‘Why Gaels, of course,’ Ambrosio says. ‘But they have no unity. Their rivalries are too many millennia old, older even than Christ. They can’t leave them behind, and their culture doesn’t allow them to realise there is anything beyond their clans. Even though they trade as far as Constantinople their value lies only in Meath’s fat cattle and other such fleshy earthbound things. And fleshy things cannot grow as fast as our metals and loans, so they fall behind. They have been falling behind for centuries, and yet still they don’t recognise it. Still, they wear those bright unwieldy clothes and speak that barbaric language. But if they ever did unite their warring factions, they would be a greater risk than the peasants, because their culture values glory and strength, whereas ours funnels vision through a flaccid aristocracy that interbreeds with a church that is wholly bent on outlawing courage, curiosity and its subsequent understanding. And I must say thank God for the Gael’s constant internecine warring, because if you ever deigned to inspect such barbarity, Gaelic visions are deeply inhuman, animalistic and very, very far from God. They do not even care for money.’

‘Animals,’ de Flunkl says, ‘but my properties—’

‘De Fonteroy did tell me once how he did trade with a-one but last year,’ Ambrosio says, ‘and he gave this Gael a choice between a few moments with a buxom and frothy-lipped Galwegian whore he was transporting on his cart, or that money that would have bought the Gael five of them for an afternoon’s pleasure, and the Gael chose the former, and said he knew that de Fonteroy believed him a fool, but who was the true fool that would take the expectation of joy over the joy itself?’

‘I repeat, animals,’ de Flunkl says, ‘but prithee do stop this idle chat. Let us signature the documents. Presently, we must search witnesses.’

‘Do you not think they are coming together now?’ Harold asks. ‘They are alighting on territories they have not known for some time; winning preferential treaties on the strength of their raids as they have never done before.’

‘Individually, perhaps,’ Ambrosio says. ‘But do you ever see more than four of them working together in their—’

The door is flung open and William of Roscrea flies in, dragging Mary by the wrist behind him, his heavy boots clattering down the few stone steps as he descends in a pool of light unleashed by the open door. Mary is sobbing; de Flunkl steps back in shock, his hand over his heart.

‘I knew you would return,’ Harold says, feeling relieved, as though a weight has been taken off his soul.

William of Roscrea, his eyes narrow as pins from the sunshine he has just left, releases Mary and points a finger at Ambrosio, who leans back against the desk as though the finger had pushed him off balance.