They turn and run, Thomas with them, bunching up and streaming back across the field towards the gaps left between the battles of Edward’s men-at-arms. He is spent, weak as a kitten, his arms and back afire. For a moment he can hear nothing above Edward’s men roaring and bellowing and banging their weapons as they advance against the oncoming northerners. Trumpets shriek and drums thunder and everywhere men are shouting their cries for Warwick or Fauconberg, but the mass of them are shouting out for King Edward, and above all other flags and banners, it is the King’s standard that draws the eye. Under it is the huge figure of Edward himself, wielding a pollaxe as if it is a toy, a mere stick, and all around him his men are hurrying forward to meet the enemy.

Soon Thomas is in among the men-at-arms and then he is through the lines, where the archers are wild, savage with the glee of having survived. They are roaring with laughter, suddenly very physical, hugging one another, kissing one another, thumping one another, congratulating themselves on a thing done well. Every man is steaming, as if on fire, but they’ve suffered not one casualty. Not one.

The archery duel is over, and there is no question which side has carried it.

But the laughter stops and each man is silent as back up the slope the two lines meet. The din is a savage rippling crash, the shriek of steel sliding against steel and the drumming thunder of a thousand hammers falling on their fellows.

Now the ale has arrived, dragged up the slope from the village on the beds of three wagons pulled by teams of six long-horned oxen, and there are fires being lit. Ale and bread and soup, chilled and viscous, better than anything Thomas has ever tasted, drunk from his helmet. Men are letting ale pour down their chins and into their clothes, laughing again. One ale woman has fists bigger than Thomas’s, and in one of them she carries a stout club with which to keep order. She opens the spigots on the barrels but keeps her gaze fixed on the hillside behind them, ever alive to the sway of the fighting, knowing that she’ll never see another dawn if it goes badly.

Thomas gulps his ale and tears at his hard black bread. Christ, it is good. John Perers appears at his side, looking crafty, pleased with himself. He has to raise his voice above the noise of the fighting and the shouting men, the constant wall of noise that rolls back from the front like a physical force.

‘Saw that flag o’ yours,’ he shouts.

Thomas lurches, pours away his ale, puts aside the bread. Takes Perers’s elbow.

‘You did?’

‘Think so. Not sure. With the snow and that.’

‘Where?’

‘That way, up the slope.’