He thinks back to the moment he first saw Riven, when he first saw Katherine. He thinks of their time in Calais, and then the summer at Marton Hall. He thinks of the hills in Wales, and that week in the inn in Brecon. He thinks of Walter, and of Dafydd and Geoffrey, and all the Johns. He thinks of the Dean. Of Margaret. And now it is over. He will never avenge any of them now.

He swings the ledger back over his shoulder and unplugs the bill from the sloppy earth.

He stands.

He will at least die on his feet.

And then from behind him comes the sound of trumpets, faint, distant, thin. He turns. Along the road is a mass of men coming through the snow, grey and indistinguishable at this distance. There is a lull, infinitesimal, a let-up in the constant clash of steel as men turn to face the new arrivals.

‘It’s the White Lion!’ a man shouts. ‘It’s the Duke of bloody Norfolk! Blessed be God!’

It is the men that boy had been waiting for, his father among them. There is a surging cheer along the ranks of King Edward’s men as the news spreads, and Fauconberg’s men are heartened and they rejoin the line with renewed vigour. Men in blue and white run past him, hurrying to wade back into the fight, hurrying to hold the line.

‘On! On! A Fauconberg! A Norfolk!’

The new contingent in red livery is fast. They join King Edward’s line at its eastern end, up by the marshes, and they crash into the northerners’ line, and for the first time that day, the northerners are forced to take a step back. They step back over the bodies of the men they’ve killed and over those who’ve died to buy them their advance. Their left flank, previously grounded on the boggy marshland beyond the road, is now overwhelmed by Norfolk’s men, fresh to the fight, and soon the battle lines are canted around, so that they run from north to south, and it is the northerners’ turn to call on their reserves to shore up their wavering wing.

Thomas is breathing more easily, and he gathers himself. He feels redeemed. Released. He must return to find Riven. But now he cannot get to the front for the press of these new men; he can no longer see Riven’s flag above their helmeted heads and the forest of their bills and spears, and the fighting is slowly moving away. He follows it, stumbling in its wake where between the corpses the ground is an ankle-deep soup of blood and snow, and every man is coated in it, so that liveries are not easily distinguishable.

The line is slowly advancing.