Fitzwalter’s men in their blue livery jackets are across the bridge, on the river’s far bank, burning a broken cart for warmth. The flames are beautiful in the gloom, flaring and leaping, and the column of smoke rises crow-black and silent against the late-afternoon sky.

‘What river is this, anyone?’ Sir John asks.

No one has any idea. It is about fifty paces wide, strong-flowing, fringed by snow-laden poplars and willows. The bridge across is stone-built, wide enough for a man and a cart, with low parapets supported by a succession of broad arches and at the far end a chantry chapel. Halfway across, though, the enemy have levered the stones apart and broken two of the spans.

‘But why did they not hold the crossing?’ Sir John asks again, nodding at the far bank. ‘Makes no sense, unless they’re drawing us further into a trap, but, Lord, aren’t we already in one?’

‘And if they wanted to do that, why break the bridge in the first place?’ Thomas asks.

Sir John grunts and rests a foot on the low stone wall. A breeze is picking up. It is hard to tell if it will snow again tonight or in the morning. Possibly both. The land beyond the river fades into the sombre distance and just to look at it is to feel cold.

‘He’s there,’ Sir John mutters. ‘I can feel it in my bones, you know? Him and his bastard stinking son. That goddamned giant. This time we’ll find them, Thomas. This time we’ll make them pay for what they’ve done.’

Thomas can only feel the cold and the bruise of having said goodbye to Katherine so badly. He shivers and stamps his boots. He is thinking he must find Hastings first, to tell him he is there, and to take up his responsibilities, but Sir John is adamant.

‘Hastings can wait until tomorrow. Come on. Let’s go and find young Fitzwalter, shall we? See if he’s got anything to warm us.’

Thomas Fitzwalter is one of those big men, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, with an unfashionable black beard, and in the umber light of the flames he looks like a piece of seasoned hardwood.

‘Fitzwalter!’ Sir John booms when he sees him.

Fitzwalter steps back.

‘By all the saints, Fakenham! Sir! What’re you doing here?’

The two men clasp one another and kiss. Fitzwalter is half Sir John’s age, but he was born old, with all the certainty and the knowledge of the right thing to say and when to say it, and the two of them square up as old friends.

‘And look at you,’ Fitzwalter goes on. ‘God damn it! You’re walking properly. What’s happened to the old fistula?’

‘Had it cut!’ Sir John announces, as proudly as if he’d done it himself. ‘By my surgeon. Completely cured.’