I am the daughter of the forest, I told myself as I drew the long, barbed strands of starwort out of my little bag and began to spin, with borrowed distaff and spindle. I am the daughter of Lord Colum of Sevenwaters. I have a brother that is a fine leader, and one that is an adept in mysteries more ancient than any your people could imagine. I have a brother that is a fearless warrior, and one the wild creatures know as a friend. I have a brother that—that once had a smile that would charm the birds from the trees, and will again one day. And as the thread snapped once more, and I joined it yet again, with its fine barbs piercing my skin like strands of hot wire, I told myself, I have a brother that knows how to heal the spirit, that will give of himself till there is nothing left. What have you, with your smooth hands and your fine embroidery? With every twist of this sharp thread, I cry out to my brothers. With every thorn that stabs my flesh, I call them back home.

The Britons thought me touched in the head. After the first shock, there was disbelief as they saw my work and realized I was in earnest when I twisted the spines of this plant between my fingers. When they saw me choke back the cry of pain and will my face to calm, they drew away from me, and clustered together, glancing from time to time, furtively, at the corner where I sat alone. I heard their talk, even though their voices were hushed. Because his mother was there, they would not openly question what the lord Hugh had done. But they told tales, terrible tales of how the chieftains of Erin had killed this good man, and maimed that one, how the flower of their people had come to grief in the long feud between us. Glancing at me over their shoulders, they told of good men bewitched and betrayed by women of my kind, women with pale skin and hair as dark as night, and a way with words. All of it was meant for my ears. I could have told them our side of the story—my father’s story. For Colum was a seventh son, and how often does such a one inherit his father’s lands? Only when all his brothers are lost to war, falling one by one in defense of what they hold precious. But I was silent.

Among the raised eyebrows, the pursed lips, there was one who dared to be different. She was John’s wife. She had been watching me, and hers were the only eyes that made no judgment. On the third day, as I sat on a high stool in my corner wrestling with spindle and distaff and trying to hold back the tears, she moved to sit by me, bringing her work with her. She was hemming a tiny gown; its bodice and sleeves already bore a finely embroidered trail of leaves, with here and there a yellow bee or scarlet flower. I could see her love for her unborn child in every stitch of this small garment. I reached out to touch it with my wretched, swollen hands, and smiled at her.