‘No, coursh it washn’t,’ a blurred drunken voice came from the dark, seeking controversy.

‘– but we cut and cut and burnt and burnt. He wouldn’t let us save nothing to feed cows or pigs with for fear of this brown stuff spreading more, all he said was cut, cut, and burn carefully and watch your barley. But barley never had this browny fluff – never has since – but we didn’t know that then. There was grim faces everywhere then, and he, your father, sir, he never got back his strength, vomiting and not pissing proper and his face as yellow as a buttercup. I recall well he came to the door of the Hall – yes, right here – to give some orders and he had to keep hold of the doorpost to keep himself up, and his hands as thin as a corpse’s, and yellow. He was a corpse a few days later, and all this only a few weeks after finding the blight. And him a young man – well barely twenty-four, I reckon – and your mother, sir – ’

‘Grandmother,’ said the voice, more insistent now.

‘– a goodly young woman and not long married – came from down the Weald, I believe, and expecting but didn’t show it yet.’

The old man paused and took some ale from the pot that Ed-me-boy had been holding out to him unnoticed in the gloom. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand, but the pause in his story had made him forget where he was. His audience was silent. Marion saw their rows of pink faces in the faint candlelight, all intent on her father. Simon was obviously enjoying this reflected attention. Sir Hugh sat with two candles before him, the flames still as high as his face which he leant sideways on one hand, with his bloodhound eyes fixed on the old miller. Dame Margaret, sitting next to him, had untied her cap strings and thrown them back over her shoulders, a mark of how warm the Hall was. She too had her eyes on the old man. Her new crimson dress, though amply cut, was already pulled tight over her belly. Marion observed how thin her neck was, with long taut tendons stretching down from her ears and disappearing into the crimson wool. It was as if her swollen stomach was hung on strings from her neck and her every movement showed the weight of her pregnancy.

The ale had revived the old man and he picked up his story again, but not quite from where he had left off.

‘He died soon after – had to – couldn’t hold any food, not even a bit of pappy bread, and she fed him like a motherless baby, patience itself, and him sicking up every little while and as yellow – ’

‘As a dandelion,’ came a mocking voice, followed by laughter, but the old miller did not seem to hear.

‘But when he was buried – you know his grave, don’t you, sir? – the yellow had all gone and he looked as pale as any other corpse. Ah, it was a sad time and him still young and had been strong, and she a widow and barely twenty. Ah, she was a woman a man could be proud of, your mother, sir, no, no, your grandmother she’d be.’