He peers forward. On the other side of the river the defenders’ wall is like that of a castle, and the only way to get to them is across the narrow span of the bridge, now broken again. He sees the beauty of it. It hardly matters how many troops King Edward musters on this side of the bank because it can only ever come down to a front no wider than six men abreast. And before this front can engage with the enemy, they will have to endure withering volleys of arrows from both left and right. Even the dead on the bridge have now become an obstacle. The only hope is that the enemy will run out of arrows.

Some men-at-arms now start out towards the bridge, a small phalanx of them, heads down against the expected arrow storm. They move down the road stepping over the bodies, huddling close. There are about fifteen, twenty of them, household men, Thomas supposes, wearing Warwick’s livery but probably Fitzwalter’s men. They shuffle their feet in small steps, each man’s knee in the back of the man in front’s knee. They pass the first cart, then another. No arrow fire. They are nearly at the line of the trees now, almost on the bridge. Still no arrows.

The formation negotiates the first hurdle of the dead men, and still no arrows. They open and close around a wounded man who is still crawling, trying to grab the legs and ankles of anyone near enough to help him. Still no arrows. Then they start up the stonework of the bridge, weaving their way through the course of barrels and timbers to the pile of dead and wounded men. Here their formation must loosen.

Thomas hisses to the other archer, who is still clutching his bow.

‘Come on,’ he whispers. ‘Get ready.’

The archer ignores him. He is beyond anything now. Thomas slithers to his feet, nocks an arrow and waits.

There are still no arrows as the men near the central span, stepping up, stepping down, and now there are gaps in their armoured wall. Then, on the far bank, someone shouts an order and there is a flurry of movement. Heads bob, arms rise, bows appear above the walls and the arrows come. They flicker across the waters, so slight and lithe in flight, and yet so heavy.

Thomas closes his ears to the sounds of the men on the bridge for it is too terrible to hear. Arrowheads crack into them from close range, and from such a distance, few stand a chance, no matter how well their armour is fluted or tempered. The first is knocked off his feet. The second is thrown clattering over the lip of the bridge. Another crumples and trips those behind. A fifth and then a sixth fall and instantly those at the back are clumsily retreating. Men are staggering under the hammer blows of the arrows.