‘Everything I hear of him makes me think he is no better than a man like Riven. Perhaps worse even, because his power is so much the greater.’

Thomas grunts.

But she does not want to think about the Earl of Warwick. It is a pleasure to be with Thomas, to have him touch her hair. She recalls the time he cut it on the shore at Boston, when it was so cold and she was ill with fright. Now she feels herself soften, relax. She hums with pleasure. She feels as if she should take his hand and hold its palm to her cheek. It is the sun, the warmth, the food, the lack of care.

‘There,’ he says. ‘It is quite straight.’

She smiles at him.

‘Thank you Thomas,’ she says.

He smiles uncertainly back, hesitates as if he does not know what to do with his hands, then goes and sits with his bow again, but she can see him fiddling pointlessly. Her own heart is beating erratically and her limbs tingle. She feels dizzy. The feeling makes her anxious. She gets up, walks to the wall, places her hands on the warm powdery stone, tries to breathe slowly.

Eventually the feeling passes.

She watches the others in the butts below for a few moments. It is always Hugh who is last. He is not strong enough for the bow. She hears Walter barking at the boy as he is sent up the butts again and she turns and crosses to the other side, to look out over the woods to the Pale beyond.

Suddenly a scattering of birds take flight from the canopy of the trees with shrill calls of alarm. There is a drumming of hooves below and some shouting from the woods. Something is wrong.

‘Thomas!’ she calls.

The hunting party is back but they ride urgently, with the dogs at their hooves, heads down, riding fast, the horses white with sweat. They flash from the tree line and for a moment it looks as if they will not stop at the fort gatehouse.

Geoffrey is out to greet them straight away and Thomas and Katherine hurry down. Warwick is at the head of the little party as they pull up by the drawbridge to the fort. He looks grim, his mouth a downturned slash, all that morning’s pomp gone. Next to him the Legate, Coppini, looks frightened and is having trouble keeping his horse in check. The Earl of Salisbury’s face is mottled and clenched with anger. None of the hunting party gets down from their saddles, and Warwick’s horse, caked in mud, bucks and prances, sensing its rider’s desire to be gone.

‘There has been an accident,’ Warwick says. ‘Richard Fakenham has taken an arrow in his back. He is coming in now.’

‘He lives?’ Geoffrey asks.

Warwick shoots a glance back towards the woods.

‘Just,’ he says.

‘How did it happen?’