‘War?’ Thomas asks. He thinks of the Dean’s stories of sieges, of slaughter and rape. But that was in France. He cannot imagine it in England.

‘There has been war, yes,’ the pardoner answers. ‘And there will be again. For while the King was shy of his wits, two factions have arisen at court, you see? One is led by the Queen, a she-wolf called Margaret from Anjou in France – a Frenchwoman! – and the other by the Duke of York, a cousin to the King.’

It is easy to see where his sympathies lie.

‘And who is winning this war?’ Thomas asks.

‘The Queen is in the ascendant, for the moment. Her army routed that of the Duke of York outside the gates of Ludlow last St Edward’s Day. This time the King was present at the fight, and a faction of the Duke of York’s men would not take up arms against his royal standard, however ill gotten the gain. Rex non potest peccare, you see? The King can do no wrong. Even though he is a usurper, the King is still the king.’

‘Strange,’ Katherine says.

‘Indeed,’ the pardoner agrees. ‘And the people of Ludlow paid dearly for the principle that day, let me tell you, for after York’s soldiers had lain down their arms and slipped away, the Queen let her own troops into the town. It is said they broke every hogshead of wine they could find and by the eve they were so sodden with drink they would only drop what they’d stolen to rape the women. It is in this confusion that Lord Cornford was killed, by your man Giles Riven himself.’

He takes a sip of ale and stares into the fire again. The pot is steaming, the water plicking around the greens.

‘But Queen Margaret is queen of the realm,’ Thomas begins. ‘Why would she let her subjects suffer so?’

‘She is French for a start,’ the pardoner says, ‘and furthermore she has no money so must pay her troops with promises of plunder. Besides, many of them are from the north: wild uncultivated brutes, almost as bad as the Scots, and their love of plunder is second to none.’

‘And so where is this Duke of York now?’ Thomas asks.

‘He is in Ireland, attainted and called a traitor, while his great well-wisher the Earl of Warwick is in Calais, across the Narrow Sea, and likewise condemned.’

The pardoner’s voice has changed now, and he looks up from the fire as if inspired by some memory.

‘He will be back though,’ he carries on, ‘for never was there such a man as the Earl of Warwick.’

Thomas thinks the pardoner speaks the Earl of Warwick’s name as if it has holy weight to it, like that of a saint, or one of the martyrs. He drains the cup.