‘We should take one,’ Dafydd says. ‘Never know when you’re going to need a cow.’

‘Touch one of them and the Earl of Warwick’ll have you drowned in a puddle.’

‘What about a swan?’

‘Same thing.’

‘But look about you,’ Dafydd exclaims. ‘Look! There’s so much here. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s all orchards, everywhere. Pear trees. Plum trees. Cherry trees. What’s that? A bloody chestnut tree! And all those birds! Partridges and pea-fowls and pheasants – and that’s without even talking about the sheep!’

‘Sheep!’ Owen says.

‘And where is everybody? It’s like it all goes on without anyone looking.’

There are fat chickens loose in every village, and well-kept inns where they serve beer brewed from imported hops and serve it in pewter cups, with cheese pies, and buttered peas, and every step she takes only brings her nearer the gallows.

Just then there is a blaring of trumpets and shouting from behind them.

‘Make way! Stand aside there!’

It is the Earl of Warwick riding past in full armour, his visor up, followed by a body of men in armour, their hooves throwing up the mud as they pass. As they pass, though, men begin to lift their heads. They start to stride forward. Katherine shakes her head. Why they cannot see him for what he is, she does not know. A moment later the Earl of March rides past, languid, with less of the bustle, and then came the others, Salisbury and Fauconberg and their household men, their banners held stiff despite the rain. Then the Bishop Coppini, and last, Lamn.

‘Late for their supper, I bet,’ Dafydd sneers.

That night they camp on the common land outside the silver grey walls of Canterbury and in the still of the night, such as it is, Katherine gathers her things: her knife, her few clothes, the spare hood; and she puts them in her bag, and waits.

16

THE SOUND OF trumpets and men shouting in the dawn.

‘Stand to. Stand to. Come on, you lazy dogs. Get up and stand to.’

It is Walter, at the tent flap. Fleeting shadows cross the canvas as men go about their business by the fires’ light, scuffling and cursing in the gloom. Thomas rolls to his feet and straps the bracer on his forearm. He forces his still raw fingers into his blood-stiff glove.

Katherine is already awake, her eyes open in the dark.

‘Good luck,’ she says. ‘And God be with you.’

‘You too, Kit. You too.’

She throws her blanket off and stands, smelling of sleep and warmth.

‘No, Thomas,’ she says. ‘I mean it.’

She grips his hand. He smiles. The way she behaves can still surprise him.

‘Me too,’ he says.

She is unblinking in the dark. He has to pull his hand free of hers and he feels her stare following him as he leaves the tent. Something is wrong, but what?