‘I know this is hard for you, Brother Thomas. I know things have gone against you, and that none of this is your doing, but these are bad times. Justice is no longer worth the candle lit to see it done. Everything is in turmoil beyond these gates and the Prior needs the protection of a man like Riven if the priory is to remain safe. He cannot afford to deny him any wish.’

‘Whatsoever it may be?’

‘Whatsoever it may be.’

‘Then there is no justice within these gates either.’

The Dean sighs.

‘If I were the Prior, Brother,’ he says, ‘I would tell you that since the Lord is on your side then there is nothing you need fear, and that you will win through this, and that justice will be done. But I am not the Prior. I lack his certainty. I lack his faith. And I know men like Giles Riven.’

Thomas chews his bread. The Dean continues.

‘So you must take a staff and some clothes and as much food as you can carry and get away from here. Take your psalter of which everybody talks. Go back to wherever it is you come from. Your family.’

‘I have no family to speak of,’ Thomas says. He thinks of his father: dead. His mother: dead. His sisters: likewise. He thinks of his brother, eking out a life on the farm in the shadow of that great granite cliff. He’d always liked his brother, but his brother’s wife had come between them, and all three knew his future was not there.

‘Then see if you cannot join another order,’ the Dean continues. ‘Any abbot would be glad to have you.’

‘They would know that I am a religious. They would suppose I was apostate.’

‘Then all that remains to you is an appeal to the Prior of All,’ the Dean says. ‘Take him your psalter. Show him your art. State your case. He will give you justice.’

Thomas thinks.

‘Where would I find him?’ he asks.

‘Canterbury.’

Thomas has heard of Canterbury, but he has no idea of where it is.

And besides, why should he run? If God is with him?

‘But what then of God’s purpose?’ he asks.

The Dean loses patience. He strides across the stable, picks up the bread and the nearly empty soup bowl.

‘God’s blood, Brother Thomas,’ he says, ‘you are a stubborn young fool, and you eating this is a waste, for you’ll be dead before you’ve garnered its goodness.’

Thomas scrabbles to his feet.

‘Do not despair of me, Brother. Please.’

The Dean looks at Thomas. He pauses and thinks for a moment and then comes to some decision.

‘All right,’ he says, handing the dish back. ‘You’re right. Finish it. You’ll need your strength.’

Thomas takes it.

‘Thank you, Brother.’