As for the wriggling things, my work was mostly cleaning wounds, stitching up cuts and mixing draughts for the flux. It was delivering babies and sitting by the beds of the dying. On occasion, folk did ask for what might loosely be called spells. I’d had two requests for love potions and one enquiry about bringing down ill on an old enemy – that one I understood all too well. I’d talked the love potion girls out of the idea with a few truths about the nature of men. As for the fellow who wanted to punish his enemy, I’d told him I did not deal in such matters, and that he’d be better off taking his grievance to the village elders, or to Prince Oran – that was if the prince bothered to listen to the troubles of ordinary folk. The man hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer. Offered me an incentive in the form of silver. I’d held on to my temper by the merest thread. In the back of my mind, I’d wondered what I was supposed to do when helping one person meant inflicting ill on another. Would refusing add another year to my seven? On balance, I thought not. The first thing Conmael had asked me to do was use my gift for good, not ill; to carry out my work in the manner a true healer should. It could be said that refusing the man was helping him. Helping him to see the error of his ways. Helping him avoid worse trouble. At least, I hoped so.

A knock at the cottage door; I was jolted out of my thoughts. It was one of the guards. ‘Lady Flidais, there are riders in sight; I think it may be the prince and his party.’

Flidais rose to her feet, passing her cup to one of her women. Lifted her chin; straightened her back; squared her shoulders as if preparing for a battle. It seemed she wasn’t such a wilting lily after all.