‘To the shrine?’ says Herr Furmann, the only man in the church who outranks Plater in influence.

‘To the shrine of St Vitus, yes,’ says Plater, clearly irritated to be interrupted.

‘So she honours the saint? It was a holy mania?’

Nethe said in the abbey such judgements between holy mania or demonic possession rested on whether someone was liked or not. Lisbet eyes her, wondering what effect such a pronouncement will have on her. But Nethe has turned to stone again.

‘The Twenty-One believe it to be so,’ says Plater. ‘She must seek to avail herself of some sin, though why she chose such a hysterical fashion speaks to her character. She will be washed in the saint’s shrine, and that will be the end of it.’

Plater sits, and Pater Hansen is left to dither his way through a dismissal, before descending from the pulpit and being immediately accosted by Herr Furmann.

‘That’s that,’ says Sophey, satisfied. ‘Come then.’

But neither Lisbet nor Nethe move. Herr Furmann has drawn Plater into his discussion with the priest. Lisbet suspects Nethe too is hoping to catch some of what the men are saying, but they are obscured by bodies leaving the church. Ida rises from between her daughter and husband, and starts to make her way to them. Nethe stands suddenly and follows her mother from the church without a backwards glance.

Ida reaches Lisbet, and helps her to her feet. ‘Herr Furmann seems disturbed.’

‘The dancer was disturbing.’

Ida looks at her sharply. ‘You saw her? Was it as they said, then?’

‘It was,’ sighs Lisbet, shifting to relieve her back a little. ‘But it is at an end now.’

‘Are you sure you are well, Bet?’ asks Ida. ‘I can go alone to the almshouses.’

‘Well enough,’ says Lisbet, not careful enough to hide her irritation. ‘Please don’t talk to me like Henne.’

Ida smiles. ‘I would never presume to.’

‘You know,’ laughs Lisbet, as they start down the steps to Ida’s cart and horse. There is no sign of Sophey and Nethe, already hurrying home. ‘Like I am ailing.’

‘I can see you are not,’ says Ida, readjusting the baskets in the bed of the cart, full of fresh-baked bread, some beets and mushrooms, cool clay pitchers half topped with milk Lisbet can smell is already on the turn in the heat. Slender givings, even by the Twenty-One’s standards. Lisbet has long suspected Plater pockets most of the alms allowance he is given by the council to pass on to his wife.

‘But you are so large. It is good –’ she catches at Lisbet’s hand again, ‘a good thing. But I know it is heavy.’

The road to the city is busy with pilgrims and churchgoers, toing and froing from Notre Dame, and hawkers selling them cheap tallow candles and oat cakes. It was not always so, she remembers. The Holy Day used to be observed tightly, the whole city caught in amber and prayers, but the rot Geiler preached of spread fast. Now there are tales of monks running gambling dens, priests frequenting taverns. If they cannot trust the clergy to sanctify it, how can the rest of them, with farms to run and mouths to feed, be expected to?