William sees that his master’s hands are trembling, and have been for some time, the scant muscles in his light-haired forearms every now and again spasming in large uncontrollable flickers that remind him of the sudden leaps of a fire.

‘He says he is a Christian and that God is good,’ William says, ‘as is shown by the highly discriminate depletion of our populace, but that he is still a Christian so he does not believe in it, or in the magical properties of any tokens that do not relate to the blood of Christ, but that it functions all the same, and until its operations have been disproven, which they have not yet been, he shall continue to wear it, out of not only respect for his women, but also out of the shrewd practicality so famously belonging to his people that he ventures even we would not deny – his practicality, that is – if we have ever had the great fortune to trade with a Gael.’

De Flunkl looks at the Gael’s cape, which is now bulging and becoming more hectic and bustling, twisting and animated in movement, so much so that Harold momentarily believes he sees a demon’s features pressed up against the material, trying to escape.

‘This is a strangely rational madman,’ de Flunkl remarks, ‘a hybrid hermaphrodite of wantonness perhaps, but one in sound control of his faculties. Tell them we shall readily spare them, and receive their gifts.’

William of Roscrea and the Gaels sally back and forth. Eyebrows creased, William of Roscrea says, ‘I am told that I have a wonderful facility for the earth’s native language and for that reason I am to stand behind a tree.’

‘Well, do it, so,’ de Flunkl says, and William of Roscrea strides over to an ash tree and leans his face against its coolness.

The Gael with the tumultuous cape drops one of his arms into its folds, grunts and withdraws his hand with a young rat hanging off his thumb, Gael’s blood seeping down its black eyes. It thrashes its body and long tail around, as though kicking from a noose. The Gael rips it off with his other hand, sucking at the torn skin, and hurls the rat at the procession. It whistles by with a squeak, landing in the grass behind them, where it rights itself and scurries off into the woods.

‘What is this?’ de Flunkl asks.

The other Gaels are in a circle around the caped Gael, lifting fistfuls of rats out of the folds and throwing them down at them. One large rat sails by de Flunkl’s shoulder and hits Saint John in the face. He holds his cheek and keeps chewing mushrooms. Another slaps Harold in the leg, rustling his breeches. It lands on its back, scrambles away.

‘What power do they believe these creatures possess over us?’ Harold asks, watching the rats fly through the air.