“How did we know who you were? No great mystery. Galen described you, a giant of a man with a gentle manner, who could turn his hand to anything around the place. Building, thatching, painting. A man who loved stories. A man who would listen for hours as he read from the scripture or told tales of magic and wonder. A man who was kind to animals. A man who generally kept himself to himself, until he was sure he could trust. He mentioned the creatures you put up on the roof, after you’d finished thatching. Fergal told me you’d spoken of doing the same here.”

Fergal’s back with a tray. Cups of mulled ale. Bread, butter. Smells good. Not sure if I can eat, though. “Dove, salmon, raven, cat,” I mumble, then clear my throat. They’re being kind. They deserve better. “Still do it if you want. Four days left. Got time, if the rain stops.”

“Grim,” says Ríordán. “Drink.” He puts a cup in my hands, like you’d do with a two-year-old. “One sip, come on.”

I drink. Had mulled ale before, but nothing like this. Warm, tasty, spices go right to my head. Need to drink slow.

“Eat,” says Fergal. He breaks up bread, spreads butter, passes me a platter.

I do as I’m told. Manage to get a bite or two down.

“Tell me why you chose those particular animals,” says Ríordán, as if none of the rest of it’s happened. “Dove, salmon, raven and cat.”

I go through it for him. “In that story, the one about the great flood, Noah sent ravens and then a dove. Raven’s for clear eyes; suits a house of scholars. Dove for peace. Salmon for wisdom. Not book learning, but the kind that’s in the bones of the land. A fish, that’s a Christian thing. A sign.”

“And the cat?” asks Ríordán.

Feel my mouth twist. Tears close again. “Bathsheba,” I say. “For Brother Galen. He loved her like a child.” Manage to say his name. Long breath in; long breath out. Feels like climbing a mountain. “Used to sit right next to him when he was writing. Watching the quill move, one way, the other way. Wanting to stick out a paw and bat at it, but not doing it. Purring deep down.”

Nobody says anything for a bit. I eat and drink some more. The two of them do the same. Voices outside but nobody comes in.

“You said you were no hero,” Ríordán says after a while. “That’s not how other folk understood it. What they saw was a man who fought hard to save his friends. Fought on and on against impossible odds, until he in his turn was cut down. A man who gave everything he had to give.”

Something wrong with this tale. “Nobody saw,” I tell him, the scene clear in my mind, coming to and finding them all dead. Every single one. The place as still as the grave, but for the scrabbling sounds of those hurt pigeons, poor little sods. “Nobody there, after. Only me.”