Arrows hailed down upon them now.
It was Iain. And they meant to assassinate him.
Alana seized the windowsill and screamed at him. “Iain, beware.” He was too close to the walls, too close to Buchan’s archers! Yet she also knew he would never hear her, not in the din of battle.
The words were barely out of her mouth when a hail of arrows flew from the ramparts directly at him.
He must have sensed the danger, for he held up his shield. Dozens of arrows struck the metal and leather there, bouncing uselessly away. Others landed in the ground around him and his horse.
Alana cried out as another barrage of arrows flew at him. She held her breath as they struck his shield, the horse’s breastplate and the ground.
This time he whirled the stallion and galloped back to the safety of the rest of the army.
Alana felt her knees buckle with relief. At least he knew he was a target. At least now, he would be prepared.
Another explosion sounded, and wood cracked. The stones beneath her feet reverberated so strongly that she lost her balance.
Alana caught the sill and leaned out of the window again. The north gate was directly below the tower where she stood, and all she could see was that the men were pulling back the ram, clearly preparing for another assault.
The hail of arrows and missiles from Bruce’s army had ceased. The fire from the ramparts had decreased dramatically, to an occasional arrow, and an isolated oil pot. A dozen Highland soldiers were climbing the castle walls, and now, they were undeterred. She watched a dozen Highlanders climbing over the ramparts. She watched them assault Buchan’s archers, wrestling them off the walls and to their deaths.
The floor shook as the north gate exploded. Alana cried out, as did Eleanor, some rock from the ceiling above falling. Alana ran to her grandmother to protect her with her body. “Nairn is falling,” she said.
* * *
THEBATTLEWASOVER. Alana had watched Iain ride triumphantly into the north gate with a dozen of his mounted men, his banner flying. That had been several hours ago. Since then, the countryside had come alive with tents and cook fires. She could see and hear Bruce’s men celebrating outside—singing and dancing, drinking and feasting, laughter. Bruce’s banner flew high in the dusky sky, above the sea of tents, brightly yellow and red.
He had captured Nairn. What would happen next? Had Buchan been captured? What of her father? And Duncan?
And what would happen now?
Alana did not want to worry Eleanor, but she kept thinking about the fact that Bruce was in the habit of razing every castle he took. Lochindorb had been an exception. She was frightened, because if they meant to burn Nairn down, would they find both women first?
As of yet, no one had come to the door, and in a way, she was grateful—for she also remained frightened of enemy soldiers who might happen upon them. She did not know what to expect when they were finally discovered.
Alana kept returning to the door, to place her ear upon it, to strain to hear. There were no celebratory sounds inside. Whatever was happening downstairs, they could not hear. For all she knew, no one was downstairs—everyone had been rounded up and taken away through the south gate.
It was so terribly quiet upstairs, it was unnerving.
“Sometimes no news is the best news,” Eleanor whispered.
Alana did not know how to reply. At times she was tempted to bang on the door and shout until her voice was raw, but then her fear held her back. Her mind always returned to the possibility of being raped and murdered, before veering to being identified and imprisoned far more significantly than now.
How could Buchan have left them like this? She refused to believe her father would have consented to such cruelty and neglect.
Alana returned to the bed and sat down beside her grandmother. “Are you hungry?” she asked softly.
“I am fine, Alana.”
She had to be ravenous, as they had not eaten all day. But Alana did not say so. She smiled and squeezed her hand.
And then she heard the bolt outside the door being freed.
Alana tensed, as did Eleanor, both of them staring, half in horror, as the door swung open.
A huge Highlander with a gray beard stood there. “Who are ye?” he demanded. “And what do ye do in this chamber, locked inside of it?”
“We were imprisoned by the Earl of Buchan,” she said quickly. She stood up. “We must speak with Iain of Islay.” She hesitated. “Tell him it is Alana.”
