But Katherine is more concerned with the churches. The skyline is crowded with spires and steeples, and there are more in the fields and villages beyond the walls. There is even one balancing on the bridge below them that looks as if it might topple one way or the other any moment.

‘The place will be overrun with friars and priests,’ Katherine tells Thomas. ‘The sooner we are gone from here the better.’

Thomas ignores her.

‘Geoffrey says the main body of the King’s army is in the north,’ he says. ‘Somewhere near Coventry.’

‘Coventry?’

Thomas nods.

‘Where Riven was bound?’

‘Yes,’ Thomas says. ‘The King thinks the Duke of York will come that way, when he comes from Ireland, so he is there to meet him.’

‘But now we are here, behind him. He will have to do something about that, won’t he?’

‘I suppose so,’ Thomas admits.

Katherine pulls a face. It is the thought of much more travel.

‘Will we go to them, d’you think, or will they come to us?’ she asks.

Thomas doesn’t know.

‘Perhaps we’ll meet halfway?’ he says. ‘It is all supposed to depend on tomorrow, and that if the aldermen of London close their gates to us, then we are sunk. Geoffrey says Warwick and March won’t be able to borrow any money from the merchants there to buy us food or pay their liege men to keep in the field any longer.’

The following day men on horseback ride constantly through the camp, coming up from London with messages from the Mayor and the aldermen of the city, taking them back from the Earls of Warwick and March. By the next morning something has been settled, and the Earls appear at daybreak wearing their finest clothes, and they make ready to lead the army across the bridge into London.

The sense of relief is everywhere.

‘The townspeople have welcomed us,’ Sir John explains as they roll down the hill. ‘But by Christ it was a close-run thing.’

‘And what about the King’s men?’ Katherine wonders. ‘Surely they must fight?’

‘There are few enough of them left, and those that remain are expected to run, save perhaps Lord Scales, who has retreated to the Tower.’

Even as they pass through the fields outside Southwark they hear a distinct crack in the distance. Everybody flinches. After their experience at Sandwich, the men all fear the sound of guns, even Simon the braggart. A tiny finger of smoke erupts from the battlements above the donjon of the White Tower away down the river.

‘What is that?’

‘Lord Scales is firing on the city,’ Sir John says. ‘He always was mad.’

Even Walter is shocked.

‘That’s not right,’ he says. ‘He’ll be made to pay for that.’