They scour the flat landscape below. Thomas can see nothing of any note. There are various stands of trees among the furlongs and baulks, and there is the broad skirt of green-coated marshland down by the village, but not much else.

‘Perhaps he has no horse?’ Richard is suggesting. ‘Perhaps he’s eaten them?’

Walter doesn’t look convinced.

‘Can you make out the banners, Kit?’ Richard asks.

‘There is one divided into fourths,’ she says. ‘Red and blue, with some flowers or something, and the white one has what look like black marks on it.’

‘Are they birds?’ Richard snaps.

‘I cannot say. They might be.’

Richard is sharp.

‘Look again,’ he demands. ‘Look again. Is the edge of the white flag chequered?’

‘I can’t see. It is too far.’

‘How many birds are there?’

Katherine counts them.

‘Six,’ she says. ‘But they . . .’

Thomas is on his tiptoes, peering into the distance; his heart is pounding.

‘It’s Riven,’ Richard says, turning to Geoffrey. ‘Riven’s here. I know it. It is him. Look.’

Thomas nearly shouts something. He too is sure Riven is here.

‘What about the horsemen?’

‘We can worry about them later. Let’s go.’

Richard wrenches his bridle around, and is about to jam his heel in when Katherine starts.

‘There,’ she says, pointing. Richard stops, wheels around again, drags his nervous horse prancing across and follows her directions.

‘Christ on His cross!’ he breathes. ‘Where did they come from?’

There are about fifty of them, filtering along a narrow path between two orchards, using the trees as cover, moving up like grey wraiths in a grey land, each carrying one of the long lances and each wrapped in a thick travelling cloak so the spring sun won’t shine on their harness. Even their horses wear sackcloth.

As they come up on the Newnham garrison’s flank, obscured from view by a copse of poplars, Somerset’s archers and billmen are retreating back down the road to Boulogne, luring Warwick’s men further into the trap.

‘Must have moved up in the night,’ Walter says. ‘They’ll wait until the garrison have shot all their arrows, then they’ll get in among ’em.’

‘The priests’ll be busy then,’ Geoffrey agrees. ‘It’ll be a slaughter.’

‘We’ve got to stop them.’

‘Hard to see how.’

Richard throws his leg over his horse and drops to the ground, his armour ringing. He turns to Katherine and passes her the reins.

‘We can come behind them,’ he says. ‘That’s what we can do. Tie her up, Kit, will you?’ He nods to his horse. ‘Then follow with the arrows. We’ll need every one of them.’

Katherine pauses, her gaze still on the flat lands below. She opens her mouth to say something, but it is too late, Richard has hurried forward. Walter is rubbing his hands, his eyes shining like a ferret about to kill.