‘Lady Flidais does not . . .’

‘Before I can offer a solution, a remedy, I must first examine a patient. Speak with her in person,’ Blackthorn says. ‘If Lady Flidais doesn’t care to make use of my services, why don’t you send for one of the royal physicians? Cahercorcan is not so very far away.’

You’d think they’d have called someone already, with the headaches so bad and all. But I’m not the healer, so I keep quiet. And so does the prince. He’s stroking the dog and looking as if he wants to be somewhere else. Which makes three of us, I’m guessing.

‘This is more than the headaches, isn’t it, my lord?’ Blackthorn’s sounding almost kindly, which is a surprise. ‘In my experience, sometimes it’s easier to get these things out if you make them into a tale. We’ll hold our counsel until you’re done.’

That’s what he needed, seems like. Out comes the story, and it’s nothing we would have expected. A tale like one of those old ones, true love, magic, tears and sorrow, everything. Seems Prince Oran fell in love with Lady Flidais’s picture. Then they wrote letters. Love letters. Only when he met the real lady she wasn’t what he expected. Or, she was in looks, but not in much else. One thing’s plain: the prince is deep-down unhappy.

‘You know what I’ll say,’ says Blackthorn when the story’s finished.

‘That it is all in my mind. That such disappointments are common in arranged marriages, which are made for reasons of strategy, not love. That I should be glad my betrothed is young, healthy and pleasant to look upon. I understand those arguments. I know I was foolish to expect more. But . . . her letters . . . I cannot believe they were not heartfelt. And I cannot believe that Flidais, as she is now, could have written them.’

‘Your lady is a chieftain’s daughter,’ Blackthorn says. I hear in her voice that she’s being careful. It’s awkward to talk about this without seeming to insult the lady, and folk get punished for a lot less than that. ‘Chieftains have scribes. Skilful ones.’

‘The letters were . . . poetic. And personal. Very personal.’

‘How long did you say it was until the hand-fasting?’

Oran holds the dog against his chest; it stretches up and gives him a lick on the chin. ‘Just over one turning of the moon.’

‘And what exactly are you hoping we can do? Are you suggesting the lady is here under false pretences? That this is an imposter?’

‘She cannot be.’ His voice is flat. ‘She is the image of her portrait, and that came from her father to mine. Besides, she travelled here with her own folk and none of them has mentioned anything amiss. The only oddity is . . .’ His face goes red.

‘What?’ If Blackthorn has noticed he’s embarrassed, she’s not showing it.