Thomas goes back at Riven and for the next minute they trade blows with blocks and near misses. Riven keeps him and Henry away with sudden feints, swapping his sword from one hand to the other, but after Henry breaks the final leather strap on his cuirass, he begins to move more stiffly. The plates of armour gape, showing a sliver of vulnerability.

Again Thomas attacks, sweat and blood and rainwater in his eyes, his joints vibrating from the blows; but Riven is moving sluggishly now, an almost different creature from before. Each time Thomas attacks him, Riven’s sword gives an inch or two. Thomas starts to land blows on his body as well, and Riven’s armour is dented. He is still strong enough though: he knocks the bill from Henry’s hands. Henry trips over a wounded man.

But now the second knight has killed the last billman. He stands over him with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Then he stands and labours around towards Henry, but before attacking he stops for a moment and raises his visor. His face is streaming with sweat, scarlet with exertion, and even his eyes are red. He holds up his hand for a stay.

‘A moment, for the love of God!’ he gasps.

Henry is on his feet. He has an axe from somewhere and steps in. He chops the knight across the face, knocking him back on his heels, and the man falls screaming into the sky and clasping his pulpy face with both hands. Henry steps over him and crashes the axe down into him like a woodsman splitting a log.

Afterwards he can only move the axe by standing on the man’s neck and levering it free.

Riven turns to kill Henry while the axe is stuck, but Thomas lunges. Riven parries, tries to catch him with the pommel, and then a long thin dagger appears in his hand. Thomas feels it pass his ear as he ducks away.

It is Riven’s last desperate move, and this time there is no mistake. Thomas feints right, then turns and swings the pollaxe in a blur. A bellow escapes as the pick head hums through the air. It crashes through the gap in Riven’s cuirass and stops still.

Riven staggers and drops his knife. He lowers his hands, carefully. Time seems to stop; all clamour ceases.

Thomas pulls the pick out and Riven stands for a moment, his arms by his sides. He takes a step or two, then drops to his knees.

For a moment he stays upright, his arms by his sides.

Thomas drops the pollaxe and falls to his own knees, facing him. Blood is pouring from the slash in his shoulder; his livery coat is sodden with it. He is shaking; his vision is blurred. He stretches to open Riven’s visor.

He wants to see Riven before he dies.

He wants to be seen.