No one on the southern bank of the river moves. It is as if they are frozen. Arrows flit from north to south still, and after a moment a lightly armoured man struggles up from the river, water streaming from his creases, only to be sent bowling by an arrow from the opposite bank.

As morning gives way to the afternoon they try two more attempts. Each fares worse than the last. There are too many bodies on the bridge now, blocking the way. Each attack Thomas watches from his vantage point in silence.

Farther back Warwick keeps turning his horse around. His nerves are evident for all to see. Around him men are standing as if resigned to failure. There is no food being passed around, no drink, and men’s faces are dabs the colour of old linen. Starving, frozen, halted by a river crossing they cannot force, confronted by the sight of hundreds of their fellows lying dead in the snow, and with only the prospect of the long march home through an empty countryside, who could be blamed for wishing to be elsewhere?

And now the wind is picking up, gathering weight. Pale clouds scud overhead. King Edward looks up and all of a sudden he is young again, too young for this sort of thing, and Warwick, well, he’s ridden from one battle, hasn’t he? And lost another. Who can put their faith in him now? And he is still on horseback, isn’t he? As if ready for the flight. Would he stay if the northerners came over the bridge now? Or would he fight with his heels again?

A long moment follows. There is no plan for this and Thomas is conscious that in this moment, everything hangs in the balance. Men are stepping back from the fight; some have even turned to look for their horses. More will go soon, and if one goes, then they all will. This is the moment when something must happen.

And it does. Warwick pushes his horse forward into the clearing at the head of the road so that all can see him. He stands in his stirrups for a moment, holding up his sword. Now he has the attention of every man who can see him, and the ears of those who cannot. He is looking about as if coming to some decision of his own.

‘My lords!’ he cries. ‘My lords! Let those who wish to fly, fly. But let those who wish to tarry, tarry here with me!’