It wasn’t hard to imagine what that punishment might be like. I only had to think of Bardán, a master craftsman with scattered wits and ruined hands. Brígh in that hole, beset by tormenting voices. It would be worse than the lockup. Far worse. It might go on and on until Mathuin died of it. I felt as if my veins had turned to ice.

‘Mistress Blackthorn?’

Prince Oran had said something and I’d missed it. ‘I’m sorry, what was that?’

‘Lord Conmael is genuine in his wish to help us. His offer may be a little difficult to explain to the others, but I will word it carefully. It may be best, Lord Conmael, if you are not present when the verdict and penalty are delivered.’

‘Could just say, exile to a far-off land,’ suggested Grim. ‘For life. Under the supervision of Lord Conmael.’

Oran smiled. ‘Nicely put,’ he said. ‘Mistress Blackthorn, I need only your approval for this. The penalty is severe, though perhaps not quite as severe as you might have wished.’

Maybe not. The Island men were entirely capable of performing an unofficial execution. A swift killing, an equally swift disposal of the body in some lonely corner of the land. But then, Conmael offered an exile from which there really would be no return. An exile in which Mathuin would endure a punishment such as his victims had endured, should Conmael decide that. And from the look on his face, I suspected he might. In the stinking hell of the lockup, we’d believed our torment would not end until the day we died. Mathuin would learn the weight of that burden. ‘You have my approval,’ I said. ‘And I thank Lord Conmael for offering this.’

‘Very well,’ said the prince. ‘We will proceed.’

It was quick, after that. The prince and his lawmen went out to speak to the assembled nobles, and then we were called in to join them. Conmael did not come with us. The guards brought Mathuin in again, silent now. He still had his wrists bound.

I had wondered why it was Prince Oran who’d led this from start to finish; why his father, the king of Dalriada, or the still more influential King Lorcan of Mide had not been asked to speak or to deliver the verdict. But it was obvious now. There were the plain clothes they all wore, the sort of garments a farmer might put on for feast days. There was the fact that none of them had said much, despite their status as leaders. It was to limit the risk and preserve the secret – a secret that went right up to the High King.