Ranulph de Hayle had cursed his three men when they returned from the castle. He demanded twice over that they repeat everything they saw. They were adamant. No boy slept among Blackstone’s men. If Lázaro rode with him, then he was elsewhere in the castle. That wasn’t likely, de Hayle retorted. No boy would have better quarters than the men and their horses and Blackstone would not risk letting him be seen inside the walls. The three insisted they were right, and demanded their payment. De Hayle had no choice. He was reaching into his saddlebags when the storm broke. The horses panicked: mounts broke loose and careered into the scrubland and forest.

Thunder rumbled across the mountains. Swirling clouds overcame the peaks, surging past the sentinels, seeking an easier passage. Blackstone’s men’s lungs heaved as they ran hard across stubborn ground, turning their shields half across their chests as they fought the increasing wind, letting the buffeting glide across the shield’s face.

The gods of war, desiring to see the men’s efforts, threw spears of lightning across the storm clouds. The flashes of light allowed Ranulph de Hayle’s men to see the night fighters racing towards them. De Hayle realized they had followed his men. He shouted over the storm to alert his followers. Those who hadn’t time to find or fight over a horse ran towards Blackstone’s fast-approaching men.

‘They’ve seen us,’ said Meulon, his great strides already pushing him ahead of the others.

‘Meulon! With me!’ Blackstone shouted.

The big man slowed to run next to Blackstone, ready for the two of them to act as a battering ram as they charged towards the disorganized routiers.

Killbere fell back into the main body of men, spat the excess phlegm from his mouth and sucked more air into burning lungs. Two more men went past his shoulder. God’s tears, he was getting too old to run into battle; he needed to be there already waiting for an attack not lumbering like a three-legged hare. He ran on, pacing himself, knowing he needed to conserve enough strength to wield his sword. He silently cursed Blackstone for going at such speed and then himself for thinking he could still run as hard and fast as he had years before. He comforted himself that the enemy had turned to face them and were sprinting towards them. There would be a shorter distance to go now.

John Jacob was at Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘There are many more than us. We’re outnumbered,’ he said, glancing at Blackstone, who turned his head.

‘Whenever are we not? Stay close, John. William! Go left! Gilbert?’

Killbere snarled from his exertions. He was close enough to hear Blackstone and knew how he would strike. ‘I’m here damn you! I’ll go right!’