The pink of her wide nipples is faint amongst the lighter pink of her burn, but her breasts are too developed and heavy; repulsive to him as a ewe’s udders.

‘I sell hanging ropes, my fine lady,’ he says. ‘I was coming towards the town of Nobber to see if there are any tradesmen who would like a calf, or some rope perhaps. Some people use it for hanging, but it could also be used as a lever to bring down trees, I suppose. Children can swing out of it for amusement, too, if it is attached to the sturdier boughs, even using the same knot as hangmen use, which is the only knot I know of. The children find these things pleasant.’

The ash tree itself is some way off from the greater body of the woods, as though, for its twisted deformity, it has been outcast from its brothers. Some of the bark has been flayed off it, but not much deeper damage has been done to it. The woman’s axe has barely bitten it.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Monsieur Hacquelebacq, and it is a great honour to meet such a comely sparrow, and so unexpectedly.’

‘I wouldn’t sell Glynis’s calf in Nobber,’ she says, ‘or he’ll have your throat test the strength of your ropes.’

Hacquelebacq finds this peasant far too confident; her uncouthness jars him. He looks away, sees the badger gnawing at the rope again. He tugs at it – he will not stay long.

‘Is Nobber infected, madame?’

‘Infected with the sickness, yes, and something else much more particular to itself as well,’ she says, spluttering slightly. ‘I am of Nobber, but have not been there for some time. Still, I have heard gossip that it was overcome, subdued by a sheriff or a monk. A mad and powerful man he must be for it is usually a rambunctious place, producing much noise, drunkards and ruckus, but has fallen quite quiet this last week. My cousin passed through it three days ago, walked clean down it in a straight line, and said there was no one in its street at all. Will you help me with this tree, man?’

Hacquelebacq steps forward, his animals trailing after him, and on coming closer sees that the woman has a wide cleft lip. He had thought her nose cast a shadow on her face, but it was not a trick of the light; it is her face. There is very little between her lip and her nose, only a gummy darkness. He stops quite suddenly.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I will not.’

‘Because it is a faerie tree? Do you know it? I did not think you from Meath. You do not speak after the Meath fashion.’

When this woman opens her mouth, it is as though she has a second smaller mouth hidden inside it. Hacquelebacq runs his tongue over his teeth, feels their firmness.