Nevertheless what he says is true: Dafydd has not stopped moaning since they left London. First they had marched north up the Cambridge road, following Lord Fauconberg in search of King Henry and his army that were rumoured to be making for the Isle of Ely in the fenlands. After two days’ travel, never moving faster than the slowest cart, it was discovered that the rumour was false and so Fauconberg stopped them and they waited in the fields by the roadside for news as to where they should go next. Then they’d broken camp and made their way westwards on terrible roads towards the town of Dunstable, in Bedfordshire. Here at least Geoffrey found a new ox for their cart but there was no sign of the King’s army. After another delay while messengers were sent and received, they moved northwards again, up along the old Roman road towards Coventry, but on the way they heard that the King was moving down from Coventry to meet them.

So now they are camped on a rise just off the old road to the south of the town of Northampton, and the Earls of Warwick and March have brought their troops up from London and Kent to join Fauconberg’s, and at last they are ready to meet King Henry’s troops.

‘Settle this thing for once and for all,’ Dafydd says, ‘then we can piss off home, can’t we?’

‘Why are you here at all, Dafydd?’ Thomas asks. ‘I know you’re after a fine suit of armour and that, but how did you come to fall in with Sir John?’

Dafydd tells him how he fought for Lord Cornford, who had land near their home in Wales, but when Cornford was killed at Ludford Bridge, rather than go home to face some trouble he does not want to specify, he joined Sir John Fakenham’s company, also of Cornford’s retinue.

‘Happenstance, see?’

Thomas grunts. Happenstance. That was the force which seemed to guide them all: him, Katherine, the pardoner, Sir John, Dafydd. All of them save the Earl of Warwick, who seemed to bend the forces of destiny to his own will.

Time passes. The rain continues and in the camp someone throws more wood on a fire and sparks rise above the pointed roofs of the tents. Walter arrives through the darkness with a fresh tallow lantern. He is bristling with anger.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Come on, you idle bastards, up! Up you get! Come on. We’ve rounds to make.’

The men get to their feet and find their spears wet in the grass. They follow Walter swinging his light, Dafydd bringing up the rear with his own. Henry’s greaves squeak as he walks.

‘Get some bloody oil on them, will you?’ Walter grumbles. ‘That noise goes right through me.’