The giant laughs louder, and two others sitting on the wall join in. One of them is wearing a white jacket as Riven’s son had been wearing, with a black bird that looks like a crow as a badge. The hem is made up of black and white checks, and the same device is repeated on a square banner that the other man has propped against the cloister wall. This other is in a thick padded coat, dyed blue, with long boots and a dark cap. Both have swords at their hips. Both are drinking from leather tankards, and Brother Jonathan stands by with a pitcher of something that steams.

The Prior and the Dean are together on the far side of the garth with Brother Athelstan. Athelstan is telling them something to which they continue to listen even while their eyes follow Thomas. The Dean looks angry – that Thomas hasn’t fled the priory perhaps – while the Prior looks haunted, as if he has not slept, and his owlishness, which Thomas had once taken as a sign of learning, now looks like weakness. The old man turns back to Athelstan, who is waiting for an answer to some question he has asked.

The Dean leaves them and crosses the garth to intercept Thomas, taking responsibility where the Prior is too ashamed to do so.

‘Your accuser has chosen the weapon with which you are to fight,’ he says.

Riven interrupts.

‘The quarterstaff,’ he says, motioning to the giant to pass one of the staffs to Thomas. ‘You’re broadly familiar with it, I believe, Brother Monk? An uncomplicated sort of weapon. Two ends. A middle.’

The giant tosses Thomas one of the quarterstaffs. Thomas catches it and places its end on the ground and waits. He is familiar with the quarterstaff from long hours fighting with his brother when they were children, then adolescents. He knows the tricks, he thinks, and, looking at Riven’s swollen eye, he permits himself to wonder. Without thinking he removes his cowl and hitches the skirts of his cassock as the men working in the fields do.

‘Begin then, shall we?’ Riven says, passing his sword to the giant and taking the other staff in return.

‘A prayer first, sir, surely?’ the Prior pleads, finally finding the strength to divert if not resist Riven’s will.

Riven sighs.

‘Very well, Prior. But make it quick.’

All kneel in the mud as the Prior begins the prayers with a paternoster. When it is over Riven stands, just as the Prior is drawing in breath to continue with an Ave.

‘Thank you, Prior,’ he says, ‘that will be all. Now, let’s get to it, shall we? In the absence of any formal arrangements, I suggest we clear this area and assume no quarter. Before I kill you, though, I shall permit the Prior here to administer the viaticum, so you’re provided for on your final journey. Agreed? Anything to add, Brother Monk?’