They stand at the side of the road that leads up to Fauconberg’s camp and as Warwick rides past them, his glance falls on them and his face twitches with recognition. His smile clouds; his eyes snap to the front. He rides on, his fist clenched by his hip.

‘But he is a bastard,’ Geoffrey says quietly. ‘That much I will say.’

The Duke of York’s son the Earl of March is next, much the bigger man, on a beautiful grey destrier. Thomas last saw him after the skirmish at Newnham. He is smiling and waving and laughing, and even from where Thomas stands he can see why. A little farther along the street is a tall young woman in a dark green kirtle. Her hat is high on her head and her chest is plump. One glance at her makes the spit in Thomas’s mouth dry. As the Earl of March rides past her, he makes his horse skitter on the cobbles. Sparks fly. He makes a show of soothing the horse, patting its neck; then when the horse is calmed, he takes off his hat and speaks to the woman, who blushes, and all the while her husband stands at her shoulder smiling fatly. After a minute the Earl of March rides on with a long backward glance.

Next comes Warwick’s father, the Earl of Salisbury, slumped in his saddle, glaring from under the brim of his hat where raindrops are gathered in a line. He looks at the people as if they are in his way, and somehow responsible for the rain; as he passes, the little crowd falls silent. Behind him, by some distance, comes Sir John Fakenham, his small pony being led by William Hastings. Hastings’s face is green, as if he has not enjoyed the passage and does not trust himself swaying on the back of a horse. A lad wearing his black bull badge is leading Hastings’s horse a few yards behind, and even the horse looks ill.

Sir John sees Geoffrey and Thomas and waves them over. They greet one another with handshakes.

‘Thanks be that you are still with us. I hear they put up a fight?’

Geoffrey nods.

‘And what’s the reckoning?’ Sir John asks.

‘Two dead,’ Geoffrey says. ‘Two boys from home.’

Sir John pulls a face.

‘If you give me their names? Though I know not how I’ll ever get word to their families. By all the saints, this is a bloody business. Englishmen killing Englishmen.’

‘And what of Richard, Sir John?’ Geoffrey asks.

Sir John’s face puckers.