‘Kill only those of a noble stamp,’ he shouts above the noise of the rain. ‘Kill only those in harness under their own banner. You may kill as many dukes and earls and lords as your hearts desire, and for each death, you will find yourself handsomely rewarded. Kill them all, kill them all, save those persons who fight under the banner of Sir Edmund Grey of Ruthyn. Do not harm him or his. The men of Ruthyn fight in red coats and are distincted by their ragged-staff badge, which is similar to my lord of Warwick’s save that while his device is white, the men of Ruthyn carry a grey-coloured staff. Spare these men where it can be helped.’

‘As if we’ll get the chance to spare a soul,’ Walter says.

So that is what last night’s rider was about. His token was not Warwick’s but Ruthyn’s. What does it mean though? He turns to Walter to ask, but Walter is just then sick, throwing up his ale in a welter of bile. A vintenar along the way tosses a handful of grass in the air, watching where it falls. The wind is negligible, the rain heavy, and the grass falls swiftly to the ground.

‘Just let’s get on with it,’ Walter says, wiping his mouth. His eyes are bloodshot. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

But there are further delays. Fauconberg turns his horse and holds his hand out to check on the rain. Behind him, on the plain below them in front of the King’s position, Warwick Herald and a party that includes the Archbishop of Canterbury are riding back from the enemy lines across the meadow.

‘We have time for a prayer,’ Fauconberg continues and he dismounts and passes his horse’s reins to a page. He kneels in the mud and a priest appears alongside and the rest of the men fall to their knees too and together they begin the paternoster. When they’ve finished a trumpet blows in the middle of Warwick’s battle. Fauconberg turns and faces the rain and the enemy, then raises his arm and holds his battle hammer high. Men make their last signs of the cross and lower visors.

Another trumpet.

And Fauconberg drops his arm.

The men surge forward, armour and weaponry clinking and scraping as they go. A first man slips in the grass; another follows. The line sags and wavers and they’ve only gone ten paces before another slips, his feet taken from under him, and yet another. Now the line buckles. Weapons are dropped. Picked up. Carried on. Thomas digs his heels into the soft earth and Black John behind has to use his shoulder to stop himself sliding down the hill.

Walter has forgotten his duties as vintenar and is mumbling prayers.

‘Keep a line!’ Geoffrey shouts in his stead. ‘Keep steady there. Steady, lads. Forget the guns. Forget them.’