Don’t be defeatist,he reminded himself.Perhaps this will be the time.
He moved his bishop forward a few squares. It was a cleverly chosen position, which would allow him to checkmate in three moves. If he could just…
The Abbess’ queen sailed in from nowhere, neatly taking his bishop. Struan deflated.
“That was a good move,” the Abbess said merrily, leaning back and lacing her fingers over her stomach. “Ye get better every time we play.”
“Not good enough, apparently,” Struan muttered.
“Stay calm, lad. Nothing is worse for ye than acting out of anger and temper. Take a breath. We’re playing chess, not running a race. Although,” she added, grinning thoughtfully, “ye certainly ought to remember what rides on the outcome of this game.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, aye? Our wee wager?”
“Indeed.”
He moved his pawn, and the Abbess, seemingly at random, moved her knight.
The game progressed rapidly. Knight took pawn, pawn took rook, pawn took bishop, and so on. Their chess game devolved into a merry little game of slaughter. Struan took the Abbess’ pieces, too, but even so, she seemed to have the upper hand.
Until, quite suddenly, he stared down at the board and realized that her queen was exposed.
What a mistake to make!
Struan glanced up at the Abbess, searching her face for clues. Was it a trap? Or was it simply an accident? Even the Abbess lost chess matches. She lost to Una, who rarely played chess and seemed to have won simply because she was so bad at chess she had no tactic and so played at random and managed to corner the Abbess’ king at the very end. The Abbess hadnotbeen pleased at that.
The Abbess stared back blandly, her face revealing nothing.
Holding his breath, Struan moved his remaining bishop forward and took the queen.
Two moves later, he was checkmated.
“It was a trap,” Struan muttered, knocking over his king to convey surrender.
“Aye, and a good one,” the Abbess chuckled. “Ye saw the trap, ye know. Ye saw it and went forward anyway. Never second-guess yerself, lad.”
“I’ll remember that. Ye win the wager, then. Ye get to deliver the final blow on Laird Dickson.”
The Abbess’ face tightened at the mention of their wager.
“Ach, ye are a sweet lad, but that was only a bit of fun. I’ll not even be part of the battle.”
“I’m not sure I want to be the one to kill him,” Struan confessed. “After all he’s done, he is my father.”
The Abbess nodded. “I understand, lad. Well, what do ye want to do now? We can put these away, or perhaps play another short game?”
Before Struan could answer, running footsteps echoed outside, and after a moment, Thomas burst in.
“They’re here,” he gasped.
The Abbess rose to her feet. “Do ye mean Laird Dickson’s army, or do ye mean Laird Grahame’s?” she asked tightly.
Thomas blinked, faintly confused.
“Laird Grahame’s, Abbess. They’ve arrived. Senga is with them.”
Senga feltas though she was coming home. The town around the convent still bore marks from the previous battle, however. People kept wary looks on their faces and walked in groups. Houses had heavy doors and barred windows. In places, scorched ground marked where a croft had once stood.
The convent rose above it all, surrounded by the forest. She could almost smell the familiar, fragrant scent of the herb garden. If she closed her eyes, even now, Senga could still see all the rows of vegetables and fruit lined up in the earth. She’d known that garden by heart once. She still did.
