They are kind to me. What they have, they share. They have a corner of black bread made with rye; they have never tasted white bread. They have a thin gruel made with vegetables and a rind of cheese. They have small ale to drink which the goodwife brewsherself and they give me the first gulp from an earthenware cup which tastes of mud. I think that these are the people we should be fighting for, these are the people who live in a rich country, where land is fertile and water is clean, where there are more acres to grow than farmers to harvest. This is a country where wages should be high and markets should be rich and busy. And yet it is not. It is a land where no-one can sleep safely in their bed at night for fear of raids or brigands or thieves, where the king’s justice is bought and paid for by the king’s friends, where an honest working man is tried for treason and hanged if he asks for his rights, and where we cannot seem to stop a French courtier landing in our own ports and laying them waste.

We say that we are the rulers of this country but we do not make a rule of law. We say that we command these people but we do not lead them to peace or prosperity. We, their own lords, quarrel among ourselves, and bring death to their door as if our opinions and thoughts and dreams are worth far more than their safety and health and children.

I think of the queen, riding through the night with her horseshoes on backwards so that no-one can know where she has gone, and her army lying face down in Hempmill Brook, perhaps my husband and my son among them. The blacksmith’s wife, Goody Skelhorn, sees me grow pale and asks me if the gruel has turned my stomach.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But my husband was fighting today, and I am afraid for him.’ I can’t even bear to tell her of my fears for my boy.

She shakes her head, and says something about terrible times. Her accent is so broad that I can hardly make out what she says. Then she spreads a flea-filled rug on a straw mattress that is their best bed, beside the dying fire, and shows me that I can lie down. I thank her, I lie down, she joins me on one side and her daughter on the other. The men sleep on the other side of the fire. I lie on my back and wait for the long sleepless night to wear away.

* * *

Through the night we hear the clatter of hooves down the village street, and occasional shouts. The girl, the woman, and I cower like frightened children together: this is what it is like to live in a country at war. There is nothing of the grace of the joust or even the inspiration of great principles – it is about being a poor woman hearing a detachment of horse thunder down your street and praying that they do not stop to hammer on your frail door.