‘He is chosen,’ said the king, ‘from the goodness of his shape, and the nobility of his family, from his experience and wisdom, from his prudence and magnanimity, from his eloquence and bravery in battle, and from the number of his friends.’ Mara, Brehon of the Burren, abruptly sat up in bed. As the cold air puckered her bare skin she slid down again under the covers. But the voices were too insistent and the message they screamed was too strange, too appalling to ignore. Once more she pulled herself up and this time picked her night robe from the sheepskin rug on the floor, slid it over her head and then listened intently. Yes, she had made no mistake. The words were as she had heard them. Already steps were pounding up the stone staircase towards her room. In the case of a violent death then the first person to be summoned would be the Brehon. Her position meant that she would be responsible for finding the criminal and imposing the punishment. Quickly she turned to the sleeping man at her side and shook his bare shoulder.
