He shrugged. “My point is, we know who killed them. We’re in the middle of a fight. The bishop reminds you of God’s mercy. I will only say this: I will not forget why they died, and when the moment comes…” He took a deep breath, and the men and women in the front row could see the red clash of his eyes. “If I am spared to that moment, my sword will not sleep.”

A sigh escaped the company, as if the whole body were a single person.

The Bishop of Albinkirk turned away in anger.

The captain squared his shoulders. “Company!” he called, as if his voice had never trembled with emotion.

They snapped to attention.

“Take your proper,” he called, “distance.”

The corporals slipped out of the front line and went forward three paces.

The three red lines turned about, and walked off—three paces for the second line, six for the third, nine for the fourth.

He signalled Ser Bescanon, who walked out from the officers’ rank and unsheathed his sword. He saluted with it, and the Red Knight returned his salute and walked off into the rain.

Ser Bescanon’s high cheekbones and long Occitan nose were dripping under his faceless cervelleur. “Have a care for your armour!” he bellowed. “Company—dismiss!”

They ran for shelter. Squires and pages cursed.

The bishop went and stood beside the captain under one of the eaves of the stable. “Revenge?” he asked. “Is that how you motivate them?” His voice was flat with anger.

The captain’s slightly reptilian green eyes seemed to sparkle. “My lord bishop, today—for the first time in a long time, let me add—revenge is what motivates me. They will follow.”

“You spurn everything for which that gentle man stood,” the bishop said.

The captain stood for a moment, tapping his riding gloves impatiently on his armoured thigh. He seemed on the edge of saying something but, instead, he held his peace, and his face became a smooth mask.

Then the mask failed him. The captain leaned close, his eyes very slightly tinged with red, and the bishop had to force himself to stand his ground. “You know,” he said softly, “that gentle man was killed by a shaman—a creature who had been bound. Magisters call it turning. You know it? A creature’s own will is stripped away, and replaced by the control of another. I killed the shaman, my lord bishop, but he was as helpless and as guiltless as your Jesus as a babe. He was a tool. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being a tool and of using others as tools and the whole bloody game.”

This was so far from what the bishop had expected that he had readied a very different argument. So he had to fold away his text, and take a deep breath.

“Then don’t play,” he said.