‘We could always hang a couple,’ Jenny supposes.

‘There is that,’ Fitzwalter agrees. ‘Anyway, I’ve sent word to Warwick explaining the position, and tomorrow the whole host’ll be here, so we’ll not want for reinforcements then.’

Sir John looks doubtful but Jenny yawns.

‘Nothing will happen until the morning anyway,’ he says. ‘So we need not fret.’

It turns out Jenny is almost right.

The first Thomas hears of it is running feet and a man crashing through the tent flap. It is still dark, well before cockcrow, and the watch fire is low. The man falls to his knees and spits blood on Fitzwalter’s sheepskin. Fitzwalter levers himself up and for a moment does not know where he is.

‘Come,’ is all the wounded man will say, pointing over his shoulder. He grips Fitzwalter’s leg and spits more blood through broken teeth. His fingers are a mass of blood too and he is shaking dark drops of it on the yellow pelt. A guard comes running and catches the wounded man by the shoulder.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he tells Walter. ‘Too fast for me.’

‘Come!’ the wounded man splutters again, and points towards the river.

They hear more shouts, the scrape of weapons, and a distant bellow of rage or pain. The guard hesitates, looks to Fitzwalter. Thomas rolls to his knees. More shouts.

‘What is this?’ Jenny barks from his blankets. Sir John is raised on his elbows, opening and closing his mouth, his cap gone, his white hair on end.

‘God damn it!’ Fitzwalter roars. ‘If those bastards are at it again!’

He surges to his feet and snatches the pollaxe from the guard and storms out of the tent. He does not even bother to put on his coat, let alone his jack or any plate. Jenny follows, likewise underdressed. The guard drags the wounded man away, promising to kill him.

The tent returns to silence. The canvas canopy bows under the weight of snow and an icicle hangs from its centre.

‘Any ale, is there, hmm, Tom?’ Sir John asks. Someone has been evicted to provide for him, and he looks to have slept well, for his eyes are deep in their creases.

Thomas smiles.

‘I’ll find some,’ he says.

‘And a pot, too, would you?’ Sir John goes on. ‘I find I need to piss more often these days.’

In the clearing outside a boy is helping a man scramble into armour. The mud has stiffened underfoot during the night. There is still more shouting from by the river, and the fighting continues. It sounds like more than a couple of companies hitting one another with sticks. An archer comes racing through with a bow and two bags of arrows bouncing on his back.

‘The bloody northerners are back!’ he shouts. ‘Come on. Get your things.’

Thomas ducks back into the tent.