It still stands, twined in ivy and clogged with mud. Even if we could draw the water, we dare not, feared that poison spreads from the flesh rotted underground. We can never be sure where the dead are buried. It’s said there were so many and they passed so swiftly, no time was left for the dignity of a church service. Whole families lie, one upon the other, in the tiny gardens where animals once grazed and food was grown, furrowing the land around our home.

I walk down the hill to the well on the green, passing Matt Taylor’s farm on the way, almost tripping over one of his sheep out on the path. The empty pail knocks against my leg. She blarts as though she can tell I’m imagining the taste of her cooked flesh. No better than my brother.

Beyond, I hear the cry of a horse, wild surely to be pounding and calling so. I place the bucket at my feet and push through a gap in the hedge, scratching against my skin and snatching at my hair. There’s a hushing noise too, a soothing murmur. The sounds come from the next field and I approach steadily. Through the clouds a shaft of sunlight falls thick as butter. I don’t know why I must see but I cannot turn back, though I hear clear in my mind Mam’s voice. Her warnings to keep away from the villagers, of what may befall us should they choose to take trade elsewhere.

The horse is night-black and gleaming, ears back, eyes rolling. Shrieking and kicking, galloping round and round the field. Bad to the core, anyone can see, a disposition that can only be cured by Mam’s skill at freeing her from the curse that she clearly bears. No right-minded body would go near her.

Matt Taylor’s son stands not two paces away from where she’s stopped. Hand reaching out, eyes fixed on her. Bigger than I remember him, standing tall and straight. Neither of them sees me.

I know of the farmer’s son. A timid thing, I would not have thought he’d the courage to face this creature.

He stares her down without a flinch. There’s a stillness about him that is entrancing. The beat of my heart slows as I watch.

The mare skips, ready to run off or kick out, as he edges forward. She’s held in his gaze, unable to look away. As am I. The fine hairs on his outstretched arm are driftwood-white.

She bares her teeth, chewing and licking, drops her head. The farmer’s lad turns his back, walks off. Just as I think she’ll surely attack, she follows, head dipped, calm now.

He runs his hand over her forehead, whispers to her, rests his cheek against her muzzle. She stands as though she were a pet kitten.