The archers meanwhile have climbed down into the ship’s hold and now spread themselves in the waist. More archers come aboard, men in blue and white with Fauconberg’s fish-hook badge over their hearts. Thomas’s eye is drawn to the spot where he killed Cobham and Saxby and the other men. The arrow shafts have been broken off and adzed flat in the deck, like knots in the planks.

As soon as it is agreed they can fit no more men aboard, the sailors take in the gangplank and cast off. Two barges take up the hawsers’ slack and their crews haul on their oars and the carrack labours out into the channel. Once she is in the deeper water, the barges let go and the carrack’s new crew set a sail that fills with a crump. After a moment’s hesitation, Mary gathers herself, quickens and surges out to sea on a skirt of milky froth to join the rest of the small fleet waiting to cross the channel, each tub filled with men in harness and helmets.

‘Soon be there,’ Geoffrey says.

‘I’ve heard that one before,’ Thomas tells him.

But they are. They are soon out on the green sea, butting through the choppy waters, a constant wind behind them. The sun shines on their backs and seagulls cry in their wake. They are one ship of six, each packed with Fauconberg’s archers and men-at-arms: a fine sight.

Soon they can see the low line of England in the haze and then, not much later, even the chalk cliffs above Dover.

The thought of crossing the Narrow Sea again has so preoccupied Thomas these last few days that he has not given much thought to the fighting that lies ahead, but as they close with the coast of Kent, the mood on board changes. Fear makes one or two men more vocal others become quieter, mumbling their prayers, crossing themselves. Others fiddle with their weapons, retie bracers, stretch gloves, check arrows for trueness. One or two yawn uncontrollably. Dafydd whistles through his teeth. Thomas’s mouth is dry, and his hands are trembling. He wishes for ale.

‘Sandwich,’ Walter says. He points out a distant huddle of pale roofs gathered around a dark stone church among a green swathe of marshland. ‘Doubt we’d be trying this if the French hadn’t already busted down the walls and burned the place to the ground.’ He is gloomy, sour-tempered still, unenthused by the thought of what is to come.

‘Good to see England again, though,’ Geoffrey tries.

‘Never had to come ashore somewhere I’m not wanted,’ Walter continues. ‘And I’ll wager they’ve got guns this time. Guns and water. Guns and water. Worse combination there is, that one. If you don’t get a stone in the face, you’ll most likely drown. This is going to be fun, this is. Where’s Simon?’

‘Here.’