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landsmen, who had not noticed the ban draoi ’s approach, dropping a red-hot stone from the fire into the cauldron. There was a crack as the stone split. People would be having stone with their stew, Britha thought. The landsman Britha recognised as Ferchair, a crofter from land to the north of the woods. Britha had delivered his first child, a daughter, in the cold winter. The child had survived, she knew. Spring was the best time for birthing, but at least Ferchair knew his daughter would grow up strong now.
    Ferchair turned to see why it had gone quiet. He saw Britha, averted his eyes and made to sit down again far behind the inner circle of the cateran and their noble guests.
    Looking round the inner circle, Britha saw missing eyes, ears, fingers and a lot of scar tissue. All were ugly enough to be warriors; there were few who looked blade-shy around the fire.
    Cruibne looked up and smiled. His two massive deerhounds, lying close by and sporting nearly as many scars as their master, got up as Britha entered the circle and wandered over to stand by her. Absently she scratched behind their ears.
    Britha took her time looking around the circle. She nodded to Nechtan and Feroth, the war leader of the cateran . She did not like Nechtan – he was as sly as he was violent, a careful bully – but she had to admit he was a more than capable champion. Feroth was even older than Cruibne and many whispered that his place at the ravens’ feast was long overdue. Britha, however, liked the canny old warrior. The tribe would miss his clever stratagems when he was gone and she suspected more would die on raids and in battle. Most of them were too caught up in thoughts of their own personal glory to appreciate what Feroth did for them, but Britha understood.
    The meat on the spits was mostly gone but the cauldron still looked full. Still not speaking, Britha made her way to the cauldron, removing her meathook from her belt. She leaned in and hooked a choice piece of mutton from the thick stew. She left it to cool it for a few seconds, then took a bite, chewed slowly and then swallowed.
    ‘Cruibne, I think the belly of your cauldron is pregnant with more meat than you would see on lesser mormaers ’ spits.’ There was laughter from the Cirig and most of the guests. Some, however, had heard a slight in Britha’s words and were less pleased. ‘I also hear that your heather ale’s particularly fine.’
    ‘You should know – you made it,’ Cruibne said. He then made a show of serving her himself, as he had done with all his guests, including the landsmen and women. However, the skull that Cruibne served the ale in had been taken by Britha. It was not the way for the ban draoi to take heads, but Britha had insisted on it. Killing someone in battle was a quick and easy way to get the warriors to listen to her when she spoke.
    ‘Will you sit by my left side?’ Cruibne asked her formally. Britha looked to Ethne, on Cruibne’s right, for her permission – she didn’t need to but respected the older woman. Ethne nodded. Then she looked to Feroth, on Cruibne’s left. Feroth moved over, always glad of Britha’s counsel and company.
    ‘I’d say you’re late,’ Cruibne spoke to her quietly, ‘but I think you know exactly what you’re doing.’
    ‘Don’t speak out of the side of your mouth – it makes them think we have something to hide,’ Britha admonished him.
    The inner circle consisted mainly of the chieftains of the Cirig loyal to Cruibne. He had invited the mormaers of all seven of the tribes, but by the looks of it only Finnguinne of the Fib, Deleroith of the Fortrenn, both southern tribes, and Drust of the Fotlaig to the west had come.
    None of the northern tribes, the Ce, the Fidach and the Cait, had sent anyone at all. The Cait Britha could understand – it was a long way to come – but the absence of the rest of them worried her.
    Britha saw Finnguinne talking quietly with one of his men. This was a breach of