‘As I’ve mentioned,’ Ambrosio says. ‘The gravedigger, de Fonteroy, will be here shortly. He deposes the bodies, transports them; controls a fine mass grave on his allotment. Oh, it is fine. His grain didn’t come forth this year so he hollowed out his earth and has been making much monies thanks to the church, which in its cowardly retreat says the graveyard is full, as though the earth has reached its outer limit on how much capacity her soily body can hold, and the remaining bodies are to be rejected like vomit into unhallowed ground.’

Ambrosio begins looking around himself, breathing heavily, his voice becoming more frenetic. ‘Enough, the earth has said,’ he continues. ‘No more. Let the dead lie in the streets, dangle amongst mulberry bushes; let them lie in fields as so much fertilising dung, in offices of the law, in barracks. There is no honour for them any more. No religion for them any more. No succour or prayer for them any more, but de Fonteroy’s graveyard thrives.’

‘Fool child,’ Harold whispers to de Flunkl. ‘Have you been so much enchanted by the confused words of this man who does work beside three dead bodies that it has not occurred to you that this Ambrosio has asked none of us our names, and is yet willing to enter into transactions with us? He is a scoundrel, and some sticking judgement approaches us.’

Ambrosio waves a hand at the serving-man, having overheard him. ‘I have the air of a scoundrel because I have the soul of one,’ he says, more calm now. ‘Names are meaningless. Show me your papers and seals when the time comes. Let us exchange pleasantries before formalities. More rosewater?’

At this de Flunkl remembers to sip the mug he has been holding and nearly spits out the liquid on tasting that it is diluted cider and that the rose petals in it are rotting, most of them sunken to the bottom and broken into sediment.

This man, Ambrosio, de Flunkl finally realises, is drunk, though he hides it better than his wife. He had not understood this earlier, because of youth’s inexperience. I must be careful, he thinks.

‘I am sated,’ de Flunkl says. ‘And I am ready for business.’

‘Yes, my little de Fonteroy has business; what the Provençals call enterprise,’ Ambrosio says, while going over to the barrel of cider and washing his face in it.