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Riven’s strength to right himself, jerking Riven off balance. In one move he collects his staff from the mud and swings it around in a short sweep that Riven does not see it through his half-closed eye. It catches Riven behind the knee and he leaps backwards with the pain.
    ‘Not bad, Brother Monk,’ Riven says, ‘but this has gone on long enough, hasn’t it?’
    He makes a feint that Thomas sees, then another that he does not, and then the full weight of his staff whirls around in a blurring arc and crashes across Thomas’s skull as he tries to duck.
    He is face down in the mud again and with the pain comes the blood. It is hot and blinding. He gets to his knees and wipes the blood with his sleeve in time to see Riven come at him again. He manages to parry the first blow and evade the next, but then he takes a short arm punch that rattles his teeth. He feels sluggish and his sight blurs.
    The fight is leaving him and Riven is circling him, ready for the end.
    He blinks the blood from his eyes, triggering another attack, a rolling series of blows that would have killed, but this time Thomas trips on his sodden cassock, drops on one knee, and ducks his head as Riven’s staff passes over. Then he lunges. Again Riven is blinded in the malfunctioning eye and Thomas gets through the mêlée of Riven’s pumping arms and into the soft area below his sternum. He feels the contact, doughy and soft. He rams the staff up.
    Riven stops, gasps. His eyes bulge, then swim, then roll. He staggers, falling back, tipping on his heels, powerless. He drops his quarterstaff and thumps to ground and lies there with his tongue out; his face is grey-green, his breath a groaning wheeze.
    Thomas gets to his feet and pulls his muddy cassock down.
    He glances across at the Prior who has still not moved, his mouth still gaping. The Dean is urging him to do something with his staff. Bring it down.
    Thomas plants his legs either side of Riven’s body. He raises his staff vertically. He can bring it down now directly into Riven’s unguarded face and it will be the end. God’s will be done. He pauses. Blood drips from his wounds on to Riven below. Riven’s face is puckered with the pain and almost babyish.
    Thomas leans in to lend weight to the blow, bunches his muscles, lifts the staff and plunges it down, driving it with all his might, deep into the mud, a finger’s width from Riven’s ear.
    Then he turns and walks away, leaving the staff upright in the ground.
    The Dean meets him with a cloth and a smirk.
    ‘You are wasted here, Brother Thomas,’ he says, mopping his face. ‘Fooling about with your psalter when you should be fighting the French. But why didn’t you kill him?’
    Thomas can think of nothing to say. He flinches when the Dean touches the weal on his skull.
    ‘Probably wise,’ the Dean mutters, ‘but then I wish you’d let him kill you. We’ve a pretty problem now.’
    Riven’s three retainers are gathered around him, helping him to his feet while the infirmarian hovers. Riven is hacking something up and cannot stand straight.
    ‘Brother Stephen,’ Thomas asks, ‘when you brought me food this morning, did you say one of the sisters has gone missing?’
    The Dean nods. He looks grim.
    ‘Found her now, though.’
    ‘Is she well?’
    The Dean lowers his voice.
    ‘Dead,’ he says. ‘So the Prioress says. We’ll bury her tomorrow.’
    It takes a moment for this to settle in.
    ‘Riven has her rosary beads,’ Thomas says.
    The Dean stares at him, calculating the value of the news, then he lunges suddenly, shoving Thomas aside.
    ‘Look you!’ he shouts. A sword blade hums through the space where Thomas had been standing, and the man Riven called Louther staggers among them, off balance. The Dean grabs his padded coat and hauls him onwards so that he crashes over the cloister wall, dropping his sword as he goes. Thomas turns, sees the giant lolloping towards them with that axe, a cruel confection of pick, spike and