‘It’s not about believing. Nothing’ll change if you swap one master for another.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. But there’ll be time to talk about it. I should go and greet Mother and whoever else is in there now.’

‘Erik went to town yesterday, with Mauri. And the Old Mistress hasn’t been too well lately.’

Henrik does not sound surprised, or even anxious. He asks in an expressionless voice, ‘What’s wrong with Mother, then?’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t say.’

‘Of course you should. Out with it.’

I can tell the Farmhand isn’t looking at Henrik. ‘Maybe it pains a mother to see her sons fight each other.’

‘My fight was with the King. There’s a big difference.’

‘Maybe.’

A crow caws in the pine trees. Wind blows over the cowshed roof. Henrik says, ‘At least the place looks in good condition.’

I sense he is about to leave even before he turns on his heel.

The Farmhand grunts and carries on chopping firewood as if he had never lost his earlier rhythm – rather like sounds deep inside a forest are briefly drowned out by a gust of wind, before returning. He groans, but not because of the physical exertion.

I wait with my back pressed against the wall until the sound of Henrik’s steps has died away. I creep to the corner of the cowshed just in time to see the wiry figure disappear through the door. I stand still, with a throbbing in my throat that is rooted in my heart.

The hens are laying well. I was wise enough to pay for a good breed. I should teach the new girl to bake.

She has definitely not changed for the better. I said it upon leaving and I will say it again: a cow that no longer yields milk should be taken to the knacker’s yard. Never mind honouring your mother, I might as well pay my respects to the whore of Babylon.