Richard is pale and keeps swapping his drawn sword from hand to hand. He ignores Sir John and peers at the ship ahead. The plates of his armour tap and scrape as Geoffrey secures them.

‘Walter,’ Sir John calls. ‘Get the flag up.’

Walter leaves the rail and fetches a large square of fabric from Sir John’s trunk. One of the sailors takes it and climbs a few yards up the ratlines.

‘Go on. Farther. Up there. Look.’

Walter points. The sailor climbs up and ties the top corner to a stay, then pulls it taut. The flag – a large black star on a white background – catches in the breeze. There is a tentative cheer from the men.

‘Can you make out her standard?’ Sir John asks the sailor. The man pauses with his bare feet on the ship’s rail and peers across the waters at the other ship, shields his eyes, then, after a moment, shakes his head.

‘Never mind the standard,’ Walter mutters. ‘Has she got any cannons? Any bombards?’

At the mention of artillery the sailor quickly climbs down. The rest of the archers are quiet.

‘I can’t see anything,’ Richard is saying. ‘This mist. God’s blood! Is that smoke? Look! Yes! They have a fire going. They mean to use fire arrows.’

He turns on Thomas and Katherine who are standing spare before the cabin door.

‘You two! Find a bucket each. Get some water on board.’

Since Cobham and his men have thrown everything overboard there is only one bucket from the balinger.

‘I said we should have brought a friar,’ Geoffrey says, his voice slightly higher than usual. ‘We need someone to lead us in prayer.’

Thomas opens his mouth but closes it again and instead they drop a bucket on a rope down into the green seawater and let it fill, hauling it up as the archers kneel and begin a muffled chant of the paternoster. Each archer makes a sign of the cross on the deck where he kneels and then bends to kiss it.

‘All right, on your feet,’ Walter says when they’re finished. They keep glancing at one another and fiddling with their equipment and one of them yawns with nerves.

‘Put your arrows in your belts,’ Walter says. ‘Make every one count ’cause we ain’t got no more. Pick your aim and look for faces. Look for faces, understand? Faces. Anything pale. This ain’t the butts. This is the real thing.’

They are still well beyond bowshot, but the other ship is approaching fast. Geoffrey stands next to Katherine. He is carrying a long-handled hammer with a pick on the reverse, like Thomas’s pollaxe, only shorter, designed to be used with one hand.

‘Can you make out her standard?’ he asks.

Thomas shakes his head. Katherine cranes forward just as the wind gusts and backs a notch, and the ship’s banner spreads itself red across the grey sky.