‘My lords, learned men of the law, honoured friends, I thank you all for your attendance and for your discretion,’ Oran said. ‘We will conduct these proceedings as quickly and efficiently as we can, to allow you to leave at the times arranged. Remember that the hospitality of this house is available to you and to your personal attendants until it is your hour to depart. If there are any questions about the practical arrangements, our guards are able to assist you. Let us begin. Bring in the accused man.’

Mathuin of Laois came in with a Swan Island man on either side and his hands tied behind his back. He was white with rage, his eyes wild, his jaw clenched tight. A muscle twitched at his temple. Don’t collapse and die, I thought, cold at the sight of him. Not just yet. Not before you hear every last word I have to say.

It seemed Mathuin did not want anyone but himself to speak. He launched into a tirade of protests. Everything was unacceptable. That he had been snatched from his horse while out hunting. That he had been brought all the way to some godforsaken place under guard without any explanation whatsoever. That an upstart prince appeared to be in charge. That I was present – he spotted me quickly, which was perhaps unsurprising given my red hair and the fact that I was the only woman in the room. That he seemed to be facing some kind of covert trial, when he had committed no offence. The absence of a lawman of his own choice. The absence of the High King. He shouted until Prince Oran offered him a choice: hold his tongue or be tried in absentia, with no chance to speak up for himself and no lawman to represent him. He was quieter after that, but if looks could have killed, we’d all have been struck dead on the spot.