We allowed Cúan to usher us out of the chamber. If I heard one more word of poison from Mathuin I thought I might be sick. And I did not want to be sick in front of such an august gathering. In the smaller chamber, Cúan stayed with us while another of the Island men went off to fetch a platter of oatcakes and a jug of ale. The ale was welcome. The food, I could not touch.

‘Better eat something,’ said Grim. ‘You still look shaky.’

‘I didn’t say thank you.’

‘To me? No need. It’s what we do, isn’t it?’

‘Stand up for each other?’ Save each other over and over again.

‘Mm-hm. Didn’t think I’d be saying anything. Not in front of kings and chieftains and the like. But it felt good. It felt right, for the fellows who didn’t make it out of that place. And the ones who got out but never . . .’ He stumbled over the words. ‘The ones who saw the open sky and then died. Strangler. Poxy. Dribbles. Poor bastards.’

He’d never told me the full story, and I didn’t ask for it now. Whatever had happened, it had wounded him deep. Another scar to bear.

‘How long do you think they will be, Cúan?’ I asked.

‘I don’t suppose they will debate it long. Determining the penalty might take a while.’

I remembered with some horror that in another case, when a young woman had been abducted and abused, Prince Oran had asked Grim and me to join the discussion of an appropriate penalty. I wanted no part of it this time. There was too much hate in me. I had seen in Mathuin’s face that he could not change; that he had no will to become a better man, no understanding of what that meant. I did not want him exiled, for an exile can break a promise and return covertly. I did not want him banished for a term, perhaps to some monastic island. A man like him would break the rules without a moment’s hesitation. I did not want him working off his debt, even in the furthest corner of Erin. He would be walking the same ground as I was. He would find a way back. I wanted him gone. I wanted him dead. And for a wise woman to think such a thought was deeply wrong. Was not my craft to mend the broken, heal the wounded, cure the sick?

‘Funny,’ observed Grim. ‘Remember that wretch Branoc? Thought I recalled the prince saying something then about unofficial execution.’

He was reading my mind again. ‘Not a remark Prince Oran would want shared,’ I said, glancing at Cúan. ‘Who will make the decision?’