‘We had barely a hundred of us left and did not know where we were. Seventy were warriors, bold men and big, and so we did not fear too much, but the weavers of fate were with us. The local chieftain was wary, and – better still for us – when we did not attack him and just camped peacefully on his shore living off the fish we caught, he sent word to Tincommius. He came to us, just the king, and I saw him and loved him and visions came. Since then we have been one and I have led him as he walks the path to greatness. It was meant to be, and in after years he has welcomed others from other lands. All serve him because he is faithful and generous as a lord should be.’

Ferox remembered the Hibernians at the feast. Broken lords and chieftains beaten in their homelands, they too had fled here and found safety and success and a measure of wealth fighting for Tincommius. If their numbers were few, such men and their followers were likely better warriors than most and had little left to lose. He tried to imagine a dreadful voyage in little boats on the open sea and shuddered at the thought, so that she looked at him in surprise. He leaned over to kiss her again.

‘No.’

‘I am a guest; there is no shame,’ he said, not believing a word of it, but reluctant to let her move.

‘I am the king’s. I have delivered our message and shown you that I am serious. There will be no more.’ She must have thought that there was anger in his face rather than mere disappointment. ‘If you force me Tincommius will cut it off before he cuts your throat.’ A glance downwards was enough to show what she meant.

Ferox lay back, folding his hands underneath his head. Galla stood up, the furs and other coverings sliding away so that she stood tall and completely bare. He watched her and she did not appear to resent him looking. Her white dress was draped over a stool and his eyes stayed on her as she dressed, neither of them saying anything. In the end the woman drew a heavy brown cloak around her and the dim light in the house became even dimmer.

‘Tincommius has a high opinion of you and believes that you are a man who can be trusted,’ she said, breaking the long silence. ‘He is fond of the son you spared, very fond, even if the boy is from a lesser wife and unlikely ever to become king.’

‘What son?’ Ferox had no idea what she meant. None of the men who fought for the champion’s portion were young enough to be the king’s son, and it stretched even the most generous praise to say that he had saved one of them, even the man he had wrestled to the floor.