Blackstone and his men rode for three days within sight of the column snaking across the undulating landscape. Initially they saw distant pennons as a French scouting party shadowed them. Blackstone rode close to the border of Aquitaine and Languedoc, a feint to draw French attention and create uncertainty. When the French saw his column of men with his banner unfurled, they gathered in greater numbers in case the Englishman dared strike into French territory. It gave scant satisfaction to any of the fighting men that they had sown doubt and fear into their old enemy. Their task was to draw men and interest from the French southern army. Their presence taunted the French commanders but neither Englishman, Navarrese nor Frenchman violated the border and the truce.

Beyard and his Gascons were obliged to join their sworn lord but the bond between them and Blackstone’s fighters was as raucous and strong as ever. Insults were traded when Beyard and his men rode out to join the gathering army and every man kept any thought that they were most likely riding to their death locked inside. The King of Navarre’s ambitions had caused the demise of many a good fighter.

‘It would serve the world better if the aristocrats went under the sword instead of good fighting men,’ said Will Longdon.

‘You think the Jacquerie had the right idea?’ said Meulon, the throat-cutter.

‘A peasant uprising needs to be planned. Once they slaughter a nobleman’s children and roast them on a spit, they lose control,’ Will Longdon said.

Meulon snorted and spat. ‘You’re a peasant. Perhaps you should lead the next revolt?’

‘I’d make a better job of it.’

‘The noblemen hold the reins, you rump of a pig’s arse. They need fighting men and we get paid for doing their dirty work. Kill the aristocrats and we have no work.’

The veteran archer turned in the saddle to where Meulon rode at the head of his men. ‘Your brains were left in the dirt when your mother dropped you out of her belly in that turnip field. If there were no noblemen, we would have their money. We would have a life of luxury.’

‘Until another greedy bastard came and snatched it from you,’ said Longdon’s Welsh ventenar, Meuric Kynith. ‘You’ll not win a country by killing the rich and powerful, you must take it by stealth. Like I seized these boots off a nobleman when he was washing his arse in a river.’

‘I don’t want a bloody country, you pagan bastard, only a nobleman’s money. And if I had a nobleman’s money I would have a pair of fine boots like these for myself.’

‘But when you have such wealth then you would have to pay the likes of us to protect you,’ Kynith said.

‘Which is all you’re fit for because you haven’t the brains to do anything else.’