Katherine goes to stand next to Thomas where he is bent over the ship’s rail, peering back at the coast of England hidden somewhere in the sea mist. He’s wrapped a piece of sailcloth around his shoulders and his eyes are red-rimmed with lack of sleep. The souls of those dead men lie heavy on his conscience, she supposes, and he has spent the last few days sitting by the dying sailor, wringing his hands and praying for his life.

‘Sir John knows Giles Riven,’ she says.

Thomas starts.

‘How?’

After she’s told him he throws off the sailcloth and stalks away across the deck. She watches him for a moment. He is so drawn and thin next to the other men. She can see every bone. The sooner he returns to the cloister, she supposes the happier he will be. But she feels a breeze of panic when she thinks of parting from him. What will she do then?

When he comes back he looks even more disturbed. There is something in his eye that reminds her of Alice, or perhaps one of the other sisters after they have been at prayer too long.

‘It is the will of God,’ he says. ‘There is no other way to explain it.’

She says nothing, but she feels something sinking within her.

‘Why would He send those winds?’ Thomas is asking. ‘If not to hold us back, so that we would meet these men? Why would He preserve us through the fight with – with Cobham? Surely it is as Sir John says? He has some special purpose for us.’

Katherine does not believe God has in mind a special purpose for anyone, for if that were so, then why not for everyone? She cannot believe His special purpose for her was to endure the Prioress’s torments for so long. She cannot believe that His purpose for Alice was to die like that. Were she to believe that, then she could only conclude that this God was a vengeful God.

‘It is God’s will that we go to Calais,’ Thomas is saying.

She shakes her head to distract herself.

‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why Calais?’

Thomas is momentarily flummoxed. He glares at her. Then softens.

‘We can go from there to Canterbury,’ he says. ‘Where we will seek out the Prior of All and plead our case.’

‘Oh,’ she says. She does not want to think about Canterbury.

‘What is wrong?’ he asks.

Now it is her turn to be flummoxed. It is the question, and the way he looks at her when he asks it, because it seems he wants to know what is wrong with her so that he can put it right. The experience is new.

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing.’