As the townspeople left the procession to return to their own houses, their number thinned. Finally it was just the cart, the driver and a man with a prodigious moustache whose hands were as bloody as Va’s.

He addressed Va directly. Va looked blank and glanced at Elenya.

‘He’s inviting us to share his plank with him.’

‘His what? Is this some sort of insult, or a barbarian greeting?’

‘Plank. No. Board? Table.’ Elenya checked her translation with the man. ‘Yes, he wants us to come and eat with him. He says it would honour his building. Household. Family. Sorry, it’s been a long day. To be honest, I don’t think I care what you say, I’m saying yes.’

‘I don’t see us overwhelmed with offers. These people have no idea of hospitality.’ Va sized up the native. ‘Tell him we’ll go with him.’

‘My name is Eoin macDonnabhan,’ said the man, ‘and my house is yours on this sad day.’

He led them through the shadowed, narrow streets that were reminiscent of Moskva at its poorest. At some points they had to turn sideways to squeeze though the gaps between the walls. It was as if An Cobh had been grown, rather than built. macDonnabhan pointed out the important local landmarks – a stone tower, a marketplace cross, a long open hall with vaulted arches – and as Elenya patiently translated for Va, he started to address his remarks to her instead.

Va was party to less and less of the conversation, and eventually was left out altogether. When they arrived at a house close to the eastern wall and went in, he was momentarily surprised and left out on the doorstep.

Inside there was space and light and warmth, the calling of voices and the barking of dogs. Outside, he was quite alone. Then Elenya leaned back and asked him: ‘Are you coming in?’

‘Yes. What were you talking about all that time?’

‘I’ll have to tell you later. Va, do you trust me?’

‘I . . . suppose so. What are you doing?’

‘Trying to help you, though I don’t know why.’ She jerked her head. ‘In, and try not to frown at everything.’

Va stepped over the threshold. Someone reached behind him to shut out the night, and a hand at his back ushered him into the room. macDonnabhan clapped his hands twice, and talking from all, young and old, trickled to an expectant hush.

A dog as tall as the youngest child pushed its way through the forest of legs and sniffed tentatively at Va’s hand with its thin muzzle. Its nose was wet, and it spent a while exploring the interesting smells he’d collected since he’d last washed.

‘They’re waiting for you to introduce yourself,’ said Elenya.

‘Oh. Va. Brother Va. I’m sure His Holiness Father Yeremai, patriarch of Moscow and of all Russia, the patriarch of the Orthodox Church, would send his greetings.’

Elenya told them her name too: ‘Knyazhna Elenya Lukeva Christyakova.’ She explained what Knyazhna meant.

The Aeireanns drew breath as one. macDonnabhan scuffed his feet on the stone floor and looked at the filth he was covered in.

‘These aren’t my best clothes, Princess,’ he said.

‘That’s all right,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’m not at all princessy.’

He motioned to Va that he should follow him. ‘Brother, we need to clean ourselves up before we sit at the table. You travel in exalted company.’

Va could see that macDonnabhan didn’t doubt Elenya’s title. They didn’t need to see her dressed all in gold, servants and handmaidens trailing behind her, passing down the central aisle of Novy Rostov’s cathedral. They could tell just from how beautiful she was.

A tub of hot water waited for them in a back room, together with bars of yellow soap and linen towels. macDonnabhan mimed what to do with them, and Va fought back a scowl. He said in Rus, his face determinedly neutral: ‘We have baths a hundred times more grand than this where I come from. I come from the centre of Christian civilization, not some bog at the end of the world.’

They stripped and washed. One of macDonnabhan’s men – family by the look of him – brought in new clothes. Va dunked his habit in the washing water and started to scrub.

macDonnabhan shook his head. ‘Women’s work,’ he said.

Va brought his sodden habit out and wrung it. The muscles on his arms stood out like cords. ‘My work,’ he said in World. ‘My cloth. I have God’s orders.’

‘Holy orders?’

‘Yes.’

‘I understand.’ macDonnabhan said something to the man who’d brought his clothes, who ran off. ‘Wait, please,’ he told Va.

He dressed in a linen shirt and trousers, put boots on his feet and took out a small tin of ointment. He waxed his moustache until it was stiff. Va plunged his habit in again, beat it on the side of the tub and twisted the water out again. He was about to put it on, when macDonnabhan’s man burst through the door again, carrying a coarse brown bundle.

‘Holy orders,’ said macDonnabhan, presenting Va with the cloth.

Va put down his dripping habit and shook out his present. It was a monk’s habit: the wrong colour, and it was going to drown him. These apostate Aeireann brothers were built on a different scale to him. macDonnabhan was trying so hard, he was making it difficult for Va to keep the strict vows he had made.

‘Dry, yes?’ said Va, pointing to his own black habit.

‘Yes.’

Va put on the habit, gathered up the mass of loose material around his waist and tied it off with the cord. He picked up his cross, kissed it and put it back around his neck. Wearing brown was wrong. It wasn’t Orthodox. But it would have to do.

Back in the main room, Elenya was surrounded by the women and children, the men standing back and talking amongst themselves. When Va and macDonnabhan appeared, the women went off to fetch the food while the children took their chance to crowd closer to a real princess and touch her long dark hair.

The men moved tables and benches; beaten metal plates and worn metal knives appeared out of chests; jugs banged down and horn cups clattered. macDonnabhan took his place at the head of the table and made sure that Va sat to his right, Elenya to his left.

‘It suits you,’ said Elenya to Va.

‘Only until mine is dry. Have you learned anything useful?’ Va tightened the cord again.

‘All these people are one family; a clan, they call them. macDonnabhan is the clan name, and Eoin macDonnabhan is the head of the clan. He used to be in favour with King Ardhal, but since the Kenyan came he’s lost status.’

‘Will he help us?’

‘I believe so, but it might depend on the Rus capacity for drink being greater than the Aeireann.’

‘What could they possibly brew here that’s stronger than vodka?’

‘Something called uisge, apparently. Ah, here comes the food.’

Honoured guests got the best portions and the strongest drink. There was bread, potatoes, mutton and beef, and ale so dark and bitter that it was difficult to swallow without pulling a face.

Eoin macDonnabhan started off brightly enough, then fell more maudlin as the evening wore on. He drank more and ate less. He started to speak about the king, and his clansmen shushed him; about Solomon Akisi, and they talked louder to drown him out. The woman of the house, who was Eoin’s sister and not his wife, attempted to persuade him to retire to bed, but he called for uisge so insistently that eventually a stone bottle was brought in.

He drained his cup of ale and poured in some of the golden liquid from the bottle. He stood unsteadily, raised his drink and toasted: ‘The King of Coirc, may he rot in hell.’

No one replied, so he drank alone.

Va took the bottle and dribbled a thin stream into his own cup. He sniffed at it, and his eyes watered. He got to his feet. ‘Tsar Ardhal.’ He flicked his wrist, swallowed and paused a moment while the room slipped in and out of focus.

Elenya reached for the bottle, charged her cup, stood and drank defiantly. Still none of the macDonnabhan clan would join in. So she picked up the bottle, tipped yet more uisge into Eoin and Va’s cups before filling her own. The three stood there, separated by language and culture but united by common purpose.