Dafydd shrugs. Thomas unconsciously swings his pollaxe so it is nearer to hand. Walter nocks his bow and fishes out an arrow. Farther up the road a bare-legged brewster’s girl is washing out a barrel in the rain. She stops when she sees them and waits with her mouth open. She’s very ugly. She recognises Dafydd and Owen and they talk a moment.

Whatever she tells him, it makes Dafydd gasp.

‘What is it?’ Thomas asks.

‘I don’t believe it! Myvanwy says Jasper Tudor has raised his banner in Pembroke.’

‘Jasper who?’

‘Jasper Tudor,’ Dafydd says. ‘The Earl of bloody Pembroke. He’s raised his banner and is recruiting men to march on London. She says he’s waiting for an army of Irish and Frenchies to come from over the water, from Ireland. Gallowglass and Kerns, and those bastards with guns.’

‘What’s he want with them?’ Walter barks.

‘They’re going to fight for King Henry.’

Walter curses.

‘What about the castle?’ Katherine asks.

Dafydd turns to the girl and speaks urgently.

‘She says the Dwnns are holding it for the Duke of York. That’s why it is boarded.’

They hurry on up through the deserted village until they stand before the castle gatehouse. The drawbridge is raised, presenting them its blank underside, and heads move in the tower and along the boarded battlements above. A moment later and one of the shutters slides open with a bang and a man’s face appears.

‘Name yourselves,’ he shouts.

‘Bloody hell,’ Dafydd mutters. ‘It’s old Gruffydd Dwnn.’

He sidesteps behind Thomas, as if afraid to be seen, and Walter calls back:

‘We’ve come from Lincoln,’ he says. ‘We are of Sir John Fakenham’s household and he has sent us with letters for John Dwnn in the hope of his assistance in a matter of property.’

When Walter is trying to sound formal, he speaks as if he has only recently been taught the language. The man in the window cocks his head. Then he starts speaking Welsh and ends with what sounds like a question. After a moment Dafydd calls back. He is blushing as if he’d been caught out at something. The man in the window barks with laughter and the shutter is drawn up again. More heads appear at the battlements, curious, but they are small, and none wear helmets. Boys, girls, women, peering over. Dafydd waves up at them and shouts something.

The drawbridge comes down with a percussive rattle of heavy chains running through stone eyelets, and the planks boom against the stone bridgehead. Suddenly the air is rich with the smell of horses, damp, mud and rot.