‘Came through a ford up the way,’ he laughs. ‘Unguarded it was. Old Fauconberg’s a fox. He’s riding up the north road with his lances and hobilars now, chasing after the rest of those bastards.’

Ahead the fields are grey with snow. The wind gusts in their faces. Thomas feels nothing but dread. He should not go any further: none of them should. Nothing good waits for them. Of that he is sure.

‘Well,’ the Welshman says. ‘We’ve got to get moving at any rate. A village called Saxton. Up there somewhere. Hastings’s orders.’

‘How far is it?’ Thomas asks.

‘Three or four leagues?’ the Welshman guesses.

Thomas turns and studies the army filtering across the cinch of the bridge.

‘What about the wagons?’

‘They’re to come through the ford.’

‘So we didn’t need to take this bridge at all,’ Thomas says.

Across the river, through the trees, they can see men digging burial pits in the fields.

‘No,’ the Welshman says.

They watch the men digging for a while, and the priest shivering by the graveside.

‘Got any sons?’ the Welshman asks.

Thomas shakes his head.

The Welshman grunts.

‘Lucky,’ he says. ‘I’ve got two girls; Kate and Katherine, named after their mother. I used to want boys, you know? I used to imagine how that would be. Doing this kind of thing together. But now, maybe, maybe it is better not to. They’d only end up like that.’

He gestures across the river and Thomas nods and then they turn and join the road where the column is moving north through the slush. As they go trumpets sound and drums are taken up, and all around them captains do their best to organise and encourage the men who move slowly, with cramped and weary expressions on dirty faces. They follow the road northwards to the village of Saxton, and arrive in the dark. No wagons have caught them up, so they face a night without food or shelter, and while the captains cram themselves into the church and the surrounding houses, the men are left without.

Before curfew Thomas strides to the edge of the village to relieve himself. Men are gathered there, doing the same thing, staring northwards, to where the sky is tinged orange with the light of a thousand fires.

‘It’ll be tomorrow then,’ one of them says. ‘So say your prayers and get some sleep.’

Thomas lays his head on his ledger under the eaves of a nearby cottage, and prays. He prays for Katherine and Sir John. He prays for himself. He prays he will find Riven and that he will not lack the courage to fight him, or his giant. He prays that he will not lack the courage to kill both.