He imagines a great romantic meeting with Dervorgilla, a scene in which he is some kind of hero, but his reverie stumbles on the surroundings. Everything is disjointed, but only slightly. No one is moving in a normal manner. The people out on the street are not going anywhere, but they are walking. There are too many of them around him; too much noise, but no sociability. Men and women speak across one another, not listening to the answers they have just requested. Something shivers through the townspeople, a jovial carousing that must spill into violence. There is too much edge on these tired faces. Someone waves at him. He is blind with the sun, does not turn his head. His name is called. Goosebumps blast across his flesh; it is too hot. He is at her house already. The flowers he left her are still there, diminished now, sunken into themselves like yellowing corpses. They will turn into dirt, trodden underfoot. Perhaps, he thinks, she is dead. She has always taken the flowers I have given her.

‘You are alive,’ someone says. ‘That is good. How goes the flock? Are you just arrived?’

Eoin Preston is sauntering by; hammer, nails, timber under his arms.

‘What is the matter?’

He stops; grabs Conn by the shoulder. It is a friendly gesture, but too rough.

‘What are you doing?’ Conn asks.

‘I am going to run two long nails through Colca’s skull,’ Eoin says, ‘one through each eye.’

He places his middle finger and his forefinger on his own closed eyelids.

‘What has he done?’

‘What has he not done?’ Eoin says. ‘He interloped with an outsider. He disgraced us, and we are done with him. I am not one to be confined. This lot of timber is to break his back over, for he has a long spine. Gabriel wants to secure him to it while we drag him through the town, but we can find no horses. Glynis will do it, drag him along; he is strong. Perhaps Joseph, too; he is strong, as well. Will you come with me?’

Gabriel Preston runs up behind his brother, his face pale with sweat. He tugs at Eoin’s sleeve.

‘Concessa is dead,’ he says.

‘Many are.’

More people are coming up behind Gabriel. Two men stagger, as though drunk. There are moans of grief, coughing sobs. A child laughs.

‘I must see Dervorgilla,’ Conn says, beginning to knock on her door.

‘Was it you knocking?’ Gabriel asks.

Conn is anxious to be inside Dervorgilla’s house. This chat has a jagged edge to it; they are tripping into a mob.

Though he knocks hard, she will not answer.

‘Stop,’ Eoin says. ‘This is too much. You already know.’