The entire neighbourhood was swept up in preparations for the betrothal of Prince Oran and Lady Flidais. I was much relieved that I had not been invited to the celebrations, though in fact Grim had heard everyone was welcome. Folk from the village would be there, farmers and craftsmen and labourers – there’d been much excitement about it – but there’d be the prince and his kind too, and Grim and I had no reason to be wanting that sort of company. Let them enjoy their dancing and singing, their whistles and drums, their great bonfire. We’d sit by our own little fire, glad to be out of it all.

I could have done without the endless talk. Folk came to see me almost every day, and I had no choice but to listen as they chattered on about the ritual and the court visitors and what Lady Flidais would be wearing. They talked about Prince Oran and how much everyone liked him, because he took the time to listen to them, really listen, instead of nodding his head when they told him their concerns, then doing nothing. They told me how some Gaul who lived in Silverlake was baking a wedding cake, and how they hoped there’d be a share for the ordinary folk, not only the lords and ladies. Soon enough my head was so full of the betrothal that I wanted to scream. But generally while someone was prattling on about gowns and music and cake I was attending to their sore back or nasty rash, so I buttoned my lip and let them talk.

The only company I didn’t mind, apart from Grim’s which I was stuck with whether I liked it or not, was Emer’s. The girl didn’t gossip the way other folk did. And she was genuinely useful around the place: a quick learner. I was surprised when, one morning as she was watching me prepare a salve, even she started talking about the upcoming celebrations. I handed her the mortar and pestle and a handful of seeds to grind so she could make herself useful at the same time.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to be there, Mistress Blackthorn?’ Emer asked. ‘You’re welcome to come along with my family, if you care to. There’ll be music and dancing – court musicians for the formal part, my brother says, but later on just the village band. Fraoch plays the bodhran, and there are a couple of fellows on whistle and fiddle. That’s for us, the ordinary folk. And stories. There’s a druid coming to perform the ritual; I expect he’ll tell some tales. I think you would like that.’ She paused, peering into the mortar, testing the mixture between her fingers.