There are only a hundred steps to cover, but Katherine and Alice are floundering in their clogs and skirts, and the bucket is heavy and she dare not drop it for fear of what the Prioress will say. Then Alice falls with a cry. Katherine drags her to her feet. The men are in the field now, hollering as if at sport, ploughing their horses through the snow, one pulling ahead of the others.

Katherine turns and starts running again, but in a moment the first horse is on them. She cowers even as she runs, ducking the expected blow, but the rider overtakes them, thundering past. Then he stands tall in his stirrups and hauls back on the reins. He sets the horse on its hind legs and blocks their way.

The horse is huge, brown, with flailing hooves, a beard of filthy icicles and eyeballs as big as fists. The rider is young, but strong, and his face is bright with delight at what he’s caught. He is laughing. Without thinking Katherine takes a step to one side and then, using every muscle in her body, each one honed by punishing years of labour, she swings the heavy bucket. Lets it fly.

It hits the horseman with the crack of a falling trap door.

He flies back over the croup of the horse, hands clapped to his face. Alice screams. The horse launches itself forward again. They throw themselves aside as it barrels past them.

The man is screaming. He rolls on his back, knees drawn up, hands pressed to his face, blood pouring between his leather-gloved fingers. It is everywhere, staining the snow and his white tabard.

But now the other horse is on them, a grey, ridden by a man in a long red coat. He has a sword.

Katherine steps in front of Alice and faces him. She is beyond fear now.

The rider comes at her, arm raised. She stands to face him. But then something happens. Something comes through the air, a dark blur. It catches the horseman, hits his head with a slap. He falters, drops the sword, then collapses, as if filleted. He rolls from the saddle and crashes to the snow. The horse turns, canters away.

And suddenly there is someone else there with them. A man on foot, in a black cloak, clogs on his feet. It is one of the canons, running from the direction of the river. He is waving his arms and shouting, and his skirts are riding high around his bare knees.

The third rider turns to face the new threat, and the fourth rider, a giant of a man on a carthorse, dithers too.