Build a house for god-botherers, would ye? Next to my sheep? I don’t think so. We keep to the old gods here, not yer man on a tree. Aye, I wiss that the King, gods rot him, protects ye. But we’ll show ye.
We dug for three months on the hill above yer kirk. Filled-in the pits with chalk. And tonight we took the grass covers off. When ye awake from yer monkish cells on the morrow, ye’ll see it right enough. A giant man, with a giant cock, waving down at you, all day, every day. Be gone.