And then he begins wailing, bashing his head off the dirt floor, and Raghnailt feels sick, watching him hurt himself in the stupid depths of his emotions.

‘Emota,’ he moans, amidst his confused mutterings.

‘All the love you have rejected from me,’ she says, ‘your wife’s embraces you have thrown off, the harsh words you have spewed at us, and you have this love in you for a horse? I will never understand this as long as I live.’

‘Stop, Mother,’ Colca says. ‘Not now. I cannot bear it.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I will speak my heart once in my life. I have carried my duties well enough to merit it, and have suffered enough at your hands for my pain to be heard once. Listen to me: when Alannah brought you in on the barrow, I thought you dead, and I felt relieved that you had died so quickly. Can you imagine that my first emotion towards the death of my only child was relief? Do you see what you have done to us? With your treachery and your vile ways that would make a dog blush, you have made it so your own mother awaits your death. Do you see where we are now? Was I not good enough a mother? Is Alannah not wife enough? What can we do to change this state of affairs?’

Colca’s eyes are bleary. He gets to his knees. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘It is the way I am.’

There is silence between them for a moment; Raghnailt hears the buzzing of the dying fly above her head.

‘Is it my fault?’ she asks. ‘I could have given you up to the church, but I was afraid they would coerce you too harshly. Did I make a mistake?’

Colca shrugs. ‘It would not have made a difference,’ he says. ‘My desires made me cunning from the start. I have always known I would be damned, and I could never be otherwise, so why not use the advantage of the sickness to have at least a few moments of happiness before my eternity of hellfire? The man came along and I saw a way; that is all.’

‘Reform,’ Raghnailt says. ‘It is not so hard. I will help you. Please, I beg you, reform. If you do it now the town will learn to forgive you, whatever is left of it.’