She ducks as the path takes them through a small wood of low-hanging trees where dark pools reflect the sky above; then the road dog-legs around a couple of willow trees where Thomas groans and she follows his pointing arm.

This time there is no mistaking them.

The giant, on a huge horse, is following a path down through the tangled woods in the hills above. They must have seen them turn and have ridden to cut them off. More riders follow him, about ten in a file, long spears held upright.

‘Dear God,’ she breathes. ‘How did they know?’

‘We might still outrun them,’ Thomas says. ‘Or find somewhere better to fight.’ He looks around. There seems nowhere better than here. He sighs. ‘No. Let us have done with it here. I am tired of running.’

She nods. Together they draw their swords, his longer than her short little blade. She throws her cloak over her shoulder and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Her short hair is loose, the coif hanging like a hood; her ear aches in the cold. Together they watch the riders emerge on to clearing: a man with a bandaged eye and the giant.

‘Look,’ Thomas says. ‘It is the son. Not the father. Perhaps you will unhorse him again?’

The giant sees them under their tree and gestures. Next to him Edmund Riven laughs. Then the giant kicks his horse and begins plodding through the reeds towards them. She hears Edmund Riven draw his sword.

The giant meanwhile is holding something up for them to see. He is laughing.

It is the pollaxe.

Katherine closes her eyes. So Walter is dead. It feels like physical pain, like a punch to the kidneys, a fall from a tree.

‘If I can land just one blow, that is all I ask,’ Thomas says.

The riders across the meadow fan out shoulder to shoulder behind the giant and Edmund Riven. One or two seem to be carrying wounds. Even the giant seems to have his left hand lying loose in his lap, as if to favour it. Walter’s work, she hopes.

The shadows of the hills behind Riven’s men stretch out across the water meadow as night fills the broad-bottomed valley, and above them all colour bleeds from the sky. Steam billows from their horses.

‘So,’ Thomas says. ‘This is it. This is what God wills.’

‘So it seems,’ Katherine agrees. Her voice wavers in her throat, cracks. Her heart is beating very fast. She must try to be courageous about this. Not to fall screaming. Not let herself down at the end.

Thomas turns to her.

‘Kit,’ he says. ‘Katherine.’

There are tears in his lashes; his lips tremble.

She holds out her hand to him. He takes it.