She chose the black, because the black king was her favourite still, and this king was more beautiful and detailed than the one she’d learnt to play with in the Earl of Erroll’s library. His beard was curled, his crown made gold with gilt, and she could see the ermine cuffs upon his robe. The other pieces were as finely made, with one exception. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘did no one paint the pawns?’

‘They are small men.’

That made her rise to their defence. ‘But they are brave. They are the first to march to battle.’

‘And the first to fall.’ His glance was difficult to read. ‘I only meant the pieces here are small in size, and would be difficult to paint. ’Tis likely why they were left plain.’

‘Oh.’

‘What mark would ye give them, then?’

She frowned, and thought, and was not sure.

The captain said, ‘Perhaps it is their brave hearts that would mark them, like the Bruce.’

She knew the story of King Robert, called “the Bruce”, that ancient Scottish king who after his own death had sent his heart upon Crusade to keep his promise made to God and to his men, and so had earned the name of Braveheart.

‘But our hearts,’ said Captain Jamieson, ‘we carry close inside us, as do these wee soldiers here, and none will ever know our worth but by our actions.’

Anna watched him move his first pawn out into the wooden field of inlaid squares, and without knowing why, she said, ‘I’ve always liked the pawns the best.’

The captain paused, and looked at her, and seemed about to make reply when suddenly she realised, ‘But the Abbess Butler says that games are idle pastimes that do not please God.’

He took this in without a word, the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward in a smile that held no humour. Then he said, ‘The Abbess Butler is a very wise and loving woman, and I do not doubt she would allow this one transgression, though I’d argue God is more accomplished in the game of chess than either of us, having played so long with living pieces. And, like you, he seems to like his pawns.’

She heard the bitterness, but did not understand it, so she simply said, ‘Is that because he sees into their hearts, and sees their braveness?’

Captain Jamieson glanced up at that, and when he spoke the edge had left his voice. ‘Aye, let us hope he does.’

And satisfied, she moved her own pawn forward then, a small courageous soldier on that field of dark and light.

May came, with all its brightness, and the sound of birdsong filled the convent’s garden every morning, and the sun fell warm on Anna’s shoulders as she helped the nuns in cheerful silence do their work.

She liked to feel the earth between her fingers, and the crushed green scent of herbs, and best of all she liked the task of pulling out the stealthy, spreading weeds that always sought to bind and smother the more useful plants and flowers.

Her efforts pleased the Abbess, who while watching her one morning said, ‘Now do that with your thoughts as well, pluck out the needless vanities and worries, and you’ll find you grow the straighter for it.’

Anna liked the Abbess. She liked all the nuns, in fact. They could be stern when it was warranted, but mostly they were kind and smiled often, and they had a peace about them that she knew she’d never have herself. There were but half a dozen each of lay sisters and choir nuns who, together with the Abbess, formed the whole of that community, and Anna by this time had learnt their faces and their names, and some few details of their lives before the convent.

On the rainy afternoon when Captain Jamieson next came to visit for their walk within the church, she shared what she had learnt about one of her favourite nuns. ‘… and she was born in Scotland, too, and speaks the same as you and I do, and her true name is Maclean,’ she told him. ‘Mary Louisa Maclean. Is that not a bonny name? Her mother’s father was an earl, the Earl of Kilmar …’ Here she faltered in her memory, and the captain guessed.

‘Kilmarnock?’

‘Aye. He died, though, and her uncle died as well, and so her cousin is the earl now. But he fights against the King.’ And with those few words she dismissed him from her thoughts. ‘Her father, though, does serve King James. His name is Alexander. Have ye met him?’

‘If he’s Sir Alexander Maclean,’ said the captain, ‘then yes, I have met him.’

‘She says he’s a good man. He left her in Scotland,’ said Anna, ‘the same way my own father left me when he came to follow the King. But,’ she added, ‘he fetched her across at last, for he did not wish to leave her with those who thought wrongly and served the wrong faith.’

Captain Jamieson glanced round the quiet interior of the small church, with its silver lamp burning a light in the dimness. ‘And what is the right faith?’

‘The nuns say there is but one true faith to follow.’

‘And what do you say?’

He was asking a serious question, she knew, so she answered him with honesty. ‘Colonel Graeme is a Catholic, but he says he loves my mother and my mother is a Protestant, so I think God must surely love as broadly as the colonel does, and see the good in all men.’

‘See the brave hearts of his pawns, ye mean?’ The captain’s smile showed faintly. ‘Are they teaching ye philosophy, the nuns?’

She wasn’t sure. ‘But I am glad there is a Scottish nun.’

‘She makes ye feel at home, then, does she?’