Such directness was typical of her. My father was more likely to show his opinion of me by lifting his brows and tightening his lips. This occurred, for instance, when I failed to show adequate enthusiasm for such activities as hunting, hawking and combat practice. I had learned to acquit myself adequately at all three; I was no fool. A future king of Dalriada must be as capable at blood sports as he was at, say, strategic thinking.

My parents had never understood my passion for poetry, my love of lore, my fondness for observing birds and animals about their natural activities, and my corresponding distaste for the business of impaling them on arrows or skewering them with spears. They saw this as a weakness in me, an unfitness for the destiny that lay before me, a destiny that was mine whether I liked it or not, since, inadequate as I might be, I was the only son they had.

‘At two-and-twenty, you might at the very least attempt to show some interest in the matter,’ Mother went on. ‘Your manner hints at something . . . not quite right. Something . . . amiss.’

‘With respect, Mother,’ I said, though my patience was wearing thin, this being a subject we had edged around many times in the past, ‘if you mean what I think you mean, you are in error. I understand the need to father an heir, and when the right woman comes along, I will marry and procreate as you wish. If you find fault with my demeanour, it is not because I hanker after some young man, Donagan for instance, but because the notion of a strategic marriage fills me with unease. The thought that so significant a matter could be decided on the basis of a formal letter from Father to some ruler in a distant kingdom, and that I might not see my bride in the flesh before she arrives for the betrothal . . . it feels deeply wrong to me.’ In the ancient tales, marriages made for purposes of power and alliance often went awry. The stories that stirred me were those of lovers who met by chance and knew at first sight that they were made for each other. A man like me might wait a lifetime for such a story.

‘You speak like a green girl of thirteen, Oran, not a grown man. Sometimes I despair of you.’

‘I know, Mother.’