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‘Tokens of love,’ he explains with a slurp of his tea. ‘It’s a custom here.’

Henry moves to the wall to take a closer look.

The spoons are all intricately carved with different shapes and patterns. Some have etched within the handle a bird, a vine, a heart. Others a cross, a horseshoe, a lock. The detail, Henry thinks, is remarkable, and he says so.

‘How do you make them?’

The vicar puts his mug on the circular table, reaches to the hearth in the corner, picks up a spoon and knife from the mantel and shows them to Henry in explanation.

‘I carve them from the oak trees, those here in the woods. Sturdy and stalwart, as I said.’

‘Do you sell them?’

Mr Dee rubs the bowl of the spoon with his thumb. ‘Ethically I shouldn’t, of course, considering my profession, but my income is such that I find the extra coin helpful. I take them to market at Harlech, sometimes Abermaw. I don’t get much for them, but I must admit it’s not just about the money. I carve for pleasure.’

With his free hand Henry unhooks one of the lovespoons from the wall, turns it over in his palm. The ladle is small, no different in style to a spoon found on Plas Helyg’s dining table, but it is the handle that bewitches. This one has a series of intricate knots intertwined with a heart. Henry runs a thumbnail over the ridges, marvels at the smooth finish.

‘This must have taken days,’ he murmurs.

‘It did,’ the vicar says, smiling at the compliment. ‘The romantic thing is to think of a young man whittling away in front of the fire for his cariad, but these spoons are made by craftsmen. They take years of practice to make well, and I began my craft very young, long before I took my orders. There’s a skill to it. This one here,’ he says, raising the unfinished spoon in his hand; the handle is made up of six wooden spheres in a cage. ‘The balls are not placed in – they’re carved from a single piece of wood.’

‘Incredible. What do the balls denote?’

‘Whatever you like! Some more soft folk like to think of them as the number of children they want to have.’

Henry takes a sip of the nettle tea; when he swallows he immediately coughs. The reverend bares his teeth in a grin.

‘Bitter, I know. It’s an acquired taste, but you get used to it.’ Mr Dee watches him with interest. ‘I suppose you have a lot of things to get used to here. How are you settling in?’

Henry does not answer a moment. Instead he replaces the lovespoon back on its hook, picks up another. This one has tiny wheels and elaborate cogs – so delicate – weighing nothing at all in his hand. To think, it’s been carved from a single piece of wood.

A skill to it, indeed.

In London people would pay good coin for these spoons. Far more, Henry suspects, than Mr Dee sells them for here.

‘I wish,’ he says, setting the spoon back on its hook, ‘that I could say well.’

The vicar nods knowingly. ‘I did think you would struggle.’

He replaces the unfinished lovespoon on the mantel, gestures for Henry to take his seat at the table and joining him there, raises his mug of nettle tea to his lips.

‘Linette has told me the rumours,’ Henry says. ‘About Emyr Cadwalladr.’

‘Ah.’

The reverend does not say anything further, continues to drink his tea with slow measured sips, and it takes Henry a moment to realise he is waiting for him to break the silence. Thoughtfully, Henry regards him. Though he is not a man of God, Henry is perfectly aware of the sanctity of the Church – can Mr Dee be trusted? Trustworthy or not, he cannot think of anyone else who might be able to shed light on everything that has occurred here, and with a deep sigh Henry sets his own mug of tea down on the table.

‘May I speak to you in confidence?’

‘Of course you may.’

‘Did you know the gatehouse was destroyed before I arrived?’

Mr Dee blinks. ‘I did not. Who was the culprit?’

‘It can only have been one of the villagers, for everyone I’ve met treats me with a loathing they do not bother to conceal. Some of the boys intimidated me up on the road and scared my horse. Yesterday Linette took me up to the mines, and their dislike was as palpable as if I had struck them. The other day I was shot at.’

Until now the vicar has been nodding his head in slow sympathy over the rim of his mug, but this brings him up short.