‘We don’t need to know it, Gilbert. The streets are narrow, the houses small. De Hayle’s men have had their sport and they’ll be sleeping it off. There are no high walls for crossbows to shoot down on us.’ Blackstone stared through the scattered light. Now that they were closer he saw the bank around the town more clearly; it was spoil from a defensive ditch dug so many years ago it was now nothing more than a grassy mound thick with weeds and meadow flowers. The narrow wooden bridge across the ditch was sturdy enough for a cart and horse. Blackstone looked along the line of men awaiting his command. Beyard’s men would race around to the rear of the town as Meulon’s clambered over the bank left of the main assault, with Renfred’s on the right flank. All eyes were on Blackstone. They were ready.

Blackstone signalled Beyard, who peeled away into the night. They would wait long enough for him to get into position. Blackstone looked back across the dappled fields. On the ridge, two woodlands faced each other across a gap: Will Longdon was hidden in one edge of the forest with Jack Halfpenny in the trees opposite. If anyone escaped Blackstone’s attack and rode for safety away from Beyard’s cut-off group, then that was where they would die.

Blackstone waited for the moon to go behind the clouds. He stood and the line of men rose with him. He strode forward, walking not running. Meulon and Renfred’s men peeled away, a slow and silent approach. Blackstone’s boots thudded across the planked bridge. Ten more yards and they were past the first buildings. Shadows slipped over the ditch wall, steel blades catching what light there was – barely any showed from the houses. Dark shapes lying in the dirt streets revealed themselves as corpses of the slain townspeople.

Laughter suddenly pierced the silence. It came from deeper within the town. Blackstone gestured his men to fan out as they crept from corner to corner, stepping over the dead. A door creaked; a drunken routier staggered outside the house to relieve himself. He leaned an arm against the wall, gazing down at the stream of piss; then he yawned and farted. He finished and turned. John Jacob’s arm wrapped around his throat as Killbere’s knife plunged into his heart. John Jacob stepped back as Blackstone entered the small room. A candle flickered. A man was stretched out on the floor, dead; a naked woman, her face bruised from an assault, lay shivering on a palliasse, knees drawn up to her chest. Her mouth opened to scream but Blackstone raised a finger to his lips and the unusual gesture from such a fearsome man caught her by surprise.

‘I am here to help you,’ Blackstone said, keeping his distance, palm outstretched to calm her. ‘Where are the routiers?’