She takes his hand and they are like that for a moment, still and silent, and then his eyes focus on her and he smiles.

‘Kit,’ he whispers through dry lips. ‘Kit. Praised be, you are here.’

She feels a jolt, and the blood runs to her face. She cannot help herself glancing at Richard, who is sitting there, his face expressionless. Has he heard? She supposes not.

She bends over the old man.

‘I am Margaret, Sir John,’ she whispers. ‘Margaret Cornford. Do you not remember?’

Sir John opens his mouth in close little gasps.

‘I know what I know,’ he whispers. ‘By my truth, I know what I know. And where is Thomas? Where is he? You should be with him.’

‘Hush now, Sir John, hush now and all will be well.’

He shuts his eyes and drifts away again.

She stands abruptly and walks away.

Her plan! Dear God, in all this she has forgotten her resolve, and now there is no time for it, but Sir John’s words have stirred her again, thickened the brew, decided her. She looks down at her bloody dress and knows she cannot be Margaret Cornford. She cannot be like this. All at once it has become a stupid pretence, as crude as it is dishonest.

But has she left it too late?

And what of Thomas?

She has seen so many dead men this day, how can she believe there are any still living? Yet, somehow, she is certain that he is.

With the dusk the steady stream of wounded that has lasted all day begins to dwindle, but later a man comes in on his own, limping badly. Though he has lost his bow, she can tell he is an archer, and he wears the blue and white livery of Fauconberg.

‘Trod on a caltrop,’ he tells her, ‘just as I was coming off the field. Went through all that, fighting all day, and I slip at the last moment. It hurts, oh Christ it hurts.’

He holds up the sole of his boot for inspection. It is filthy with the manure of every animal she can name, dyed up to the ankle in human blood.

‘There is nothing I can do for you,’ she tells him.

‘I can pay,’ he says.

‘It is not that—’ she begins but he has a leather bag slung behind him and when he tugs it around and opens it up, she feels a flutter in her chest as sharp as a stab.

‘Look,’ he says, pulling out the pardoner’s ledger. ‘Got a hole in it and that, but still. Must be worth a penny or two.’

Her ears are roaring and her hands come up to snatch it from him, but she collects herself. He holds it upside down and back to front so that she can see that the hole does not go all the way through.