Supper progressed through various courses. Lady Flidais, who was seated on the other side of Master Oisin, seemed uncomfortable. She was beautifully dressed, with her hair elaborately plaited and her head held proudly high. But she looked ill at ease, as if those who shared her table were not only strangers, but strangers whom she did not particularly trust. If my draught had eased her headache – it should have done – there was no sign of it in her demeanour. She exchanged a word or two with the visiting chieftain and his wife; she responded to innocuous questions from Lady Sochla and Oisin. But mostly she sat in silence, toying with her food.

How could I get her to talk to me? How could I persuade her to trust me enough to tell the truth, whatever it was? It was a pity I wasn’t more like Master Oisin, whose very manner inspired trust. I was pondering this and trying to catch what Lord Muadan was saying to the prince – were they speaking of Mathuin of Laois? – when Lady Sochla leaned forward and addressed the druid.

‘Master Oisin, I’m hoping you will favour us with a tale or two after supper.’

‘Of course, Lady Sochla. What manner of tale would the company prefer? A story of true love, perhaps? A tale of transformation? An epic adventure – journeys and battles and quests?’

‘I enjoy a tale of magic and mystery,’ I said. ‘But, of course, the choice is not up to me.’

Master Oisin smiled. ‘I expect you are something of a storyteller yourself, Mistress Blackthorn. We could perhaps share the duty.’

Flidais spoke, suddenly sharp as broken glass. ‘Since Blackthorn sits with us every morning in the sewing room, we’ve heard more than enough of her tales. I’m sure you have something more interesting, Master Oisin.’

There was a frozen silence; even the weighty discussion between Prince Oran and Lord Muadan ceased. Then the prince spoke. ‘That was uncalled for, Flidais. Mistress Blackthorn sits at this table as my guest.’ He made no attempt to hide his displeasure.

Flidais flushed scarlet. She looked down at her platter. Mhairi, standing behind, laid a comforting hand on her mistress’s shoulder, and the lady shook it off.

‘A tale of transformation would suit very well,’ said Lady Sochla, smoothing over the difficult moment. ‘The dream of Aengus; the wooing of Etain. Or there’s that strange old story about the brothers being turned into swans.’

‘Not so very old, and close enough to home, that one,’ said Master Oisin. ‘But perhaps Lady Flidais fancies the tale of true love instead.’