Those who fight for Henry of Lancaster are being beaten back by those who fight for Edward of York. Thomas follows, through tumuli of bodies creaking where wounded struggle to escape.

And then through the swirling snow he glimpses Riven’s flag again, he is sure of it. It is farther back, and he pushes forward. He tries to get between the broad backs of Norfolk’s men, but their number is too great, and the resistance of the northerners too fierce.

They fight on, and the quality of light in the sky changes, and it is now nearer the eve than the morning; for the first time in the day it seems the King’s men might have the numbers, and the balance of battle is weighing in their favour.

And now there is a great cry. A roar that surges around Thomas.

‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’

Men are fighting with desperate intensity, knowing that to yield an inch now will be to yield the whole day. For a few brief moments Thomas is forced to the front again and is hacking and chopping at men in bloodied livery. They are exhausted, and Thomas is aware – also for the first time – he is attacking them and they are defending. The balance has swung.

One turns, and runs. The next likewise, and the man Thomas is trying to kill is struck down by a fat-bladed bill and goes down and behind him there is no one, only the backs of men, fleeing the fight.

Just like that the northerners have broken, and their line is disintegrating along its entire length.

It is as sudden as that.

The battle is won.

And now the trumpets sound behind King Edward’s lines again. They are blowing a shrill call, and boys hurry forward with strings of horses from the park and the King’s spears and lances are suddenly there, mounted men coming up from the rear, and they are joined by the prickers who’ve reclaimed their mounts, and every man with access to a horse is forcing his way through the press to get at the fleeing northerners, and to cut them down.

Thomas stands numb and watches the northerners throw aside that which might slow them – their weapons, their armour, everything – as they begin a pell-mell rush northwards, pushing one another aside, stamping on their fellows to get away. But it is no good. King Edward’s horsemen are everywhere, riding them down, running men through with spears, breaking skulls with hammers, slashing at them with swords.

And so now the killing really begins. What was a contest becomes a slaughter, butchery, closer to commerce than to sport or battle. Archers are there with mauls and daggers, hacking at the backs of the fleeing men. Those with arrows loose them at men as they run, knocking them over, hobbling them so they can be killed and robbed at leisure.