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.
