How long had it been? Days grew longer outside, yet they passed without a change. Without any contact from her captors save the bare necessities to keep anyone alive. Inside she railed that she was the former Queen of Denmark. Hers should be a captivity with status, with at least a servant and yet.. no word. Nothing.
She had tried pleading with the guards, had tried speaking to them in Danish and English and even her few broken words of the low German dialect spoken close to the Danish border but no avail.

Alone. Utterly alone.

In the beginning, she had scratched lines into the stone of her room. Had drawn lines on the floor. She had paced. She had walked circles, she had braided and re-braided her hair.
The splint had long since been discarded and she built models of siege machines with the remains.
Then she had crushed them.
Mind numbing boredom.
And no one came.
No one.

"Ye filthy rotten sons of cowardly dogs! Has no one got the courage to face me? Scum! Rapscallions!" Her voice was almost the screech of a witch as she railed against captivity, hammering her fists against the door. "Have yer mothers not taught ye? I fear for yer womanfolk! Oi!"
Silence on the other side. Not even a snigger. No one told her to be quiet.
Had they forgot she was here and lost the key?

A single tear streamed over her dirt streaked face and she sat on the small straw-stuffed mattress rocking back and forth. Her husband was still dead. She was imprisoned. Not one deigned to speak to her.
How low would Fortune's Wheel cast her?

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum..."

A servant visiting the dungeon-master of Nordyelliland, the colors of his clothing clearly defined him as a servant of the King of Saxony himself.

Uhhh, what is that for a discusting smell in here.

The dungeon-master smiled,

Thats the smell of our imprisoned ones, the former owners of these cellars not being civilized enough to make up some latrines or a good water-supply my Lord. We have to walk more then 15 Kilometers to reach a good well, and since it wasn't possible to leave some horses here we needed to take this walk several times daily by foot.

uncivilized pagans. Hmm, lets get down to the dungeons, I do have a list of people to set free, they have long enough being fed by us.

Good my Lord, so lets go.

The dungeon master took the keys and opend the doors to the dungeons of Suedyelliland.

Arrr, how is that screaming Lady?

Ish Lachesis, former Queen of Denmark.

Hmm, she is not on the list, so lets hurry before we get deafen by her cries.

Half an hour later the dungeon was visited at all, four cellars were opend and the imprisoned Knights, over and over in all their dirt, were given back weapons and armory and set free again.

So, you got your final orders, don't miss the boat already at the coast to bring you back home. Shall the Lord bless you for your loyal service.

Yes I have, thank you Sir. Shall God bless your way back home too.

And in the stillness, a plan formed. It had gotten quieter in the prison.

The disshevelled woman in the cell smiled to herself, and paced. She drew lines on the dirt floor. They should think she was mad.

And as silent as always, a treen plate with a trencher of bread and some cheese was pushed through the slot on the door waiting for the acceptance as so very often in the last weeks. And so she did, accepting the plate and setting it aside to wait for the pitcher of small ale that would follow as always.
And so it did.
Ish launched herself at the door and grabbed the arm, yanking the pottery vessel from unsuspecting fingers twisting the arm until she could hear the guard at the other side grunt with pain. With a vicious hiss she leant her entire weight on the limb until she could hear the pop of the ellbow snapping out of it's joint. The grunt became a howl, probably alerting all other guards.

But there it was. A laugh from the other side. A snide remark that the guard was being held by a weak woman.
A key in the lock.
The tumblers turned.
The hinges shrieked.
A small crack in the door, widening.
A shoe visible, then the tabard cover of a mailcoat.
Ish did not look at his face. She checked and her luck held, he did not wear a helmet.
She launched herself from the door with a sudden laugh and smashed the pitcher of ale over the guard's head.
"Bitch!"
She laughed louder in satisfaction and went for his sidesword before he could guard his left side.
Her hands clasped the hilt and he swore, instinctively taking a step back, the step she had been waiting for.
The slender frame of the former Queen slipped through at his side and she raised the butt of the sword handle, thumping the man over the head.
His companion with the dislocated right elbow gasped in shock as he saw the filthy woman laugh at him, just before she plunged the blade into his unprotected throat. He gurgled as he went down and Ish began to run.
Just away from this place.

How much time had passed?
There were crows feet around the face of the Englishwoman who lived amongst the Danes. Time had not been kind to her, there was sorrow in her eyes and often she could be found by the shore staring wistfully out onto the waves. Her face had grown haggard and there was white in the straw-blonde curls that so often tumbled loose over shoulders and back.

What was time anyway?
Outside the birds were singing, greeting another spring morning. Slowly Ishbeal rubbed her neck, her calloused fingers stroking the thickened skin of the scar that drew its long silvery path into her hair. A fleeting smile crossed her features as she thought of a day, almost an eternity ago, when other hands had touched the scar tissue.
As ever when uncomfortable feelings threatened to overwhelm her, Ishbeal drew herself up straight. Her spine creaked, as it was wont to do now and then and she could hear her maid rustling behind her. The woman turned from the fire and offered her mistress a bowl of gruel and after a few unblinking moments, the former queen - still holding her rigid queenly stance - turned away. There was no hunger.

There had not been any feelings for a long time, only a growing pain in her belly and the automatic functions of one too used to life.
The pain in her stomach was worse today, as evidenced by her sunken face and deathly pallor and as the door to the shelter opened to permit another person to enter into the shade Ish could hear a sharp breath being drawn.
Her smile was one tinged with sadness and pain and only God knew how much longer she would be able to hide it from those that were not closest to her. Unconsciously her fingers grasped the crucifix around her throat as she lowered her gaze and walked through the open door into the spring sunshine.

Later that day they found her. A hand still grasped around the crucifix and her body contorted with the pain of the tumor that had grown in her stomach. But her face had finally found peace.