Thomas ducks around the tree to loose his own arrow, sending it to vanish through a small space in the jumble of timbers. He imagines he can hear it thump into the glimpse of white livery wool. He nocks and looses again, a snatched shot that makes the string on his bow ring like a bell. His arrow finds a mark, a man standing, taking great care with his own aim. The arrow hits him in the throat, jerks him backwards and he’s gone. Thomas turns and draws again, loosing from the other side of the tree. He watches his shaft fade into the grey sky above the fortifications on the far bank, and is drawing again when an arrow buzzes past his nose.

He slips behind the trunk and waits.

After a long moment it is all over. None of the men make it off the bridge and by the time the last falls, the crowd has stopped cheering and the only sound is a wounded man whimpering with pain and the sough of the bare branches of the willows as they float in the wind.

There is a loud laugh from the far bank.

Thomas slumps to the ground. He can smell cooking, his own sweat, the dankness of the river, the archer by the other tree, and blood. Moments wear by: the sky lightens; the cold creeps into his bones through his sodden jack. He dare hardly move now for attracting the attention of the enemy archers. His stomach aches with hunger and his mouth is gummy for want of ale. He needs to relieve himself.

Behind him he can see men organising themselves again. Someone has taken command. The archers have spread in a line, two or three deep. Behind them some haggling is going on. Plate is being swapped, and passed up to those at the front. Threats and money are being exchanged. There is going to be another push across the bridge.

Thomas feels for his arrow shafts. He has five left. The archer behind the next tree is asleep or dead.

After a few moments the men-at-arms set off again, the same formation as before, down the road, stepping over bodies, each with his hand on the shoulder of the man in front. Their heads are bowed, backs braced, hammers and axes held upright as if they might afford some protection. He does not think Sir John is among them. One man has a flag he does not recognise.