They send the birds and their kill back to the castle and ride on to Tara, up through its wooded slopes, where flies are drawn to the sweat of their horses. She feels her palfrey’s muscles bunch with the effort of the climb and her hand comes away wet from its hide. As they come out of the trees, into the light of the open heath, it tosses its head and sets its harness jangling. They’ve not come so far before. Ormond rides ahead of them, heralded by skylarks rising from the grass. I should have brought the hawk, she thinks.

‘There was a great fort here,’ Ormond shouts back, circling his hand above his head to describe it. ‘The fort of the pagan kings. And from it ran five roads, broad and clear, carrying royal authority to every corner of Ireland.’

On foot they trace the great circular ditch that, he says, marked the fort’s boundaries. A fold of green that, Cecily thinks, could be anything.

‘It was here St Patrick brought the gospel when first he came to Ireland,’ Ormond calls back, striding. ‘The pagan Laoghaire, who was king then, wouldn’t bow to him. But God had his way with him, and the old kingship is gone now for ever.’ He turns then and laughs. ‘Especially since we came.’

At the hill’s bare centre stands a stone, smooth and white, almost as tall as a man.

‘What’s that?’ asks Cecily, shielding her eyes and pointing.

‘Ah,’ says Ormond. He leans in and leers. ‘Don’t go near.’ Then he takes her arm and draws her to it, Richard following, kicking at shamrocks in the grass.

When they stand before it, Ormond reaches out a hand, but doesn’t touch. ‘It is the Lia Fáil. Destiny’s Stone.’ He holds up his arms about it, playing the druid. ‘The Maker of Kings.’

In the days before Patrick, he tells them, kingship didn’t pass from father to son. It was given by the gods to the man of most merit. ‘The one who had the temerity to ask, and courage to face the test.’ He looks at them and grins.

‘Well, yes,’ says Richard. ‘There would be a test.’

‘First he must win to his bed Maeve, Queen of the World.’ He sketches a bow to Cecily. ‘You’ve done that already, Richard. Then he must drink her mead and not die.’

‘I breathe yet,’ says Richard, warming to the game.

‘And gallop his horse at a stone wall and trust it will fall before him.’

‘Now that’s just not sensible.’

Cecily laughs.

‘Then he must lay his hand on this stone and, if the gods approve him, it will sing out his name.’ Ormond holds his hand an inch from the stone’s top. ‘Richard, Richard, Richard!’