‘There is a rider at the edge of the encampment who bid me give you this token, sir.’

Thomas steps across the rug on the ground to hand it over. Warwick takes it with a wet hand and turns it over a couple of times. A frown gathers on his brow.

‘Who is this man?’ he asks Thomas.

‘He will not say his name.’

Warwick grunts.

‘Wait for me.’

He stands up, letting the hot water cascade from his body, and holds his arms out. The servant hurries to rub him with a length of linen.

‘Hurry, man!’

Warwick dries and dresses quickly. He makes Thomas wait, and Thomas stands and has to watch him as he slides into his travelling cloak and riding boots. Thomas has never seen a man so full of energy, so certain in all that he does, and there is a sort of concentrated ferocity in the way he moves.

When he is ready he steps out into the night, clicking his fingers and gesturing to the guards to bring a lantern. Thomas says nothing as he leads Warwick back through the camp.

When he reaches the picket, the rider has dismounted but Thomas still can’t see his face. Warwick moves forward and speaks to him, and after a moment the two men shake hands.

‘Right,’ Walter says. ‘Another tour of the camp. Come on.’

They set off again and by the time they are back, the stranger has left and there is no one to say what has happened. By dawn the rain has stopped. Thomas sits next to Red John on the earthwork and they drink their ale in silence. The bushes are thick with birds and their song is loud in the air. A wagon comes into the clearing, one wheel wobbling, loaded with barrels of ale. It is pulled by four oxen. Another follows, then another.

So Walter is right, Thomas thinks. For all the ambassadors and overtures that Warwick and March are sending to King Henry and the Duke of Buckingham, they know it will come to a fight, and now here it is, the ale the men will need to insulate themselves against the horrors of the day to come.

He slips off the earthworks. If there is any ale going, he wants to be in there early. He takes a full mug from the woman and retires to the bank again. Richard Fakenham appears, the first time he’s seen him walking without help since his accident. He steps gingerly, like his father, as if he does not quite trust his feet to hold him up, and behind his new black beard, his face is pinched with pain. He wants to speak to Thomas.

‘What was that token the messenger gave you last night, Thomas?’ he asks.

‘It was a ragged staff, I thought.’

‘Did Warwick recognise it when you gave it to him?’

‘I don’t think so. I think he was confused, to begin with.’