As I prepare to ride forth with the warriors, I thank Brighid that I was spared the indignities that surely must be in store for poor Kate. Now I must put on a brave face even though I am trembling inside. It is no comfort that a poet, by law, should never be harmed in battle. If the Niafer clan intended to kidnap me, they are clearly not planning to play by any of the rules. Someone gives me a gentle boost onto horseback. My stomach lurches when the steed dances sideways, eager to be off and away. To calm myself as well as the animal, I sing out in a sweet and strong voice:

"The raven rules, the owl takes flight!
Our battle lust is at its height!
Nemain be praised!
Shield and blade raised!
Honor bright!
Cumhaill's might!"

Around me the warriors roar their approval. My horse shakes its head, paws the ground and gives a shrill neigh that sounds to my poet-ears very much like a battle cry. As we set out over the hills, I silently offer a prayer for our bold Kate.