He let out a scream. ‘Arrgh! You fucking bitch!’ Half blinded and streaming tears he tried to lunge at her with the knife, but she easily ducked out of the arc of the blade and then launched a savage kick that caught him squarely and solidly in the testicles. He screamed again. But now his blood was up and he was raging like a wounded bear. The knife whooshed at Grace again, and this time she almost didn’t manage to get out of its way before it slashed her to the bone. Grace staggered back, tripped over the ale cask and fell.

‘I’ll cut your fucking liver out!’ He towered over her. The knife started coming down. Trying to wriggle away but knowing she’d never make it in time, she lashed out another kick and struck him in the knee, knocking him off balance. He wobbled for an instant and then crashed headlong into a stack of wine crates, which toppled over and sent loose bottles cascading all over the floor. Glass smashed and red claret splashed everywhere as he floundered about trying to regain his balance. But his foot connected with a rolling bottle and he went down again, losing his grip on the knife. Grace snatched it up as it clattered to the floor. He was already struggling to his feet, grabbing the broken neck of a wine bottle.

Grace had followed all the police self-defence courses. She could take down a violent offender in one stroke of an extendable baton. Pin a strong man to the floor with an arm lock and cuff him before he knew what was happening. But in no way was she capable of surviving a knife fight against a large, murderous, military-trained killer who at this moment wanted nothing more than to slash her head off with a broken bottle.

And so she stabbed him, hard and fast, before he could do the same to her. The razor-edged blade sank deep into his thigh. Blood spurted in her face. He let out an animal howl like nothing she’d ever heard before, and fell back clutching his leg.

Grace was already racing for the door, petrified to open it in case more men were in the passageway outside, running to their crony’s aid. But the coast was clear. She sprinted away from the open doorway. A corner. Some steps. Another passage. This was the service section of the castle, where the walls were plainly whitewashed and the floors bare stone, and everything looked the same.