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 topractice.
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’tor 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. Watchhim, 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 seemovement 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.
