She had been married at midnight near the woods, by torchlight, as was the local custom. She remembers that night seeing Conn hidden outside the ceremony, concealed behind head-high ivy that entangled an oak tree. His sobbing marred the whispers of their vows; a pigeon cooed above his head, she remembers. But it was a gentle love Conn had for her, and even Tedbalt himself allowed the boy to leave his wife tokens outside the door: arrays of hollyhocks he had gathered, buttercups, diced nettles for soup, strange stones from Newgrange, proving, Tedbalt had said, that long ago Gaels had known how to read. Conn came into town only on Sundays to go to Mass. Sometimes he slept at Widow Gertrude’s, and she would feed him, but every time he set out again, before dawn, he would pass her door and leave her something.

He is wandering the plains now, she imagines, seeking shade in some thicket, perhaps beside some lake or gurgling river near here, perhaps the Boyne, or Moynagh lake, his eyes lazily surveilling trotting lambs, free from the madness of towns, the decimation of the sickness, the violence of men.

‘You slavering whore.’

She looks to the right and sees a blackened and naked devil sprinting towards her. It is Colca, his feet bare and covered in dust, but she cannot see them they are in such a flurry of speed. He is tall and demonic; he gallops towards her like a horse.

‘Get back into your house,’ he yells.

She scrambles back into the darkness, and shuts the door, leaning against it with her back. His footsteps are close, and then the door is rattling. Colca, outside, is hailing down furious blows on the wood.

‘You infectious and sweating whore, I’ll slash your throat into seven parts if I see you again. I’ll rip your slut’s face open. You will kill us all. Are you mad?’

The man is so enraged his yelling soon becomes wordless. His blows reverberate through the wood, rattling her back and jarring her teeth. Suddenly, the door stops rattling.

‘It is only for your own good,’ Colca says, his voice now soft and whispering. ‘The sickness is a spreading thing, and we must hide away from it, my dear. I only scare you to be good to you. Stay, like the good child you are, stay.’

Then a padding sound retreats; he is gone. She wants to call after him that they are dying, that they need food, that they need light, but instead she feels ashamed; ashamed that she has broken the curfew, ashamed that her sally outside has been cut short; that she fails at everything she attempts. She slides to her knees, and knocks her head backwards off the door. It is a gentle knock; tears are brimming in her throat. She feels their upwards gurgle.