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kitchen. From the doorway of the great hall a malevolent face peeped around and then withdrew. Brehon MacClancy was used to being the only one bearing that title and he resented Mara’s use of it. She had, from the start, however, resolutely set her face against being known as ‘queen’ – her status, she reckoned, was that of Brehon, and only in private life was she the wife of a king. Brehon MacClancy would just have to get used to it – in just the same way as if Brehon MacEgan, or any other Brehon in Ireland, had visited the castle.
    The solar was part of the King’s private suite of rooms at the top of the castle and a staircase in the north-east tower led up to them. There was an elaborate bedchamber with a magnificently curtained bed, a fireplace, a clothes rail as well as a beautifully carved hanging press, some chairs and a door that led to the garderobe where there was a board covered with a green cloth and the opening to the shaft leading to the moat was plugged with a cushion in order to prevent any smells arising. Above this room were another couple of bedrooms, used for the King’s children when they were young, but now occupied by the law-school scholars.
    Beside the bedchamber was the King’s solar – a smaller version of the great hall, furnished with a table, already spread with some cold meats, some baked apples, baskets of bread rolls, and a flagon of wine. A fire was burning brightly in the six-foot-long fireplace. There was no one there and the candles were not yet lit, though some light came through the ‘squint’ looking down into the great hall where Turlough and his friends were talking loudly and enthusiastically about a hunt on the following day. St Stephen’s Day was traditionally hunting time and it looked as though, with the frost, it would be an ideal day for the marshy land around Bunratty Castle. Mara smiled to hear her husband’s voice boasting about a bird that he shot from an impossible angle – he sounded rather like nine-year-old Cormac, she thought as she peered down, unnoticed by the crowd. She withdrew and inserted a taper into the blazing fire on the hearth and went around the room, carefully lighting all the candles within arm’s reach before saying quietly:
    ‘What’s the matter with Brehon MacClancy, Donogh?’
    The physician shrugged. ‘Nothing that he can’t cure by abstaining from over-eating and over-drinking.’ He also spoke very quietly, almost in her ear, although the heavy oaken door was firmly shut and the noise from the hall below would drown any voices.
    ‘I don’t mean his health – that is not my affair. He seems to be upsetting everyone, especially some of the young people. He seems to love upsetting them and giving malicious information …’ She hesitated there. Perhaps she had no right to enquire into Enda’s affairs – after all he was a man of twenty-six years and had left her law school nine years ago.
    The physician was looking at her strangely. He moved away from the hearth and over to the table. He sat down, poured out some wine into two goblets, and nibbled at a bread roll before saying thoughtfully: ‘He told you about Shona, then; he swore not to mention it to anyone, but I suppose he thought that he could trust your discretion.’
    ‘I’m more concerned about Enda,’ she countered. Shona, daughter of Maccon MacMahon, one of Turlough’s friends, was none of her business and she decided that it was preferable to talk about Enda than to trick the physician into thinking that she knew something to Shona’s disadvantage. It did explain the girl’s white face yesterday, though.
    ‘Enda was one of the brightest scholars that I ever had,’ she continued, looking at the physician earnestly. ‘If you can imagine Nuala, or your son, Donogh Óg, hanging around, running errands for a physician, but having no opportunity to practise all that they have learned, well then, you can imagine what I feel about Enda. But don’t mention to