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He thinks of what he has just learnt about Dr Evans’ good health, and a steely determination settles in his gut.

‘No,’ Henry says, ‘but I mean to, and soon.’

Again, Miss Carew nods.

‘I’d go tomorrow. The weather is meant to be fine, and such a journey is best undertaken under good conditions.’

‘Thank you. I shall.’

In that moment Gwydion tosses his black head, snorts loudly through his nostrils. With her free hand Miss Carew reaches out to stroke the bridge of the cob’s silky nose.

‘Well, then,’ she says. ‘Your horse wishes to be away, and I’d best be away myself. Prynhawn da, Dr Talbot.’

Henry bows.

‘Miss Carew.’

She turns, hesitates, turns back again.

‘I am glad you’re come.’

He looks into those brilliant amber eyes, feels his cheeks grow hot. Then Miss Carew turns again and Henry watches her retreat across the square, is unaccountably disappointed when she does not look back. Shaking himself, he turns in the opposite direction. The three milk women are watching him still with narrowed eyes and Henry sighs, clasps Gwydion’s reins, steers the horse away.

He tried to call on the houses in the square, with no success. Thoroughly disheartened he set off for Plas Helyg, and it is as Henry is manoeuvring Gwydion up the bank toward the main path that he hears sounds of laughter ahead. When he emerges onto the road he sees five boys – the youngest can only be six years of age, the oldest sixteen at most – kicking a wooden ball between them. Henry hesitates, unsure. The lads are blocking his route to the woodland pass; there is no way around them. He considers retreating back into the lane, but then Gwydion whickers and the decision is taken from him for they look up at the sound. When they see Henry they stop, the laughter leaving their faces as if wiped clean with one stroke.

They are only boys, he tells himself as he pushes Gwydion forward. They can do you no injury. Still, instinctively, his grip on the reins tightens. The cob seems to sense Henry’s disquiet for he begins to weave out of line, tossing his large head. The boys, too, appear to mark the change in Henry for they close ranks, and a sneer starts to form on the oldest boy’s face. He walks, Henry sees, with a limp.

Henry pulls at Gwydion’s reins but the horse does not stop. On he plods, shortening the distance between Henry and his would-be aggressors who have straightened their shoulders, begun to come forward, a look of ugly intent in their eyes. Henry pulls the reins again. Reluctant, almost, the cob comes to a stop, and just as he does the oldest boy spits on the ground, narrowly missing Gwydion’s fetlock.

‘Mynd i rywle, doctor?’

Doctor. That is clear. As for the rest, well, he may not understand them but he does know the words were said with scorn; the look on the lad’s sunburnt face is conceited, over-confident, and Henry recognises that in a battle of words this boy has the upper hand. He should ignore them, ride by without saying a thing … but Henry cannot let himself be silent.

‘I mean no harm here, lad. Let me by.’

He tries to steer Gwydion away but the boys form a semicircle, preventing any movement.

‘Rydych chi’n mynd y ffordd anghywir.’ The boy shucks his chin in the direction of the open country road, the road leading back to Abermaw. Next to him, one of the others tosses the wooden ball from hand to hand. Henry eyes it warily. ‘Ewch yn ôl i ble daethoch chi,’ the boy continues. ‘Does yna ddim croeso i chi yma.’

Henry takes a breath. They know he does not understand them, well aware they can taunt him without adequate reproach. He looks to the line of cottages, wills someone to come out, but no one does.

‘Just let me pass,’ Henry says. ‘Your words are wasted on me.’

Perhaps it was his lack of deference, or perhaps his stern tone of voice, but the nasty smiles vanish from their faces. The boy holding the ball keeps tossing it between his hands, slow and steady – back and forth, back and forth – and Henry wonders if he means to throw it. But then, suddenly, the older boy lunges for him, too fast for Henry to react. His medical bag drops to the ground with a grating thud, its contents spilling and rolling in the dirt.

Gwydion rears up. Henry swears, desperately hangs on to the reins, but in doing so he pulls at the bit and the horse tosses his head, kicking out his front legs with a high-pitched whinny that cracks the air like a scream.

The boys jump away. For a fearful moment Henry wonders if the horse has struck any of them but his concentration is solely on keeping himself seated on the saddle, on calming the horse down. He clenches his thighs, leans forward, puts his full weight over Gwydion’s shining neck. He can hear the cob’s heavy breathing through his flared nostrils, and Henry does his best to console the animal with nonsensical words. It is only when he has steadied him that he sees – to both his relief and consternation – the lads are unharmed. Indeed, they are laughing loudly, pointing, without a care for Henry’s safety or their own.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he shouts, temper lost. ‘You could have hurt yourselves!’

He looks again to the cottages. Why does no one come?

The boys are whooping now; two run away into the bank of willow trees. Three remain, staring insolently up at him with hard faces, resentment in their eyes.

‘Let me pass. Go home, else your parents will hear of this.’

The three remaining boys continue to stare. Then, after a moment, the oldest shucks his head at the other two. The lads exchange a glance but do as they are told – they walk backward at first before spinning on their toes, disappearing round the back of the narrow cottages, out of sight.