‘What have you got yourself into, Brother?’ he asks. ‘Sir Giles Riven is here, and that’s his boy in the cart. Says a canon attacked him on the road this morning. Can only be you.’

Thomas shakes his head.

‘As God is my judge I have done nothing wrong.’

The Dean says nothing and leads the way across the garth. As they walk, the other canons stare, and rumour flies fast in hand signals. Thomas can hardly place one foot in front of the other. Together they pass the giant, who watches them with vacant eyes. The Dean knocks on the door of the almonry, and they go in.

Sir Giles Riven is warming himself by a newly lit fire, a mug of something steaming in his hand. To a man used to tonsures and faded workaday cassocks, Riven appears exotic. His short, padded coat glows in the dark, the colour of rose petals in the summer sun, and his hose are made of finespun wool the colour of lapis. His leather riding boots are turned down to his knees and at his hip hangs his sword.

He stands as tall as the Prior, with his hair hacked short above his ears, but he is much bulkier and more powerful. He has horseman’s thighs and broad shoulders, and he stands on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

He turns to Thomas. His skin is rough and reddened from travel, and his teeth are ruined by the sweetmeats and the dried fruits that only the rich can afford, and there is a bruise on his cheek and one eye socket is puffed and dark. The other eye is dark, unreadable in the singular.

‘This is Brother Thomas, my lord,’ the Prior says. His hands flutter to his pectoral cross. ‘He was beyond the priory walls this morning.’

‘Hmmm,’ Riven says. ‘Doesn’t look very fierce, does he?’

‘No, my lord, he is an illuminator. His skill is a gift from God. He is creating the most wonderful psalter.’

Riven grunts and drains his cup and puts it on the table.

‘Ought to save time and kill him now, I suppose,’ he says.

The Prior looks startled.

‘Should we not get to the truth of the matter?’ he asks.

‘See no point,’ Riven replies. ‘I know what I saw.’

‘Well. Now, Brother Thomas,’ begins the Prior, gabbling almost, ‘Sir Giles Riven has avowed that he and his men were attacked this morning by a common robber on the road beyond our walls. He says that this robber was dressed as a canon of our order and that he and his associates – of which we will talk more later – gravely injured his son, Edmund.’