‘Every day, of course,’ the younger answered without consultation, ‘for we only have every day. You Norman children would do well to mimic us in feasting every day; already many young Norman children do mimic our beautiful clothes and ravenous hairstyles and manly bearing; follow us a little more closely and it would make men out of peasants, and women out of prudes, for they should always be sluttish and happy, like bubbling wine over a fire.’

Seeing the younger Gael speak at such great length without interpreting, Very Delicious Harp clipped him on the back of the head, setting him staggering slightly, and setting the lambs under his arms bleating again in shock. Conn, meanwhile, did a few quick calculations in his head, and said, ‘It would be better if you carried on in this robbing way, I would lose fewer sheep than if I offered you one every day.’

Once this was translated, the elder Gael grew very animated again, pointing at Conn a great deal and yelling at him.

‘Do you know what I am giving up, you white weed bleached in the sun?’ the younger translated. ‘Do you even consider it? Of all of these mighty feats I have accomplished, tell me is there a greater joy than to be astride a donkey, to hug your legs round it and slide till you are nearly downside-upwards? Is there a greater joy than a race, where a Norman, all sad for he has lost his little sheep, chases us through woods, crying like a child, and shooting arrows at us? You are confiscating from us the privilege of hunting and the enjoyment of catching lambs by the tail and tossing them in the air and catching them again by their fluffy tails, all in the hot moment of riding; all this we are giving up for your tears moved me very slightly, for I am a feeling man. You are not only a small boy, but a little one, as well.’

‘A great joy for me, sir,’ Conn answered, ‘would be to not be hanged at the behest of the Bishop of Armagh.’

The Gaels discussed this amongst themselves, and then the younger turned back to Conn:

‘We would accept a death by arrows or drowning or crucifixion, or perhaps being eaten by dogs for you; for that is worthy and natural,’ the younger said, ‘but hanging is a bad way to go, so you only have to remember a lamb to us once every fourth Sunday, and we will hunt other flocks with mightier men. I, and the us that entails, hate the bishop, for he is hateful. Now, this is a most generous offer, no?’

Conn nodded, and Very Delicious Harp spoke some more.

‘You are of Nobber, we presume?’ the younger Gael asked.

Conn nodded again.