‘I don’t know,’ Katherine says. ‘I just want to make sure.’

After another few turns they emerge out on to a stone-flagged walkway where the wind ruffles the hair of a barefoot boy in a kilt and a leather jerkin keeping watch on the sea. At the very periphery of the broad sweep of the bay, the little cog is just slipping around the headland into the mists that shroud the western horizon.

Thomas feels a twinge of sadness at their departure. He wonders if the cog master knows about Tudor and his army of Irishmen coming from across the sea. Perhaps he does? Perhaps the wine was destined for Tudor in the first place?

Of the other ship though, the one Katherine believes has followed them, there is no sign. The sea is empty, only a sweep of turbulent blue-grey water, and in the far distance, the doughy bulk of some flat-bottomed clouds bringing more rain.

‘Seen any boats out to sea?’ Thomas asks the boy.

The boy gabbles in his language.

‘We’ll need Dafydd,’ Katherine says.

Thomas peers over into the ward. Dafydd is fending off questions and pats and pinches from a small group of women in rough-sewn kirtles. When Thomas calls down to him about five boys hear their names and look up. Even a dog barks.

While they wait for him to climb the stairs they study the land. The hills here are sodden, fissured with streams, covered in bracken and swathes of vivid green grass. There are stands of wind-twisted hawthorns and small black and white sheep and everything is smudged and mossy.

Dafydd arrives breathless and questions the boy in gasps. The boy confirms the impression that he has seen no ship except the Easterlings’ cog.

‘Says there’s been a storm,’ Dafydd says, glancing at them and raising one eyebrow.

‘Is the girl even here, Dafydd?’ Thomas asks.

‘Oh, she’s here all right,’ Dafydd says.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Katherine asks.

‘Nothing. Nothing. Come on. Let’s go and find her.’

They find Walter two storeys below, in the tapestried hall, warming himself over a slate hearth, drinking ale with Dwnn and a bearded man who can’t speak English. When Dafydd sees them, he continues down the steps, leaving them to go in together. The smoke has stained the rafters above their heads, and the tapestries, rough woollen things, are the colour of peat water. There is ale in a hooped wooden ewer on a round pewter tray and a boy pours them each a cup. Walter is tearing at some bread.

‘Your man is just telling me how it is you came to fall into the company of Dafydd the Sheep-Stealer,’ Dwnn begins. ‘I’d heard about Cornford being killed, of course, but I’d thought he was killed in battle, not murdered.’

‘One of the murderer’s many sins,’ Thomas says. ‘And with God’s grace one of his last.’