‘Have no fear, my boy,’ he says. ‘I’ve been in worse binds than this. So long as God is on our side, and He is, then we shall prevail. Besides, we are coming to join you. And look at us! An old man, a blind man, a woman and a single archer, though he is a good one, mind. What more could you need?’

Sir John laughs. No one else does. They ride up towards the crest of a hill together, and the captain asks Katherine what she is doing, riding to war.

‘I am with William Hastings’s retinue,’ she tells him. ‘I am to attend to the wounded.’

The captain looks askance.

‘You are some sort of barber surgeon?’ he asks.

‘Of course not,’ she tells him, ‘but after the battle by Mortimer’s Cross this last Candlemas I extracted arrowheads from many a man’s body and stitched many a wound. I can staunch blood, apply salves, tie bandages as well as any man. Better, in fact.’

Sir John raises his eyebrows but the captain is charmed.

‘Well, you’ll have your work cut out, mistress,’ he says. ‘Look.’

They have crested the hill and in the valley, following the old road north through the distant trees, is the long line of men and wagons. It stretches from one snow-filled horizon to the other.

They rein in their horses and watch for a long moment.

‘What is it?’

This is from Richard. The captain turns and stares at him, then turns away again and crosses himself.

‘It is the new King’s army,’ Katherine tells him. ‘They are riding north, so many of them as you would not believe. There are thousands. Thousands and thousands. With wagons and horses and God knows what else.’

‘Any cannons?’ Richard asks.

‘I can’t see any. Perhaps they will come towards the rear of the train?’

‘Like young Kit,’ Sir John goes on, turning in his saddle. ‘Remember him, Richard? He could see for miles and miles, couldn’t he? Saved us a scrape or two. That time we nearly attacked old Warwick’s ship in the Narrow Sea. And didn’t you say that time at Newnham . . .?’ He tails off. A wind is getting up, shaking the alder branches above them, hustling the sleet. ‘Anyway,’ he says, pulling his cloak around his chin. ‘A good lad, and much missed.’

Thomas watches Katherine as she tries to find the right expression to meet this remark. In other circumstances he might almost laugh at her discomfort, but not today, not here, sitting on his horse, watching the column of Fauconberg’s men winding through the bare crowns of the trees with the wind in his face. The captain of the picket leaves them with a salute and spurs his horse down the incline. His men follow.

‘Come on,’ Sir John says after they’ve watched them go. ‘Let’s find old Hastings then, shall we?’