He rides on towards Edward’s banner and soon through the mist he sees Tudor’s army. It is spread across the meadows five or six hundred paces away, bulking out, moving slowly up, accompanied by the usual din of drums and pipes. Flags are hoisted above their heads, and there are men in green and white livery but most are in brown and russet. Thomas shields his eyes from the low sun and he searches for Riven’s flag, or men of his livery.

He has no idea what he’ll do if he sees them. He knows he cannot fight the giant or even Edmund Riven, not now, not this day, but still, when he can see no one in Riven’s white livery, he feels the loss.

But then, he wonders, where are they? Where would they have gone? Would Tudor – or whoever claimed their free-floating loyalty – have been able to force the giant to fight? Forced Edmund Riven to mount up and ride into battle? Or having lost those men yesterday, would they have absented themselves? Gone back to Cornford Castle.

He thinks of Cornford. Thinks of Marton Hall.

He is before the first battle now, and turns and rides across its front. Men stare at up at him, and he cannot help but look back at them, their pale faces, some so young. At the centre is Edward, Earl of March, the new Duke of York, standing under his banner, moving his arms, jumping on the spot to keep warm. Around him are his best men, hard-faced veterans with axes, pikes, billhooks and hammers, all well harnessed. They stand waiting for Tudor to make a move, their hands changing grip on the shafts of their weapons, tongues running across lips, all heads turned slightly to March, waiting to take their lead from him.

Edward turns to him.

‘Everingham,’ he says.

‘My lord,’ Thomas says, but the sun is shining in his eyes. He raises his hand to block it, but finds he cannot. He needs his forearm. He is confused. Something is wrong. Instead of one sun, there are three. Each casts a halo of golden light.

‘Well?’ March asks. ‘You have a message?’

Thomas says nothing, He is too confused. He points.

‘Look,’ he says. March turns to look. He turns and he too raises his arm against the suns. Thomas notices he is casting three shadows on the frosted ground, just as if he were standing before three altar candles. Around him the soldiers start to turn, and do likewise, all with their arms up, peering into the light in the east.

‘God’s blood!’ March mutters, turning to a man next to him. ‘What in the name of Jesus is that?’

The man has no reply.

‘Anyone? Will no one tell me why in God’s name are there three suns!’