Chapter 4
Pawns And Queens
At last. Fresh air. Sunshine. And, of course, the prospect of a fight.
Struan braced himself. He’d done his best to keep himself in shape in his cell, jogging up and down and doing push-ups and sit-ups when his ever-watchful guards weren’t watching.
None of it seemed to do much good. He knew from experience that the only way of keeping himself honed and ready to fight was to practice.
His father had taught him that—the hard way—long ago.
Still, even out of practice, he was pretty confident that he could tackle the man running at him. He didn’t recognize the man. Had they fought before?
It didn’t matter. The man was reaching for a sword at his hip.
Automatically, Struan reached for his own before he remembered that he had no weapon.
He hadn’t been allowed to touch anything even vaguely like a weapon for weeks.
They only gave him wooden spoons, nothing even resembling a knife or fork.
That was fair, perhaps, especially in the first weeks. By now, his father would have worked out that Struan couldn’t or wouldn’t escape, and he would act accordingly. The consequences, no doubt, were on their way.
Somebody thudded into the side of the running man, sending them both sprawling onto the ground.
Commotion welled up around him. About half a dozen hands clamped onto Struan, grabbing him by the arms, the wrists, his shoulders, pinning him in his place while his would-be attacker was subdued on the ground.
It was the hulking Swede who’d tackled him. Struan watched in resignation. He made no move to pull away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Una take a step forward. Her face was grim and set, and she wasn’t looking at him.
“Enough, Janson,” she said, as the Swede drew back his fist to deliver yet another blow to the half-unconscious man’s face. “He’s learned his lesson.”
Janson gave a muffled curse and climbed to his feet, hauling the unfortunate man with him.
“He was told to stay at his post,” Janson muttered. “He had plenty to say about it—his brother fell to Dickson hands—but I thought he’d do as he was told.” He glanced up at Struan, and his eyes narrowed. “A lot of folk want ye dead, lad.”
Struan shrugged. “They’re welcome to try. I haven’t sparred in longer than I care to recall. I’d welcome a good bout.”
Janson shook his head disdainfully and glanced back at Una. “I’m going to take this fellow off to Thomas, and we’ll decide what to do with him. Watch him, aye?”
“Aye,” Una confirmed.
Janson strode away, dragging the would-be attacker with him. Gradually, the tight grips on Struan’s arm released. He imagined half a dozen hands releasing their swords, eyeing him balefully.
They were wasting their energy. He wasn’t a fool.
There would be no escaping from this place, not now.
He could see movement in the trees surrounding the gardens—and pretty gardens they were, too, if a little more barren of vegetables than they should have been—and he knew that the perimeter was well guarded.
He had no intention of turning to gawk up at the convent behind him, but he could see shadows thrown ahead of him, shadows of men moving on the roof.
Armed men, no doubt all dying for the chance to put an arrow in his back.
I ought to be grateful for that chance, he thought tiredly. Death would end it all.
There was something inside him, though, that infuriating human spirit that wouldn’t be quiet. That part that wanted, so badly, to live.
It was shameful, wasn’t it? Wanting to live. He ought to want death. Death before dishonor.
If Father gets his hands on me, I’ll find death all right.
That wasn’t quite true, because a laird must have an heir, and Laird Dickson had only one—Struan. Kyla didn’t count. She had never counted, because she was a woman, and their father believed that women were good for nothing but producing children.
Struan rolled his shoulders thoughtfully, glancing around the garden.
It was a well-arranged garden, with neat little fences or rows of stones dividing up the patches.
It would grow everything that a place like this needed.
However, some patches were bare, recently turned over.
The potato patch was nearly depleted, although the onion, leek, and herb patches were going strong.
He was right, then, about the lack of food in the area.
“Come,” Una ordered briskly, striding along a narrow, paved walkway. “This way. Here, hold this.”
She thrust a basket at him. He took it, more out of reflex than anything else, and stared down at it. There was a strip of something green stuck in between two wicker ribs.
“I would rather not collect herbs,” he found himself saying.
She lifted her eyebrows. “Why not?”
Was she really asking him this? Struan breathed in deeply, calming himself.
I can manage this. She’s enjoying her newfound power. If I can just…
No answer presented itself. He met her eye squarely only to find steel behind her eyes.
