At first I was in utter despair, for they cast me into this tiny prison with nothing but the gown I wore; even my boots were taken away. I imagined Richard’s men searching my room, throwing distaff and spindle to one side, tossing the contents of chest and basket on the fire. That first night, I sat in the corner with my arms wrapped over my head and my knees against my chest, and let the tears pour down my face. I feared Conor’s capture. I feared that I would never save my brothers; and yet, while I lived there was still a chance, and so I might not speak to protest my innocence. But if guilty, I would die, and nobody could save them then. I feared to be put to torture; I had seen what they did to Simon, and knew I could not withstand it as he had. Like some foolish girl whose head is full of fancies, who dreams of a hero on a white charger, I longed for Red to come back and rescue me. And yet, I dreaded his return, for would he not believe, as Ben believed, that I had betrayed them all? I did not want to see that look of pain and shock in his eyes. Better that he did not come back, until…Toward dawn, I ceased rocking and weeping, and sat like a hollow shell, blank minded. A bird flew by the window, calling to its mate. A voice within me spoke, at last. One foot before the other. Straight ahead. This is the path. Straight ahead, Sorcha. You knew it would be hard. It will become harder still. One foot, then the other. And again. Into the dark.

When the men came again, bringing water and a lump of dry bread, I heard their talk and knew that Conor had eluded them. For they scoured the riverbank all night by torchlight, but never hide nor hair of the wild stranger did they find. Vanished into thin air, he had. Like a ghost. You’d hardly believe he’d been there at all, if you hadn’t seen him with your own eyes. Big fierce fellow, he was; one of them Irish chieftains you heard about, wring your neck with a single twist if you gave them the chance. Privately, most of the men were glad they hadn’t run into him, out there in the night. But Lord Richard wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy at all.

For a long time nobody came to see me. The door would creak open and the empty bucket would be thrown back in, or the used one taken. A meager meal would be left. That was no problem. I was used to going hungry. Worse was the lack of light, the blank stone walls, unbroken save for the small window high above my head. Worse still, the agony of idle hands. For I had been close, so close to the end of my task. Five shirts finished, and only one to make. To have this snatched from me, to be locked up without the means to complete my work was cruel indeed. Close to despair, I resorted to telling tales, an old, much-used device to occupy the mind and keep out what was not wanted. Culhan’s quest for the Lady Edan. The four fair children of Lir. No, maybe not that one. Niamh of the golden hair. The cup of Isha. That story had a hero who was extremely good at waiting. Medb, the warrior queen with a penchant for lusty young heroes. Simon had laughed at that one. And the tale of the man Toby and his mermaid. Of all the tales I had ever told, of all the stories I had ever heard, that was the one I loved best. Who would have dreamed that Red could tell such a story?