,” the soldier said sharply, abruptly drawing his mount to a halt.
Alana’s nape prickled. The gray pall staining the blue sky was definitely smoke. She pulled hard on the reins, halting the mule. It snorted, long ears pricked, alarmed.
“Alana,” Eleanor cried.
But Alana heard the horses whinnying in fright, saw the glow of a fire beyond the trees. And was she imagining it or did she hear men shouting in fear and agony?
Because the sounds of the horses and men were so familiar—exactly like the sounds in her last vision!
Her heart slammed. “Can you go ahead and see what is happening? Without being remarked?” she asked Connaught.
“Aye.” He spurred his horse aggressively forward, galloping away.
Alana felt entirely exposed, sitting in the wagon with her grandmother, on the deserted and snowy road, no longer hidden by the surrounding woods.
Eleanor took her hand. “We should turn back.”
She hesitated. “I am wondering if we are about to encounter the battle from my vision, Gran.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened as Connaught galloped back to them. “They have attacked the MacDuffs’ home, Boath Manor! They are burning it to the ground! And they carry Bruce’s flag!”
Alana’s tension increased. “Surely Bruce’s army is not beyond those trees?” she cried.
“It is but a few dozen Highlanders, mistress. Still, they are warring with Duncan’s men.”
Her heart thundered. They were but minutes away from a terrible battle, a part of the great war for Scotland’s throne.
“Turn the wagon, Mistress Alana,” Connaught ordered. “We must go back before we are discovered.”
She thought of the dark-haired Highlander who had been betrayed by one of his own men. If she was about to encounter him—and witness such treachery—she could not go back. She did not know why, but she was compelled to warn him.
Alana began to get down from the wagon. “Will you take Eleanor back to Brodie?”
“Alana,” Eleanor gasped. “You cannot stay—we must turn around!”
“I have to see what is happening. But I will hide in the trees, I promise you.” Before she had finished speaking, she could hear the men shouting, the horses neighing, more loudly. The battle had moved closer to them.
She turned, and she could see the fire on the other side of the trees far more clearly, bright and brilliant. “You’ll never outrun them with a wagon. But damned if I will die to save an old woman and a witch.” Suddenly Connaught was galloping away.
Alana choked, shocked that he would leave them there—two women alone and defenseless!
“Alana, if they are coming this way, you must hide! Forget me!” Eleanor’s eyes were wide with fright.
Alana reached for the mule’s bridle. “I am not forgetting you, Gran. Let’s get you hidden.”
“And what about you?” Eleanor demanded. “I am an old woman. My life is done. You are young. Your life is ahead of you!”
“Do not speak that way! Come.” Alana led the mule and the wagon off the road, no easy task. The mule was balking and unruly, while the snow became deeper, until finally the wagon was stuck. But they were off the road, and not as obvious as they had been. In any case, she could not coax the mule any farther.
Alana glanced around and saw an outcropping of rocks. She could leave Eleanor in the wagon—or hide her in the cavern there.
Eleanor understood. “I’d rather stay here.”
Alana nodded. “I will not be long.” She covered her grandmother with a second fur.
Eleanor took her hand. “I am frightened for you. Why, Alana? Why won’t you hide here with me?”
Briefly, Alana stared. What was wrong with her? Why did she wish to see if the battle just beyond the woods was the one from her vision? Why was she determined to warn the dark-haired Highlander of treachery? Perhaps sparing him any injury—and saving him from death?
For she had seen him stabbed, and she had seen him fall. She did not know if he would live, or if he would die.
“I am coming back. I am not leaving you here.” She hugged her, hard.
Eleanor clasped her face. “Your mother was stubborn and brave, too.”
Alana somehow smiled and hurried off.
She was too agitated to be cold, as she trudged through the snow back to the road. She headed toward the line of trees that lay ahead, and the sounds of the battle became louder as she approached it. The stench of smoke and fire increased. Filled with fear and dread, her pulse pounding, Alana reached the edge of the wood. She halted, grasping a birch to remain upright.
Her vision was before her, come to life!
The manor was aflame, and English knights and Highland warriors were in a savage battle before it. The snow was bloodred. Swords rang, horses screamed. And then a steed went down, the Highlander astride it leaping off....
Shaken, she felt her knees buckle. But she did not collapse. Frantically, she scanned the fighting men.
Her heart slammed.
A fur flung over his shoulders, bloody sword in hand, long dark hair loose, the Highlander was viciously fighting an English knight. Their huge swords clashed, shrieking, again and again, in the midst of the bloody, battling men.
He looked exactly as she had envisioned him.
Alana was stunned. What did this mean? To happen upon one of her visions this way?
Screams sounded from within the manor.
The Highlander heard them, too. He sheathed his sword and rushed to the door, which was burning. Flames shot from an adjacent window. He rammed his shoulder into the door.
And then he suddenly turned and looked at the woods—as if he was looking at her.
Alana stiffened.
For it almost felt as if their gazes had met, which was impossible.
Within a moment he had vanished inside the burning manor. Flames shot out from the walls near the door.
Alana did not think twice. She began to run out of the trees, toward the battling men—toward the manor.
He appeared in the doorway, a small boy in his arms. A woman and another child ran past him; he let them go first. As he ran out of the house, more of the flaming roof crashed down. He dived to the ground with the child, protecting the boy with his body.
Alana tripped, fell, got up.
He had risen, too, and was ushering the boy into his mother’s arms. Then he whirled to face her.
This time, Alana knew she was entirely visible. This time, in spite of the warring men between them, she knew their eyes met.
For one moment, she paused, breathing hard as they stared at one another, in surprise, in shock.
And then she saw the man behind him. He was approaching rapidly, and was but a short distance away. His hair was shaggy and red.
Her heart seemed to stop. This man meant to betray his fellow Highlander, meant to murder him. “Behind you!” she screamed.
The Highlander whirled, sword in hand. Apparently he did not see any danger, for he faced her again. But the red-haired Scot held a dagger and his strides were unwavering....
Alana tried again. “Behind you! Danger!” As she cried out, he whirled, and his assailant swiftly stabbed him in the chest. Almost simultaneously, the Highlander thrust his sword through the traitor, delivering a fatal blow. Slowly, the other man keeled over.
The Highlander looked across the battle at her, staggered and fell. His blood stained the snow.
Alana heard herself cry out. She began to run toward him again. The English knights who remained mounted were galloping away. Those on foot who could flee were doing so. All that remained was the small, victorious Highland army, the wounded, the dying and the dead.
Alarm motivated her as never before. She had to swerve past bodies, and she tripped on a dead man’s outstretched arm. Someone tried to grab her; she dodged his hand. And then she reached him.
She dropped to her knees in the snow, beside him. “You are hurt,” she cried.
His blue gaze pierced hers, and he seized her wrist, hard. “Who are ye?”
She felt mesmerized by his hard blue eyes. They were filled with suspicion. “You’re bleeding. Let me help.” But his grip was brutal—she could not move.
“Ye wish to help?” he snarled. “Or do ye think to harm me?”
