‘They are inferior in number,’ said the Captal, his spirits boosted by the knowledge that he had the upper hand. ‘They stand in our way of reaching Vernon and we have the advantage.’

Beyard saw the truth of it. The French were dismounted, standing in ranks. They could not attack uphill against mounted troops. Beyard took stock of the massed troops. ‘They are only a hundred or so fewer than us, but they have men in reserve at the rear. They’re Bretons. They are the danger if they scatter us in the fight.’

‘Their men have been here for days. Their supplies are low. They are weak. Now that they see we have the advantage they’ll break. Take your men onto their flank,’ said de Grailly.

Beyard had learnt lessons of war from Blackstone but to argue with his lord, a man who had fought in crusades and at the great battle of Poitiers, was not something he could do without risk of censure. ‘My lord, if I take men and split our force it is we who are weakened. They can turn and hold the ground. Our horses’ blood will be up and we might not rein them back in time. The river is beyond their ranks. If we break through and turn, we have the river at our backs. We have no ground to defend.’

The Captal de Buch showed no sign of displeasure at his orders being questioned. Beyard was the best of men and had served him loyally over the years. That Blackstone had given him command was an honour afforded few men. ‘Beyard, time is against us. Flank them and stop them using the bridge. They have nowhere to turn. Once we breach their defences, the road to Paris is open. If the Dauphin’s army is here, it is not at the bridge at Vernon. Win here and we win Paris. Seize the city and the Dauphin will not be anointed king. It is a risk worth taking. Take heart; let us win the day and then France.’

Beyard’s instincts warned him of the danger but the prize was too great. He wheeled his horse and called out to Bascon Gâsconay, one of the men who had served alongside him with Blackstone.

‘Stay close to me. If I am killed ride and tell Sir Thomas. He waits at the forest at Alençon.’