Then the rest of the line, all of them, stand as one, staring, mouths open as the real miracle occurs.

The banner above the priest flaps, once, twice, and then it twists on its lance and, unbelievably, it slowly swings on its hoops, turning from the south, to the west, and then all the way around to the north, where the wind picks it up again, and it becomes a finger, pointing northwards, pointing towards the enemy. Showing them which way to go.

And the flags all along the battle slowly turn on their lances to join it.

The wind has turned.

‘It’s a miracle!’ the Welshman shouts. He seizes Thomas and shakes him. ‘A bloody miracle!’

And now the priest is on his feet shouting and gesturing to the flags. No one can hear him for the din of men in armour and the roar of voices. Instantly Grylle is there, thundering up from the flank to take new orders. There is a surge of energy in the ranks. Men seem to forget their hunger, their thirst, the filthy snow. All they can think about now is how the wind will carry their arrows further than the enemies’.

‘This won’t be so bloody bad,’ the Welshman says. ‘We can fucking win this!’

But how long will the wind last?

‘Come on,’ Thomas finds himself muttering. ‘Come on! Advance, damn you! While the wind is with us.’

Drums ripple into life. Pipes pipe up. Trumpets signal. More messengers canter to and fro across the front. The archers are impatient, trying to press forward.

‘Come on,’ someone shouts. ‘Come on!’

But the wind only seems to freshen on their backs and the snow only seems to thicken, and Grylle is back, stopped in front of them and turning his horse so that all they can see is its powerful rump and dressed tail. He raises a hand and checks along the line where more officers in Fauconberg’s livery are stationed, about a hundred paces apart from one another.

They drop their hands as one, and as one the men start up the slope.

37

AS THEY BREACH the ridge, they are able to see across the plateau for the first time, and the line comes to a rippling stop. A man pushes into Thomas’s back.

‘Piss and vinegar,’ someone murmurs.

There must be twenty thousand of them, standing in deep ranks, divided into three battles. They are standing on the higher ground, under their banners and flags, and they are shouting and crashing their weapons together.

Thomas feels his bowels liquefy.

‘Dear God!’ he breathes. Then he tries to imagine what Walter would say. ‘Steady,’ he whispers. Then more loudly: ‘Steady!’

One man turns to run. It is the boy Perers. Thomas flings an arm out, catches him, spins him around. Walter would have punched him. So Thomas does so too: across the face, a backhand to make his knuckles sting. Perers slumps in a twist of limbs.