“Is that so?” I don’t tell him I know quite a bit about pigeons, from St. Erc’s. “Where did they send them before? Only to Tirconnell?”

“All over. It’s a good way for scholars to share their discoveries, or for a monastery to invite visitors. They keep the birds in marked cages, so they know where each one’s from and where it will fly when it’s set free.”

“Be safe to send them south,” I say. “No need to cross the ford, so you could still bring birds in from there, couldn’t you?”

“That’s right,” says Tadhg. “There’s a few birds from Dalriada in the loft, and some from Ulaid. Farther away, even. Long way to fly, but they can do it. Brother Eoan could tell you all about it. Knows everything about pigeons, that man. Ask him a question and he’ll still be talking when the sun’s down and everyone else is at supper.”

Tadhg is a talker too. I don’t mention that. He’s good at his work, doesn’t waste time, and he’s ready to learn. Don’t mind listening. He might even say something useful.

“Finished? We should get back to work.”

He doesn’t answer, because there’s a sound of raised voices from somewhere near the gate, and one of them’s a woman’s. Geiléis. I can tell even from over here that she’s angry. Seems wrong to listen in. But Blackthorn and me are at Bann to solve a mystery. That means doing some things we wouldn’t naturally do. So I’m listening hard and remembering so I can tell Blackthorn later, but at the same time I’m putting cups and bowls back on the tray and moving the ladder round so we can get to the next bit of roof. Old thatch should be all stripped away and the beams cleaned up today. Brothers have got the reeds tied in bundles, so they’re all ready to go up. The spars from the old roof are oak, and mostly good to use again. And there’s a fellow here, one of the monks, who’s said he’ll make replacements for the worn-out ones. Means I don’t have to carve them myself, which is good. Would have taken time we don’t have.

“I need to see it!” Think that’s what Geiléis is shouting. Whoever she’s talking to—Father Tomas, must be—answers in a deep, quiet voice. Could be saying anything. Monks don’t shout. Only when . . . No, won’t think about that.

“Careful!” I say, keeping a close eye on Tadhg. “Remember what I said—move slow, two hands and two feet on the beams whenever you can. Not a job you can rush. Unless you want a fast trip down and a few broken bones. Move like a spider.”

He’s more careful, then. A quick learner. Pity I can’t stay after midsummer, in a way. If I had longer, I could teach him to do the job properly. Other things I could do here too. The walls. The garden. The pigeons. But no. First there’s Blackthorn. Second there’s the past. Third there’s God. Don’t believe in him anymore, and if I did I’d hate him for letting bad things happen and not stopping them. Meaning there’s no place for me here, or in any house of prayer. All very well for Brother Fergal to say God forgives sinners, and Our Lord embraces those who have lost their way, by which he means me, plain as plain. But who could forgive him, God I mean, for standing by watching while Norsemen hacked a bunch of monks to death? Boys, old men, scholars, gardeners, peaceable folk? Not content with that, they butchered the livestock too. Not for the pot. Just for the pleasure of killing. If God’s so all-powerful, why would he just look on?