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The King is with them, remember?”
    His sons looked crestfallen, like a couple of schoolboys who had tried and failed to impress their teacher.
    York turned his attention to Salisbury. “We will hold fast here,” he said, rising and snatching up his helm from the table, “and let the enemy have a taste of shot while they dither in the meadows. Order the artillery to open fire.”
    Salisbury glanced outside. “The rain has slackened off a bit,” he said doubtfully, “but our powder may still be affected.”
    “Well, give the order anyway!” York shouted in exasperation. “Create a bit of smoke, anything to give them pause! God’s death, must I light the fuses myself?”
    Chastened, Salisbury hurried away to the guns. Motioning at his sons to follow, York buckled on his helm and strode out of the tent.
    The few Yorkist guns that could be persuaded to fire discharged a random and ill-coordinated barrage into the gathering dusk. Most of their shots flew hopelessly wide or short of the Lancastrian lines.
    York glumly watched the futile cannonade, and the steady flow of Lancastrian troops and banners coming up the road to deploy on the rain-swept meadows west of his position.
    “They are in no hurry,” remarked Warwick. He had joined York, Salisbury and York’s two sons on a little hillock at a safe distance behind a gun emplacement.
    The Earl seemed fascinated by the working of the gun, a long smooth-barrelled piece called a serpentine. The three crewmen, mindful of being observed by so many great lords, were industriously washing it out with a mixture of water and vinegar before loading.
    “Why should they be?” replied Salisbury. “They can eat us up at any time. Look at their numbers!”
    “None of that,” snapped York, though he privately shared the old soldier’s opinion. “They may outnumber us, but what do they have for leaders? A madman who has never been proved in battle, the scheming French bitch he married in an evil hour, and Buckingham and Somerset. Do any of you fear those two gentlemen?”
    The brave words sounded embarrassingly hollow to York’s ears, though his sons looked cheered by them. At least I can still inspire my children , he thought, watching nervously as the crew of the serpentine loaded a small round iron ball into the barrel and packed it down with wadding. He had witnessed guns explode before, blowing their crew to pieces.
    York braced himself as one of the crewmen gingerly placed a lit fuse into the touch-hole. He had dropped it in too quickly, and the fuse fell onto the grass, where it fizzled and went out. Cursing, the crewman fell to his knee and scrabbled for it. His mates shook their heads and gazed wearily at the long lines of bright banners and armoured men moving into position barely a mile away.
    A damp fuse. That sums up this campaign , thought York as he turned to Salisbury.
    “Go and find Andrew Trollope,” he said, “and order him to hold his ground until I say otherwise. The Lancastrians won’t dare attack when they see the Calais troops manning the barricades.”
    Edward snorted in derision. “Buckingham and Somerset wouldn’t attack until the morning anyway,” he said, “neither of them have the guts or the skill to direct a night assault.”
    “So says a green boy, who has never fought in a battle,” replied York, though he couldn’t help but smile at his son.
    Big, blonde and brutal, Edward was like something out of Arthurian legend. Like his close friend Warwick, he radiated a natural force and aggressive confidence that York had somehow lost.
    “I will have fought in one,” Edward replied stoutly, meeting his father’s gaze, “before tomorrow is out.”
    The crew of the serpentine continued to fumble with their fuse, which had got wet on the grass and would not light again. York left them to it and returned to his tent to snatch some rest before the battle started.
    Fatigue overwhelmed him the moment he settled in a chair and allowed his head