They stop in the trees to watch the back of Marton Hall. One end of the roof is scorched and blackened, just as Dafydd’s little house had been, and the yard smells of soot and human waste. The shutters are up, and there are no prints in the snow. It looks deserted. They walk behind the outbuildings and the woven fence until they are at the front of the house. An arrow is buried in the daub by the door. Below it, another body is stretched out in the mud, his feet facing the house, as if thrown from the doorway. His helmet lies some way away and something thick and stubby sticks from his throat. Another crossbow quarrel.

Thomas is about to step out of the trees when she stops him with a hand.

‘Wait,’ she says. She is studying the hall’s rush roof, which is clear of snow, and from which water drips. ‘It means it is warm,’ she says.

Nothing moves, though, and after a moment Thomas gets up again and is about to cross the yard when a shutter in the house drops with a crash and there is a shout. Thomas jumps, throws himself back. A quarrel zips past, catching his sleeve with a bang that almost pulls his arm off. He scrambles back behind a trunk. Katherine is crouched staring at him, her eyes wide.

‘Christ’s sake!’ he breathes, rubbing the wrist. The sleeve is torn to shreds. The crossbow quarrel lies in the snow. ‘Who’s in there?’ he calls. ‘Who are you?’

There is no reply.

‘We come here in peace,’ Thomas shouts again. ‘We are looking for Sir John Fakenham.’

There is the slightest movement in the house. Someone is being cautious.

‘What do you want with him?’ someone shouts from within.

‘We are friends of his,’ Thomas shouts back. ‘We are of his household.’

There is a long silence. Then someone calls:

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Thomas Everingham,’ he shouts. ‘Thomas Everingham and – and Lady Margaret Cornford. I used to live here. We are looking for Sir John Fakenham. Or Richard Fakenham. Or anyone who might know their whereabouts.’

There is another crash. Another shutter slides down.

‘Thomas Everingham?’

The voice is louder now and there is a face between the bars in the upstairs window: white-haired, flabby, red.

‘Sir John?’

‘My boy!’

Sir John disappears. Thomas glances at Katherine. From the house comes a grate as something is dragged across stone flooring and then a deep thunk as the drawbar is slid back. Then the door opens on unoiled hinges and Sir John stands in the shadows, still cautious.

Thomas crosses the yard.

‘Dear God,’ Sir John cries. ‘It really is you.’