The next morning it is bitterly cold, and the sky is rose-coloured, fretted with fine white cloud. The bells are ringing for Mass but the air is filled with the clink and shunt of men gathering with sharp-edged weapons. Some are drinking ale in hard swallows, others telling jokes and laughing nervously. They compare pieces of equipment, swords, hammers, axes, helmets and harness. Still others are huddled blowing on their hands in front of the fires. The stink, even in the icy air, is strong: unwashed bodies in wet wool, coal smoke, hot grindstones, vinegar and the smog of their breath. And above it all is the smell of nerves, of fear, of anticipation.

When Mass is over Hastings and March and the other commanders emerge from the chapel; they are clutching candles. They congregate at the doorway for a moment and later when Hastings sees Thomas, he is still holding a candle but now has a fold of cloth.

‘You will wear my livery today?’ he asks, offering the cloth to Thomas. ‘I should like you to be with me.’

Thomas swallows. Of all the things he’d rather not do, to take the field is among them. But now here is Hastings, a man whom he might well call a friend when almost all his others are dead, asking a favour.

‘Gladly,’ he says, taking the cloth, feeling the plinth of the black bull’s head badge. ‘Though I am hardly prepared for it, and I must look to Lady Margaret.’

‘Ah. And where is she now? Recovered, I hope?’ Hastings gestures up at the keep.

‘I have yet to see her this morning.’

‘Does she have any family to speak of?’ Hastings asks. ‘I knew Cornford, of course. A good man. She looks more like her mother, I’d say, though in truth I never met her. She was supposed to be frail, wasn’t she? Died after childbirth.’

Thomas nods, though he hardly knows. Hastings scratches the side of his nose with the candle.

‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘Interesting.’

He is silent for a long moment, plunged in thought.

‘Here,’ he says at length. ‘Take this as well.’

He passes Thomas the candle.

A clarion player tries to blow a call but it is too cold to purse his lips and the noise comes out as a curious squeal. Men laugh. Thomas looks at the candle.

‘Candlemas,’ Hastings explains. ‘Today. Time flies, no?’

He walks off leaving Thomas with the candle and the livery coat.