‘I do love her,’ he says. ‘She is my woman.’

‘You fill this little place so full of bodies,’ Raghnailt says, ‘and you may put words on it, but she is just another body to you.’

‘You think I am responsible for all these bodies?’ the man says. ‘You think too much of me. We are a mere stopping place for those corpses which de Fonteroy brings through and, once or twice, I won’t deny I have been happy to give him certain troublesome ones.’

The man walks to the open door, looks out at the morning.

‘This town is my purse. It is mine and I have had it like I would have any whore spread on her back for me. You are too ungrateful. You were starving until I arrived and gave your son function in the world. Who would do business with him, but me? Who will do any business any more in such times as these, but me?’

‘Where is he?’ Raghnailt says. ‘Give him back to me, you corrupter.’

The man turns to her, and she is disgusted to see he almost feels pity for her. He shakes his head. ‘I did not turn your son into what he is,’ he says. ‘You did that.’

He leaves and Raghnailt stares at the open door, imagines her father walking through it, taking her on his knee and telling her that everything will be fine. Alannah, Raghnailt’s daughter-in-law, is stirring in bed, silently mouthing unrecognisable words in her sleep. After a while Raghnailt hobbles up and pours Mary a tall jug of cider. The young woman cups portions of it in her joined hands and slurps it up, rattling her chains with the quickness of her movements.

‘Well, who do you think you are today, child?’ Raghnailt asks her.

Sometimes, when Raghnailt wakes, people seem very ugly to her, full of evil and bad intentions. Sometimes there seems to be nothing left, and she doesn’t even have the strength to be disappointed. Today is a day like that.

‘More cider,’ Mary says.

The retinue moves …

The retinue moves along the valley, past the forest, and, once out of the shade, a blast of sunlight makes Saint John dizzy, and for a moment his vision is unnaturally clear and he can see billions of pollen particles swirling around his head, almost imperceptible from the shine of the sun. Rings of light begin radiating within his green irises, making circle in his sight, and even within these the light seems to bend in murderous ways. Birds are chirping so loudly he believes he will become deaf, like he is in some confusing, bustling heaven. Sun-drenched and light-kissed, his head feels airy and vacant, as though all his senses are being assaulted by some natural onslaught.