He sat forward suddenly, the wooden stool thumping down heavily on the stone floor.

“You know, I thought Hugh brought you here for information. That was how it looked. You were holding something he needed. He was waiting for you to talk. Cat and mouse game. I could understand that. But my nephew’s never shown the slightest interest in that sort of strategy. Never lifted a finger to help in the campaigns, never made the smallest contribution to the cause. Couldn’t care less. So why would he involve himself now, I wondered? Had to be about his brother. Young Simon. Somehow, you were tied up in that. Had something you could tell him. Seemed to me, back then, that you could talk if you chose to. Not much wrong there, I thought. There were times when I saw you, about to speak, opening your little mouth and then choking back the words.”

I wound the thread onto the spindle, feeling the fibers sharp against my fingers, knowing my hands were becoming raw and stinking again, from lack of light, from filth and neglect and abuse.

“But then there was the unfortunate accident. It happens. Rocks fall, people get hurt. Freak of nature. They told me you didn’t utter a sound, no call for help, no screams, nothing. Can’t believe you wouldn’t cry out. No girl has that sort of control. Had to come to the conclusion the malady’s real. You genuinely can’t talk. Mute. Dumb. Silent as the grave. Adds a certain spice to the current situation. Means I can chat away to my heart’s content, bare the secrets of my soul, and you can’t tell them a thing. Not a thing. Be a shame, though, not to hear you screaming when the fire licks your ankles, and catches your gown, and turns that soft white flesh into an overcooked slab of meat. I’d have enjoyed hearing that. Oh well, can’t have it both ways.”

When he was gone, I allowed myself to cry, just for a little. I allowed myself to stare up at the window, where rain was coming down sideways, and a cool breeze gusted in fitfully, and I let myself think, if he were here, he would kill you. It was just as well he was not here. If he were here, he would face a choice that would break him. Better that he did not return, until after…. But I was frightened. Frightened to die, frightened of the fire. Terrified that I was working too slowly, that I would not be ready in time…I did not weep for long. The little voice was there all the time now. Spin. Weave. Sew. I worked on, and the half-made shirt, which was the last of six, was stained with blood from my hands, and filth from the room, and it was wet with my tears. He who wore this garment would wear my love, my pain and my terror. These things would set him free.

I can remember one good moment in those dark times. I had become used to my guards. I did not know their names, but there was one older man whom I had seen with Ben earlier. He did not come often, and when he did his distaste for the dirty, lightless cell and the duty he must perform was evident in his expression. There was one day when he brought the bucket, and threw it in the corner as usual, and then he took a little package from his pocket and slipped it furtively into my basket.