He remembered Una from the Keep. Of course he did.
He hadn’t seen much of her, but the Alcorn name had been an important one—before his father had obliterated her people.
His father had gloated over it more times than Struan could count.
Especially after the humiliation her brother, Kai, put him through by taking his bride.
She’s angry. I know she’s angry. She hates me, and with good reason.
Best not to think of that now. Instead, he gave a tight smile and held out the basket to her.
“I’ve spent a month cooped up in a tiny cell,” he responded. “I want to stretch my legs. I’d like to run.”
Una’s expression wavered. “Run? Where?”
He shrugged. “I don’t much care. Around the convent, maybe?”
She shook her head at once at that. “I can’t let ye do that. It’s nothing personal, but I’m not about to risk ye escaping. No running.”
His heart sank. Was he really going to spend his precious free hour pulling up herbs?
“Let me spar, then. Bring back that fellow who wanted to attack me. Take his weapon and let us fight, hand to hand. How about that?”
Una narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think so. But if ye want to spar, ye can fight me.”
For a beat, Struan was too surprised to respond. She was joking, surely. She had to be joking.
Then he met her unblinking stare and realised with a jolt that there was no joke to be found here.
“I am not about to fight a woman,” Struan managed at last. He was aware that the soldiers behind him had gone quiet, and he could hear them shifting uneasily around.
It appeared that Una had earned their respect. That was interesting. She hadn’t been a warrior when she left the Keep, but she was one now. Clearly, many things had changed for her since she left.
He felt something like respect fluttering inside him. That was an old emotion, wasn’t it? That wasn’t something he’d felt for a while.
She smiled grimly. “I can assure ye that ye will find me equal to ye in every respect.”
“I’m not sure…” a man spoke up, but Una silenced him with an angry gesture.
“Well, Struan, it seems that these are yer choices,” she said coolly, her voice hard and angry. “Spar with me, or pick herbs.”
Struan drew in a breath. “I see. Well, not much of a choice then, is it?”
Una led him to a bare patch of earth, tucked away around the corner of the convent. The soldiers followed unhappily.
The patch of earth seemed as though it was in the process of being developed into another vegetable patch. The ground had been cleared some time ago, but now weeds were growing back, and no seeds had been planted yet.
Una untied her sword from where it hung at her hip and tossed it to one of the men. She fell into a loose grappling stance and met his eye squarely.
“Shall we?”
Struan hesitated. Not for the first time, he noticed that Una wore men’s clothes. That was something that his father had forbidden in the Keep. In all of Dickson land, actually, although some country women probably dressed however they liked. Probably.
Una wore loose woolen trousers, gathered at the waist with a ratty old belt.
She wore a loose shirt over it all, which had probably once been white, and tucked it in at the waist. Oddly, the masculine clothes seemed to suit her.
She kept her hair tied up and out of the way, although long tendrils escaped and fell down the sides of her face.
She’s pretty, Struan thought, with dawning horror. A distraction.
His father had told him once that women were a distraction. Like all other proclamations from his father, Struan worked hard to remember it, always.
“What’s the matter?” Una spat. “Too afraid to fight me now that I’m out of kitchen garb and trained?”
“No,” he responded slowly, lifting his hands in a loose, defensive pose. “I only want to be sure that I know what I’m taking on.”
She was practically vibrating with anger and eagerness.
Too hasty, he thought.
As if to highlight the point, Una flung herself at him, fists whipping out in a powerful blow that might well have taken an inexperienced opponent by surprise.
Struan, however, was not inexperienced.
He dodged neatly, and her fist whistled past his face. She gave an audible growl of frustration and righted herself.
If he’d been playing seriously, he might have driven a fist into her side as she rushed by. He had a feeling that if he did that—or if, heaven forbid, he knocked her unconscious—the soldiers around them might panic and stab him, or something like that.
Instead, he danced away. His movements were stiff and less elegant than they could be, but already his lungs felt as though they were expanding joyfully in the cool, fresh air.
“Not bad for an opening move,” he remarked, dodging another blow. “Careful now. Ye might tire yerself out. Don’t want to be striking the air now.”
“Well, this wouldn’t be a problem if ye would just…” Una bit off the end of the sentence, but Struan knew just what she was trying to say. He let out a low chuckle.