Neither of the dead men falls. They are held upright by the press of bodies. They are pushed forward, chest plate to chest plate. Thomas seizes his glaive and wrenches it free, but another man throws himself forward and crashes something on to his helmet.

Dear God.

The blow rips down the side of his head, glancing off his shoulder. He is paralysed by the pain. He can hear himself lowing like a bull. He wants to die. He stares down the length of a bill’s shaft. A whiskered old man is coming at him. He has a long spike and his eyes are red with fury. Then Thomas’s glaive comes free. He endures the pain, thrusts his own blade into the man’s face, feels it bite, nag at something, rip free. He stabs again, grinding the blade into the old man’s face. He can feel the blade in the hole behind his nose. He jerks at it, turning the old man.

Blood is everywhere, like rainwater. It mixes with the snow. It rises as steam from the ground.

How many men does Thomas strike? How many does he kill? He cannot say. There are always, always more. His fingers are ringing with pain, and at last he can stand it no more. His strength ebbs so suddenly that one moment he is slashing at a man in a green and white livery, and the next he can hardly raise his newfound hammer to break a clumsy blow from a farmer’s bill. Then he feels himself being plucked from behind, roughly shouldered out of the way, and thrust backwards. All he can do is obey, follow where he is sent. He lurches away, every ounce of will drained.

One of the sergeants is there, standing among the bodies of dying men, the same one who’d thrust him into the line.

‘Get some ale,’ he shouts, grabbing another man and forcing him up to the front. ‘And get back here!’

Away from the fighting his body rings. He is deafened by the noise; his arms vibrate from the tip of his numb fingers to his shoulders; his back burns; and the blood of other men is mixed with sweat to sting his eyes. His legs are shaking, and when he drops the hammer his fingers remain curled, and the ale woman has to press the greasy leather beaker into his hand.

He drinks. Ale courses down his cheeks and his neck. It runs down his chest under his jack. He doesn’t care. He wants to drown in it, to let it fill his mouth and throat.

He holds the cup out again and the ale woman splashes in more watery ale.

He drinks; then the ale woman takes the cup and passes it to another man, pressing it into his hands also. The man remains blank-eyed, his gaze fixed on the distance. Blood trickles from his helmet. He drinks just as Thomas has done.