Far off he was aware of voices screaming. The sound of fear and anger and the metallic clang and rasp of metal on metal: an exchange of swordplay that seemed to come to an end horrifyingly quickly. The voices receded — the squires, perhaps even the sergeants, running for their lives.

Then finally silence. He was aware of the crows still circling above, and the soft crunch of snow underfoot as someone slowly approached him.

Daylight was blocked out by the hooded man leaning over him. Geoffrey thought he caught the glint of armour amid the shadows of his cowl.

How can an armoured man move so quickly?

Then his fading mind was aware of another person leaning over him.

‘Where is it?’ said the new man.

Geoffrey spat congealing blood out on to his cheek. ‘We … we have … no … money.’

‘I’m not after your money,’ said the man. ‘I’ve come for the relic. No matter, we’ll find it ourselves.’

Geoffrey’s grey eyes tried focusing on him. ‘Y-you … know … of it?’

The man’s voice softened, almost kindly now. ‘Yes. I’m one of your brotherhood.’ Geoffrey felt a hand under his cropped hair, lifting his head out of the snow. ‘Here’s something to ease the pain.’

The second man, a lean face framed by long hair and a beard, lifted a glass bottle to his lips. He tasted a strong mead.

‘I’m truly sorry,’ said the man. ‘But we must have it.’ He sighed.

‘The … the relic … is to … be taken to Scotland. It must … it must be kept safe for — ’

‘For future generations,’ the man completed his words. ‘Yes, I know this. That’s why we’re here.’ He smiled. ‘We are that future generation and we’ve come for it.’