‘But the letters. The confidences, the poetry . . .’ I made myself stop. Donagan had not read any of the letters, either mine to Flidais or hers to me, and I had no intention of sharing them with him or indeed anyone. They were private; secret; a precious bond between my sweetheart and me. I believed in the letters. I believed in true love, the kind from ancient tales. If I said this to Donagan, he would call me a child. ‘Perhaps she is hiding from me,’ I mused. ‘Perhaps she cannot bear to face the truth.’

Donagan gave me one of his looks. ‘What truth?’

I grimaced. ‘That she doesn’t love me after all? That she finds herself obliged to wed a man who disgusts her?’

‘Your thoughts are leading you into a maze that’s entirely of your own invention, my friend. I suggest you drink a lot of mead, then have a good night’s sleep. Who knows, the lady may be in quite a different mood tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that.’ When I failed to reply, he went on, ‘You’re spending too much time fretting over this. If you want my advice, you’ll leave Lady Flidais and her women to their own devices and turn your attention elsewhere. Has it escaped you that your mother and father will be here in a few days? Winterfalls will be full to the brim with folk. Tomorrow might be a good day to call your household together and rally them with a few uplifting remarks. Afterwards you might make a personal tour of inspection: the accommodation for the king and queen, the sleeping quarters for their serving folk, the stables . . . If you wish, I can draw up an itinerary.’

‘I believe I might just manage to retain that in my mind.’ Hearing how this sounded, I added, ‘I’m sorry, Donagan. I am somewhat on edge, I admit it. Navigating uncharted waters.’

‘You will find your way even without a map,’ Donagan said with a smile. ‘Most men do.’

When he was gone I sat by lamplight with parchment, ink and pen before me and Flidais’s picture on the wall, looking down on me. I had thought to craft a new poem for my beloved, capturing my love for her, my uncertainty, my hope. But I could not write. The words that should have poured forth from my heart were silent. I was mute; the river of my imagination had turned dry as dust. I sat a long while, knowing that Donagan’s advice was wise and sensible, recognising that all I needed to do was give Flidais time.

In the end I did write, but not to my beloved.

To Eabha, Queen of Dalriada