‘You are my men,’ de Flunkl says. ‘There will be no slander of my name and there will be no mutiny at this crucial hour.’

‘Do not look at anyone else,’ Harold says, wagging his fingers at the nameless man. ‘There is no need. It is only you and I in this room. Give me the papers.’

The man continues looking at de Flunkl.

‘It is my voice you will respect and heed,’ Harold Tuite says calmly. ‘I am the only one who your life respects. Hanging is quick, at least.’

De Flunkl looks to his men, and then looks away. His shoulders collapse; his superiority broken.

‘Give him the papers,’ he says.

The man nods, giving a weak grimace, and walks towards Harold. Harold holds his hands out, but the man ignores his hands and pushes the parchments into Harold Tuite’s chest, who steps back, breathless, the ruddy colour draining out of his face. The roll of parchment falls away to the ground, revealing the hilt of a small dagger protruding from his heart.

Everything is silent for a moment. Harold releases a loose sneeze of blood from his nose and looks down at his front.

‘I am killed,’ he says, ‘by a nameless scoundrel.’

Then, slowly, he falls sideways heavily, and the man is knocked down and trapped under the weight of the dying Harold.

Harold Tuite breathes and shudders with big wracks and the man tries to wriggle out from under his weight. William and de Flunkl look at each other, frozen, and Mary comes to and screams at them.

‘You are useless excuses of men. I shall do this most necessary work.’

She runs over to where the man is trapped under Harold Tuite.

‘What have you done to us?’ the man wheezes. ‘Do you not reme—’

She stamps on his head once with the flat of her foot. His skull cracks back on the flagstone underneath him and he groans and goes unconscious, his eyes upturned in his head.

Harold Tuite is still gasping air loudly, his eyes wide in panic, and she sits astride his back.

‘For leverage,’ she explains to the men who watch her.

Harold Tuite tries to turn his neck to see why there is a young blood-covered woman on top of him, but he doesn’t have the strength.

‘You are not my family,’ he says, choking, a teardrop of blood leaking out of his right eye.

Mary leans down, and places her hands round the neck of the man and starts throttling him.

De Flunkl and William watch for a long moment and then Mary turns her head up towards them, while still engaged in throttling the man.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she screams, spittle loosing itself from her lips.