At the lip of the plateau the King’s men are ranged in a crowd, three or four deep. Beyond them Thomas can hear bellowing and screaming and there is the dense rattle of hammers and blades beating on well-fixed armour. When he reaches the fringe, men turn to look at him, and he sees they are furtive and guilty, as if they have been caught out at something.

He pushes his way through.

In the valley below are the northerners: Somerset’s men, the Queen’s men, Henry of Lancaster’s men, thousands of men in colours Thomas does not know, and ranged along the crest of the valley around him are the King Edward’s men, and Warwick’s men, and Norfolk’s men, and they are beating down on the heads of those below, killing those they can reach, and driving those they cannot down the slope into a swift-running river that has burst its banks and laps the trunks of alders on the far side.

It is a trap as tight as a barrel.

There must be many thousands down there. Not one will live through the next hours unless King Edward returns to grant mercy for the commons.

The press of Warwick’s men is impassable. They all want their moment at the front, they all want vengeance, and they push forward to get their chance to kill a man. They are wide-eyed, as at bear baiting, and Thomas knows he will never forget the sight or sound of this moment.

He turns and pushes his way back through the throng.

John Perers follows.

‘Bit bloody strong that, ain’t it?’

If Riven is in the valley he will die, of that Thomas is sure. Someone will kill him or he will be drowned. But what if he is not?

He leads Perers northwards. They pick their way through the corpses that clot the field. Looters are bent-backed everywhere, using hatchets to remove rings from men’s fingers, stuffing their bags with weapons, purses, the silver livery badges that men wear, jewelled collars. Cruelty is everywhere. Mercy has fled.

Below to the left the ground gives way sharply, down to the river. It is too steep for men to climb up, and from their vantage point Thomas and Perers can look back and see the horror of the thing. While those higher up the slope are trying to escape the blades of King Edward’s men, those at the bottom are being forced chest-deep into the icy waters of the beck. They have cast off their armour where they can and are clinging to their companions. Some trust themselves to the flood and perhaps one or two make it. Most do not. Their linen-wadded jacks are blood- and water-soaked, heavier than armour, and they disappear under the waters with a final despairing wave to life.

Thomas cannot see Riven among their number, but that does not mean he is not there.