The stench of burnt flesh and old thatch lingered. First light revealed men smudged with soot and sweat, eyes red-rimmed from the acrid smoke. The townspeople emerged, fear still etched on their faces as they stared at the battle-hardened men who had come in the night and killed those who had inflicted violence on them. Meulon and Renfred told them to drag the dead routiers from the streets and alleys into the square. One by one the bodies were laid out alongside those Blackstone had spared and who sat with hands bound. Blackstone’s men guarding the prisoners made no attempt to stop the women from spitting at the routiers.

Killbere and Blackstone stood at one of the town’s wells. Killbere plunged his head into a bucket and shook free the sweat and fatigue.

‘How many dead?’ Blackstone asked Meulon.

‘We lost three men, but we killed forty-seven. It was like trapping rats in a sewer. They were full of ale and wine; most were half asleep when we killed them. We finished off their wounded.’

‘Forty-seven in the streets and another twenty-eight from the tavern,’ said Killbere. ‘A good night’s work. And I’ll wager there were another ten or more in that tavern who never got out.’

‘Has Ranulph de Hayle’s body been found?’ said Blackstone.

‘Not so far,’ said Renfred.

Blackstone looked at the huddled prisoners. He pointed to one of the older men. ‘He looks like a veteran. He should have served de Hayle long enough. Pull him out and take him among the dead, see if he can identify him.’

‘Shall we call in Will and Jack from the forest?’ said Meulon.

‘Not yet. We killed near enough ninety of de Hayle’s men but where are the others? If they’re out there, then we still need the archers in place. Send a runner, tell them we won’t stay here much longer but for them to stay vigilant.’

The crowd gathered more confidently when they realized that Blackstone’s men posed no threat. One man stepped forward.

‘Sir knight, what are we to do with these bodies?’

‘Strip them of any clothing, boots and weapons, then bury them,’ said Blackstone.

‘The nearest monastery is two days away. We have no place for burial here.’

‘You have a defensive bank around the town. Drag them into the ditch and pull down the dirt onto them. Then close the gap with a wooden palisade. When skinners come you must stand together and show some resistance. Better to die fighting for what you cherish than to lie down and let them tear you apart.’

The man looked uncomfortable. ‘We are farmers; we have no skills with weapons. We don’t know how to fight.’

‘You have a manorial lord?’

‘We never see him. He’s a week’s journey from here.’

‘You pay your taxes?’

‘Aye, my lord.’