Finally managing to turn, he sees Saint John has taken off his tunic and is still playing in the dirt with the dead mare’s warm intestines, draped over his shoulders. Then he sees two Gaels, holding bows and fistfuls of arrows with crows’ feathers for fletching, crouched on the roof of the dwelling from which he so recently emerged. The crazy, carved women jingle around their necks and they look sad now even though their faces are still grinning. These Gaels’ faces are painted black, too, and it is as though they have painted their faces black in mourning for him.

The whole world mourns him. He is the centre of this moment and he feels wonder at this appreciation.

‘I enjoyed our discussion this morning,’ William says to them, waving at them a little. He stumbles, feels himself fainting.

His gaze lowers involuntarily and he sees de Flunkl is pressed against the wall, hiding in the shade of the doorway. There de Flunkl’s eyes gleam a little too strongly, and it occurs to William in a rush of insight that de Flunkl himself was the devil Harold predicted they would meet in Nobber.

He was always the devil, and William knows he will grow more into his mischievous role, that he will deepen himself into it, and that all his trembling was the pangs of growth, the outward manifestation of an ungodly energy that will expand until it has conquered the whole earth.

‘I am gut shot,’ William says to him. ‘I would like to go to that peaceful crannóg we came upon earlier. Poor Harold was fond of it. At least I was killed by better men. May God save his dead children. But,’ he says, in an afterthought, ‘I do want life, though.’

He turns again, confusions searing his brain, making him blind, and then when he can see again he is sitting on the edge of the fountain and the Gaels have lowered themselves down from the roof.

Saint John is sitting next to him now, holding something to give to him. The intestines are still hanging loosely around the young man. His shoulders and ears are tipped red with sunburn. Soft and gentle, that tingling feeling from the sun; William imagines it. I will never see the sun’s light again.

He sways, worried that he might fall backwards into the fountain and drown; sees Saint John is holding a baby rat out to him, cupped in his hands. The little rat’s nose is pink and searching, sniffing at him. It is young to the world and curious.

‘The Gaels gave it to me. Feel its warmth, its beating heart. Life is like nothing else. It is beautiful,’ Saint John says.

The pain is everywhere now. There is nothing outside it. Tears roll down William’s cheeks. He leans forward, his gut spasming.

‘Stupid child,’ he whispers.