‘I don’t know him,’ said Donagan. ‘Maybe this wise woman brought him with her. Whoever he is, he’s transformed the old place, from the looks of it.’

Without further discussion we rode down the hill and headed toward the cottage, which might almost have been an entirely new construction, so thoroughly had it been repaired. The work extended to the garden, where the crumbling dry-stone walls had been set to rights and the tangle of weeds cleared. A freshly dug patch of earth lay ready for winter vegetables. The pathway had been swept clean of leaves, and there were garments flapping on a line. As we approached, I saw a flash of red, and thought perhaps someone had slipped away under the trees behind the cottage.

The burly thatcher spotted us and made his way down his ladder. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. Nonetheless, by the time we had drawn up our horses on the path, there he was, feet apart, arms folded, waiting for us. The fellow stood head and shoulders above the tallest man I’d seen in my life. He had the look of a fighter, the head shaven, the nose crooked, the eyes small, the neck and shoulders bullish. His was a face only a mother would think handsome. He said nothing at all, simply stared at the two of us.

I glanced at Donagan, and he dismounted.

‘Good day,’ my friend said. ‘My name is Donagan. This is Oran, Prince of Dalriada; I am his servant and companion. We heard the cottage was newly occupied. A healer, they’re saying in the village. A wise woman.’

The giant grunted in response. It could have meant yes, no, or Move away before I do you an injury.

‘Winterfalls is the personal holding of the Dalriadan heir,’ I said, feeling sure my most princely tone would fail to impress this person. ‘This cottage is in my gift.’ And when the man still failed to find words, I added carefully, ‘That means it’s up to me who lives in it.’

He stirred now. ‘What are you saying, that Blackthorn can’t stay here?’

‘My lord,’ muttered Donagan.

The giant gave him a look.

‘You address Prince Oran as my lord,’ Donagan said.

‘It’s all right, Donagan,’ I said. When facing a man who could probably kill me with a quick flick of the wrist, being addressed with proper respect seemed unimportant. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘Nobody’s stopping you,’ said the giant, shifting his feet a little.

Another silence.

‘May I speak with your mistress?’

The man’s jaw tightened. A pulse beat in his temple. ‘You mean Blackthorn? She’s off gathering herbs,’ he said. ‘My lord.’

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head,’ said Donagan, his tone icy. ‘You’re speaking to the prince of Dalriada.’