They turn and walk north, up the slope to the crest, where the wind picks up. On the other side the land drops steeply into a valley. The path follows it down, bent like scissor handles, until it straightens out to run alongside a dark line in the snow that must be a river.

‘Come on,’ Thomas says and they set off down through the snow, still walking as the horses pick their way down behind them. They reach the river, frozen over in parts, rushing in others, and they follow it eastwards, travelling all that day. Katherine rides side-saddle on Margaret’s horse, and finds she likes it.

‘You look proper, up there,’ Thomas observes. ‘Well, you would if you were in a dress.’

Katherine does not say anything. She has not said a word since the morning. All around, the land is deserted. They do not even see a sheep until towards late afternoon when it is getting dark and they make out a smudge of smoke above a pair of cottages in the distance. Then there are more houses, and next a small town. They stop at the first cottage and an old man agrees to sell them bread and when Thomas makes the mistake of letting him see the weight of Margaret’s purse, his old eyes deepen in his head. He invites them to sit by his fire and they tear at the bread with filthy hands while the man’s wife fetches ale.

While they sit, another man joins them, and then another. Neither speaks. They just stare. The atmosphere deepens. Thomas can imagine how this will end.

‘Ought to see to the horses, Kit,’ he says, standing suddenly, hauling her to her feet before the three men can gather themselves. They hurry outside and haul themselves up into their saddles just as two more men come running.

They ride hard, following the path alongside a river brimming in its banks until they join a proper road. It takes them through some roughly marked furlongs and stone pens where sheep bleat in the settling gloom. The horses are tired though, and cannot run for long. When the road fords the river, Thomas reins in.

‘Christ,’ he says.

They stare at the river’s roiling black surface. Across it they can hear the bells in the town ringing for compline. Thomas turns. Along the road are five Welshmen.

‘If I had my bow,’ Thomas says, ‘even with just those five arrows I could stop this.’

He sees another man join them with a bow and an arrow already nocked. He watches him draw and for a moment cannot believe it. The arrow hums past, its fletch buzzing where it has not been properly set. It disappears into the water beyond with a loud plock.