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
