And now she looks away over the ship’s rail, across the dipping waters at the banks of sea mist and fog that have congealed around them. She has been putting off the moment but now she knows she must tell him that she can expect nothing but a noose from the Prior of All. She knows she must do it now. Tell him that she cannot come with him to Canterbury, she cannot return to the priory. She looks up, ready to confess, but a sailor in the ship’s bow gives a shout, Thomas turns away, and the time for confession is gone.

Hearing the cry the men in the ship’s waist roll to their feet and Richard Fakenham appears to seek out Lysson, the ship’s new captain.

‘What’s up?’ he asks.

‘Ship,’ Lysson says, nodding towards the French shore.

The men begin to crowd the ship’s side, staring across at the waters to this new vessel’s hazy outline. She looks to be a carrack like their own, but she is moving faster, with her sails filled and her bow throwing up white water.

When Richard Fakenham is anxious he clenches his jaw and even under the ten days’ of bristle it is possible to see his muscles at work.

‘Where did she come from?’ he asks.

‘Dunkirk, prob’ly,’ Lysson says.

‘You sure?’

‘Came from inshore, so.’

‘But it could be anyone?’

‘Can’t make out the standard yet, but they ain’t merchants.’

‘No?’

‘Look at them castles,’ he says. ‘’S a fighting ship, all right. Pirates, most like.’

The new ship is built up at both ends to give her crew the advantage of height when it comes to loosing arrows and throwing stones.

‘Could be French. Spanish. Breton. Could have come from Sandwich. Stuck there with the wind and that. Could be from the English fleet.’

‘Best be ready then,’ Richard says, and turns to the men gathered on the deck. ‘Walter?’ he calls.

Walter is already ushering the archers into the cabin to collect their bows and put on their quilted jacks. They emerge cumbersome, strapping leather bracers on their wrists, pulling leather tabs over their draw fingers. Each man straps a short sword around his waist and hangs a small circular shield over the pommel. The bows are taken out of their bags last and the hemp strings nocked.

‘Lids on, lads,’ Walter says.

They slip their helmets on, close-fitting steel shells each fastened with a leather strap under the chin.

Richard stands at the ship’s prow while Geoffrey straps a piece of plate armour across his back. Despite being so large, Geoffrey has agile fingers, and he fastens the hidden straps before Richard’s father appears on deck.

‘Richard,’ he calls to his son. ‘Better stand elsewhere, eh? No sense making yourself a target.’