Chapter 4 #2
“Just what? Wouldn’t be a problem if I just stayed still? Ach, lassie, that’s not realistic, is it?”
“I’m no inexperienced fool,” she spat, backing up and finally giving herself a chance to breathe. “I’ve fought. In a battle. I’ve killed people.”
Struan smiled. “Ye have fought in a battle, eh? Very good. I’ve fought in hundreds.”
He lunged forward, too fast for her to evade.
He twisted her around, neatly tying up both of her arms with his own forearm and pinioning them behind her back, and pinned his arm across her collarbone.
With her back to him, he could only see part of her profile, but he certainly saw her eyes widen when she realized that she was trapped.
“Ye are too hasty,” he murmured in her ear. “Ye let yer emotions get the better of ye.”
“Let go of me!” she bucked, trying to escape.
In a moment, the watching soldiers would probably intervene. They were most likely itching to do so now.
“Ye rushed in, headfirst, because ye wanted to hit me,” Struan responded, as calmly as he could.
“Ye wanted to hurt me. That was all ye were thinking about. Aside from a well-practiced opening move, where was the skill in yer fighting? Where were the tactics? Aye, flailing around with a sword might serve ye well in the close quarters of battle, but not when ye go up against an opponent with experience.”
She went still, just for a moment, and he realized that she was actually listening to him.
Well, so she should. It was good advice.
“Una! Una!”
A familiar voice yelped in the distance, and running feet approached them. Struan released her just in the nick of time, spinning around to see a group of men and one nun hurrying towards them.
The man who had shouted was none other than Thomas Darroch himself. Struan knew the man, of course. He’d been a thorn in the side of the Dicksons for a long time, and he had led the armies that had defeated Struan’s men.
More to the point, he was the one who had just married Kyla.
Struan found himself pounced upon by the Swedish giant, who hauled him away from Una.
“It was a sparring session,” Struan found himself shouting. “She suggested it.”
Thomas pinched Una’s chin, frowning. He seemed to be looking for injuries and was visibly relieved to find none.
Struan bared his teeth. “She didn’t win, if ye wanted to know.”
Thomas glared at him. “Ye were brought above ground—against my advice, by the way—to work. Ye are meant to be picking herbs, not fighting. Una knows this.”
Apparently, there was a reproof in those words, because Thomas glanced sharply at Una. She hung her head miserably.
“Goodness, lad, how concerned ye are with the women of this convent,” Struan observed. Thomas stiffened, and he knew he’d touched a nerve. “I imagine ye consider them quite yers, after the battle ye fought for them.”
“We belong to no one, lad,” the nun spoke up, taking a step forward.
Struan glanced over at her and met her eye.
With a shiver, he realized that he was not speaking to an ordinary nun.
“Ye must be the Abbess, then,” he murmured. “How interesting.”
She did not bother to reply. She seemed to be appraising him, looking him up and down with that cool, thoughtful gaze. Her expression gave nothing away, which left Struan feeling unsettled.
“We’ll talk, ye and I,” she said bluntly, and it took Struan a moment to understand that she was talking about him. “Bring him to my study. Una, ye can go about picking the herbs. Cook needs them within the hour.”
Still looking crestfallen and guilty, Una nodded wordlessly and picked up the basket.
Struan was shown to a fairly ordinary-looking room, not at all the sort of thing he would expect from the Abbess of such a notable convent.
The first thing he noticed was an ugly round copper mirror, bulging from a wall.
It reflected the room in an odd, distorted way, like the curved surface of an eye, and Struan couldn’t shake the feeling that the awful thing was looking at him.
He was pushed unceremoniously down into a seat, and the Abbess settled herself behind the desk. It was overflowing with papers and books, but enough space had been cleared in the center to allow for a ratty old wooden chessboard. The pieces were scattered over the board, still embroiled in a game.
“I hope ye enjoyed ye wee spar,” she said at last, sounding more amused than angry. “I doubt that Thomas will let it happen again.”
Struan grunted. “What’s that to me? I don’t intend to be here much longer.”
“I’m sure ye don’t,” she agreed. “And ye shall not.”
He frowned. “Are ye sending me back to Keep Dickson?”
She gave a faint smile. “Heavens, no. But ye are being moved along. I’m sorry I couldn’t get ye aboveground for air earlier. Everybody else was against it.”
“And yet ye got yer own way in the end.”
“I always do.”
The Abbess laced her fingers together, leaning forward. She tilted her head, eyeing him curiously.
“Kyla has told me a little about yer father,” she said at last. Struan stiffened. “I can’t imagine how bad it was, growing up with a man like that.”
“I admire my father more than any man alive.”
“I can believe that,” she agreed, “in so much as that ye do not admire anybody at all.”
He scoffed. “Ye don’t know what ye are saying.”
“Don’t I? I couldn’t help but hear what ye were saying to Una as ye sparred. I have good hearing, ye know, and we were hurrying across the gardens towards ye. Ye told her—if I recall correctly—that during a fight one must take a breath. One must keep emotions out of it, aye?”
Where was this going? He stared at her, brows knitted, but the woman’s serene face gave nothing away.
“Aye.”
“Perhaps ye have just been afforded that opportunity. After all, ye have been fighting since ye were, what, fifteen? Now ye can take a breath. Clear yer head. Think.”
“I don’t understand,” he responded, and meant it.
The Abbess only smiled. “Ye might understand in time. Then again, ye might not. My instinct for people is good, but not infallible.”
He wondered if the woman was going senile. She didn’t seem old enough, but you could never tell.
“I will not change my opinions or my loyalty, if that is what ye mean,” he snarled, leaning forward. “Nothing ye can say or do will change my mind.”
“Do ye play chess?”
The change of subject took him by surprise.
“What?” he managed, blinking.
She indicated the chessboard. “I don’t get to play often. Do you play?”
“Not if I can help it.”
She nodded and reached forward, moving a piece across the board. A knight, he noticed. It jumped out from behind a line of pawns and neatly took a bishop.
“When I do play chess with others,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “I warn them not to rush. I tell them to pause and think ahead, and decide what impact their plan will have upon the game. Upon their future. I’d advise you to do the same.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Are ye really using a chess metaphor on me? It’s very apt, actually, considering that all the pieces on the board are yers to dispose of as ye will. Which pawn am I, I wonder?”
The Abbess deftly spun the board around and began playing the other side. She shifted a pawn forward and took the knight she’d just used to take the bishop.
“That all depends,” she responded sweetly, “on how ye defend yer queen, Struan Dickson.”