It was late afternoon when they crested a hill and saw the horse standing, ears pricked forward. They heard screams from a small town a mile ahead, likely to have no more than two hundred burghers. Wails of misery carried on the breeze, tormented, ghostly sounds that sent shivers down men’s spines. Men other than Blackstone’s. This was no haunted graveyard possessed by devils; Ranulph de Hayle’s men were the demons. It was a defenceless place without walls or gates, an ancient town that had once been no more than a village. It was likely that in the war those who lived there would have sought refuge in a bigger town under the protection of a manorial lord. But now there was no war. Heralds had travelled the land announcing the treaty between the English and the French. Even the civil war would not have touched them because there was no benefit for the warring sides in seizing the small enclave. The casual violence had fallen on them from routiers as if God and Satan had rolled the dice.

The lone horse shuddered, stepped forward and then skittishly danced away from what it knew to be danger.

‘Fetch it,’ said Renfred to one of his men. ‘It’s served its purpose. We know where de Hayle is now. If it went into the town, it would warn the bastard. We’ll keep the odds on our side now.’

The hobelar urged his horse forward at a slow trot, making sure the lone horse saw it. He held back, letting the horse come to him, eager as it was for the company of another. Renfred’s man lifted the trailing rein and led it back to where the others waited. Then, with a final glance at the doomed town, they rode back to meet Blackstone. There would be no need for Killbere or the archers to hold back; the German captain knew what Blackstone would do. Attack and kill.

*

The autumnal night wind blew spectral clouds across the starlit sky. Shadows danced as the moon held court over the fleeting images of men running across the open plain. They dropped into a shallow ditch eighty yards from the beleaguered town, hidden from sight, cloaked by the next tranche of darkness.

‘We don’t know this place,’ said Killbere, wheezing from the effort of the dash. ‘It could be as deadly as a bear pit.’