I had doubted Cara’s ability to concentrate on a task that would keep her indoors, seated at a table, for hours at a time. But she surprised me, working out a system to ensure she did not miss anything and maintaining a careful record of her progress. Washing her hands before she handled the books. Keeping our morning refreshments well away from anything precious. Staying quiet unless she really needed to ask me something. Not that it was easy for her. When our morning’s work was done, she would rush off outside as if set free from a prison cell. Not that she was free, exactly. Her father’s rules meant she could go no further than Flidais’s small private garden without both one of the handmaids and a guard in attendance. This arrangement was inconvenient for the household and irksome for Cara herself. Fíona confided in me that nobody had forgotten the tongue-lashing Tóla had delivered after his daughter went missing.

As for Oran and Flidais and their retainers, they remained at court. Still. I wished someone would tell me what was going on, but I could not ask. Start showing too much curiosity about Mathuin of Laois and I would reveal I had a special interest in that subject. I would make myself vulnerable. Folk would start asking me questions.

Surely the king’s council must be over by now. Had they decided to take action against Mathuin? They must do something. He’d committed an act of gross hostility against Lord Cadhan, Flidais’s father. He’d seized Cadhan’s land and killed many of his retainers. He’d driven Cadhan and his wife out. No leader worth his salt was going to say, Oh, how unfortunate. But there’s nothing we can do about it now.

The question was, what could they do? Laois was far away and Mathuin’s forces were formidable. The High King would not want war on his doorstep. Not even a petty war. This kind of thing was like a fire in dry grass. It started small, a flickering flame. If not quickly dealt with, it could grow into a huge blaze, spreading to destroy more and more ground. An attempt to topple Mathuin by force of arms seemed unlikely.

So why were those men from Swan Island here? There were more of them now, each with a different animal marking and a name to match. Cúan, Art, Earc. Hound, bear, salmon. Ségán, hawk. Caolchú, another hound. Cionnaola, wolf-head. Perhaps, when each joined the warrior band, he chose a name to suit his own appearance or his character. Cionnaola had long twists of grey-black hair and features that were almost noble – a prominent, straight nose and piercing dark eyes. Lonán – blackbird – was a stocky, dark-skinned man with a clever face. And so it went on.