‘So who are you to be travelling abroad?’ he asks, straightening up, inspecting the weapon. ‘With no shoes and in one another’s company?’

‘I am Thomas Everingham,’ Thomas says. He still cannot see the man’s face. ‘I am a canon of the Order of Gilbert. My cloister is at Haverhurst.’

He gestures into the dark, imagining the priory to be that way.

‘And you, Sister?’

‘I am Sister Katherine,’ she says. ‘Of that same priory.’

It is the first time Thomas has heard her name. He turns to her. She has a hard face, and in the firelight her eyes are quick and suspicious. She glances at him, and again he looks away.

‘And you’re hungry, you say?’ the man asks.

‘Famished, sir.’

‘Fabas indulcet fames.’ He laughs quietly, and he sets aside the crossbow in the shadow of the tree. ‘Hunger makes everything taste good. My pot is small and my provisions few, but what I have you are welcome to share. In return for your tale.’

His voice is quick and learned, like the Prior’s or one of those visiting clerics. He puts the axe by the crossbow and he passes Thomas some hawthorn sticks.

‘Feed them in slowly, Brother Thomas, won’t you?’ he says. ‘So as not to kill the fire. It is wet enough in these parts to drown a Jew.’

He has on short boots that bunch around his skinny shanks and, despite the crossbow, Thomas can see he is no soldier. He rummages in the shadow of the tree and brings out a leather bag from which he takes a flask and a canvas packet. He passes Thomas a small piece of bread. Thomas breaks it and hands half to Katherine. Their fingers touch in the dark and a curious jolt goes up his arm. He pulls back his arm, noticing that she does the same. While they chew, the man opens another bag and brings out a blanket and a coat.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘It makes me cold just looking at you.’

‘Thank you, sir, with all my heart,’ Thomas tells him, still chewing, passing the blanket on to Katherine and pulling on the coat himself. It is heavy and padded, the finest thing that Thomas had ever worn, with buttons, a belt and a lambswool collar. A rich man, then.

‘You did not tell us your name, sir?’

This is from Katherine. She has wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and though she is leaning into the warmth of the fire her eyes remain deep in shadow.

‘I am Robert Daud, of Lincoln,’ the man says, and then after a hesitation: ‘A quaestor.’

There is a moment’s silence.

‘A pardoner?’ Katherine asks.

‘As was,’ he answers with an emphasis Thomas does not understand.

‘But why are you sheltering in these woods, sir?’ he asks, finally swallowing his bread. ‘When you might be happier at an inn, or staying with an abbot in a monastery?’