Owen urged that we camp near Kingston where there was good flat ground with fresh water in the river. Lord Wiltshire was not a happy man. ‘We need meat,’ he complained. If I judged it right he was scornful of the mercenaries he commanded, who would not move unless they were paid every day and who spoke languages he did not understand. I could only hope that when it came to a battle his captains would correctly and speedily interpret his orders into Irish, Breton and French but it was not a situation I relished. ‘There were deer in the woods behind us.’

‘York deer,’ I said grimly. ‘You run the risk of losing men in a skirmish if Edward’s soldiers get wind of a foraging party.’

‘It is either that or commandeering the farmers’ oxen.’ Wiltshire gestured across the wide valley, which was dotted with farmsteads set in pastures that would be lush with grass in summer. ‘There must be some fat ploughing teams around here. Will your men not also demand meat?’

‘Our men are locals,’ Owen said gruffly. ‘They fend for themselves. I have seen a good number of fresh hares and rabbits slung from their belts. All they need is fire and sleep.’

‘And what will you eat tonight, Sir Owen?’ Wiltshire’s contemptuous stress on my father’s title made my hackles rise. He was no more than a jumped up bog-Irish peer himself but I held my tongue. I knew the folly of an argument between commanders on the eve of battle.

Owen’s teeth gleamed in a smile, although the angry glint in his eye told a different story. ‘Heron, I fancy, my lord, it is no problem for a Welsh archer to bring down a slow-flying heron. I expect the innkeeper’s wife will cook it for me.’

‘I do not doubt it, sir,’ I said. I knew it would be Myfanwy roasting the heron over a campfire and keeping her man warm in a bed at the inn that night. Turning to Wiltshire I made a proposal.

‘We should go together to the Prior of Leominster, James, and arrange to buy some mutton. The town is famous for its wool, and there will be sheep a-plenty for butchering.’

* * *

Edward of York had chosen his battleground well. He must have ridden these fields and meadows as a boy. Perhaps he had surveyed this spot when he was a young squire learning military strategy from his governor Sir Richard Croft, whose castle I could see from my chamber window at the inn, where I too was staying. The young heir of York was powerfully at home among his friends and allies in this lush and fertile valley.