‘Up.’ Thomas bends and hauls him to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘The wind is with us. God is with us. Didn’t you hear the priest? If we can just get our shots off, we’ll live to tell our grandchildren of this day.’

Perers stares at him. Blood and snot leak from his nostril. There is a long moment, before Perers nods and smears his lip. Thomas nods too, then picks up the lad’s new bow and passes it to him. His own hands have stopped trembling.

Grylle has turned his horse. Facing them, he has to shield his eyes from the snow.

‘We’ll carry on to within a bowshot,’ he shouts. ‘Then loose a ranging shot.’

The archers understand. They are touching their weapons, their helmets, what armour they have. They tighten the points on their jacks, buckle belts, finger rosaries. They begin settling themselves, taking deep breaths. Those with the sense or experience to have kept something back to drink do so now, tipping their heads quickly. Thomas settles the ledger in the small of his back. It is a comforting weight, but still an unwanted burden.

Then they begin forward again. They start stretching their shoulders, rolling their arms over. Thomas nocks an arrow and keeps walking: twenty paces, thirty, forty. All the while he hunches and relaxes his shoulders, gently easing the string back, flexing the big-bellied bow, trying to get some life into the frozen wood. He makes a hundred unconscious calculations as to the wind’s strength, its direction, the way it gusts. He thinks about the snow, the flurries. He thinks about the field. He looks for advantage, for disadvantage, for anything that might influence the course of the day to come.

The plateau is not flat, but tilted slightly, from the east down to the west, and from the north down to the south. He can see what looks like a stand of trees away across to his left, and there seems to be nothing beyond, as if the ground drops away, down into a river valley, perhaps.

Thomas sees how well the northerners have chosen their spot. The valley protects their flank, and there will be no chance of Fauconberg’s riders turning them as they had done at the bridge the day before. He wonders if there are any bridges over the river, or if the northerners have broken them down as a precaution.

And there ahead, arranged in deep ranks across the high ground, is the mass of the enemy archers, scarcely visible in the snow.

What must they be thinking? This morning they’d been in the perfect position, almost unassailable, with the wind at their backs and a falling slope at their feet. They’d have been wondering how they could lose. But now?

‘Here!’ Grylle calls.

They are now within a long bowshot of the enemy.