I wish there was something I could do or say, but there’s nothing except to make the Maker’s sign across her body. May it bring her comfort. I turn to the next woman.

I hear the Recitations of all the women set to die. It comes to me that they’ve not done much worse than some of the folk I’ve heard outside the jail cell, they just had the bad luck to be caught. Most don’t have kin to bring the foods to their graves so the Recitations become a heavy sort of thing, not the relief they should be. Many, like the skinny girl, sinned out of anger because folk were cruel or things unfair. Anger seems to make folk feel strong, but not in a way that sticks.

At the end, I go to the piss pot and fill my empty pail. The day’s done when I come out onto the road. Still, I can see folk moving about in the field beside the castle. They’ve already begun preparing for the revels.

In two days, I tell the field, I’m going to catch Fair Hair.

Once I’m tucked up in the loft, I remove my collar and place it on the mattress next to me. I idly rub at the skin on my neck, delighting in just being May, until sleep comes.

The next morning, the day before the revels, it’s not just me readying myself at dawn. The whole household is abuzz. I pin on my collar. Frederick sings a song. Paul wraps a clean cloth about his face. Jane ties her smaller child across her back, while the larger child jumps around in everyfolk’s way. Brida watches from the hearth.

We all end up starting out of the door at the same time, the gaggle of them just ahead of me on the road. They must be going to the field to see about work. For my part, today I’m going to assay where the jakes are and where the tent is. Get acquainted with the place, like my uncle Misgett would do. Before a dodge, he’d watch folk. He’d watch the place. Note things like if the door opened in or opened out. One makes a swift exit. The other might get you caught. I haven’t dressed in my disguise. I’ll save that for the revels themselves tomorrow evening.

‘Paul, you could be taken for a Saracen with your face wrapped so,’ says Frederick as we leave the stink of Dungs-brook.

‘It’s better than folk hissing at my scars as if I’m no better than a filthy sin eater,’ Paul says, nasty-like, as if he doesn’t know I’m just a few paces behind them.