The false Maid had been thrown in the underground dungeon destined for traitors, rebels and heretics. She lay on the cold floor like a ragged sack of bones, and by the light of the torch the guards had given him Mikael could see she was in bad condition: thin and dirty, her shift - the only garment she wore - torn and bloody, and her skin covered with bruises and crusts. It was obvious she had been maltreated and perhaps tortured, and he failed to see why such a weak and pitiable creature should be chained to the wall.
Then his eyes came to rest on her head. The matted hair that obscured her face was filthy, and the red torchlight unsteady and treacherous, but even in this shadowy dungeon it was visibly white. The hair of a crone. He glanced at Weland, but the other Scot merely wrinkled his nose at the rank smell that pervaded the dungeon.
Since he couldn't call her Margareta or my lady, Mikael loudly cleared his throat to draw the woman's attention.
After a few moments she turned her head. The lank, unkempt hair fell to one side, revealing a face that gave him a shock. The woman's face was as dirty as the rest of her but looked much younger than the hair. In fact, it could hardly be older than twenty-five -
He took a deep breath to steady himself. Don't start imagining things! It had to be the eyes: large like a child's, very blue, and remarkably unclouded for a woman who had been treated as harshly as she.
Again he looked at Weland - had he lost a little of his composure now?
To Mikael's surprise, the woman took the initiative. Raising herself to a sitting position she asked: `What do you want?'
Though she did speak Norse a shade of a foreign accent coloured her speech. Low German? The chaplain, who frequently heard that language in the streets of Bergen, wasn't sure.
`Your true name,' he said. `In your own best interest.' He rubbed his softly rumbling stomach.
`My true name is Margareta Eiriksdatter. I am the rightful Queen of Scotland.'
`Nonsense!' Weland said. `You're a common woman from Lübeck!'
`Who are you to doubt me? I am who I say I am.'
Weland gave his exasperation free reign. `Margareta is dead and has been so for more than ten years!'
`Who are you to doubt me? I am who I say I am.'
...