Thomas repeats what Katherine has told him. He does not tell him it is Katherine’s idea. Richard listens. Then he stands and studies the way the land lies.

‘It is a good plan,’ he decides, but when Walter comes back he isn’t happy.

‘No time,’ he says, dismissing Richard. He turns to the archers. ‘Now, the horses are in a stand of trees on the other side of the road, so we’ll set up here. Harrow formation,’ he says. ‘Six in each rank.’

Richard wets his lips. ‘We’ll do it Thomas’s way, Walter.’

Walter stops, turns, spits.

‘Thomas’s way, is it? Not how Sir John’d want it.’

‘Sir John is safe in his bed in Calais. We are here. We’ll do it Thomas’s way.’ Richard turns to the men. ‘Take off your boots and jacks,’ he says. ‘Drop everything but your bows and arrow bags, and bring a dagger each. Hurry now!’

The men begin to remove their equipment. A moment later they are in shirtsleeves and hose.

‘Fuck’s sake!’ Walter snaps, throwing his jack on the ground. ‘No way to fight a war.’

‘Walter,’ Geoffrey warns.

They can hear the drums change now, signalling the Newnham garrison advance. A trumpet blows.

‘Quick now! Kit! Help me.’

Katherine arrives breathing hard and begins helping Richard out of his armour.

‘Come on! Come on!’ Richard urges as her hands fumble with the leather points. ‘That’ll do! That’ll do. Stay here with it, Kit, and keep a good eye on it. With God’s blessing we’ll be back soon.’

One by one the archers slip into the mud of the marsh, freezing water up to their midriffs.

‘Christ on His cross!’ Walter is saying as if staying dry is his right. ‘We’ll drown!’

The water in the marsh is rich and brown, brackish with seawater, its margins stippled with sedge and reeds. Birds’ nests are secreted in the rush thickets and the mud draws and sucks at their legs. The smell is ripe. Thomas half gags.

They have about three hundred paces to go, each man carrying his bow and arrow bag above his head. To their left is the river, sluggish in the spring sunlight, ahead is Newnham. On their right, beyond the road, stands the copse of trees behind which the horsemen are hidden.

They go silently dipping through the stagnant waters. The sky ahead darkens briefly, as if a flock of starlings has come between them and the sun, and Thomas looks up to see a flight of arrows flit from the market square. Each shaft looks so delicate from that distance, like the most considered stroke of the best sharpened reed, but then comes the irregular flurry of thumps and cracks as the arrows hit stone, steel and flesh, followed by the cries of the wounded men.

‘Quick!’ Richard urges. ‘Quickly now.’

The water is thickening, fouler still.