Two days ago the bent and bloodied Bascon Gâsconay had ridden into the forest at Alençon. His wounds were to prove fatal, but he managed to deliver his message about the battle. It had been obvious when Beyard fell and the French reserves committed that the fight was lost. He lingered for that night and died in the cold hours before dawn. They buried him in a clearing, piling stones on the earth to stop wolves and boar digging up his corpse. By the time Blackstone arrived at the field of slaughter the sun had arced across the afternoon sky. There were enough hours of daylight remaining in the late spring evening for the men to gather their dead friends and enough time for more violence to be committed. The horsemen waiting across the bridge were likely to be the rearguard but if the main force was still close, then they could soon turn back.

Blackstone drew up the bastard horse. He felt its tension beneath the saddle as its withers bristled. It was as ready to fight as its master. ‘I am Sir Thomas Blackstone. I am not a part of Lord de Grailly’s army. I am here searching for the bodies of my friends.’

One rider urged his horse forward from the others, stopping ten paces from Blackstone. He bore the signs of the hard-fought battle. A dirty rag encrusted with gore bound his thigh. Grime and flecks of blood stained his beard. The man’s eyes were weary but Blackstone saw he had the resolve to fight again if need be. ‘I know your name. I fought the English with the old King at Poitiers.’

Blackstone remained silent. The veteran would have crossbowmen in the trees.

The man looked past Blackstone and John Jacob to where Blackstone’s men formed up ready to fight five hundred yards away.

‘We have no argument with you. We’ve been watching you. There are hundreds of bodies to search. We won’t stop you.’

‘We’re not searching for men from Navarre but the Gascon Lord de Grailly and his captain. You know their blazon?’

The Frenchman grunted. ‘I know it. We took many as prisoners for ransom.’

Blackstone studied the man and his dozen companions. He eased the bastard horse a few paces to the side so he could study them. They were common men, not knights or lords. ‘We’ll pay,’ he said.

The man grinned. ‘How much?’

‘A lot. More than you would see in a lifetime.’

‘Even for scum?’

Blackstone leaned forward; his horse shifted its weight. Blackstone glared at the Frenchman, who realized his insult had provoked the scar-faced knight. He saw that Blackstone had shifted his position so that the crossbowmen in the trees no longer had a clear view. He would be the first man to die if the Englishman chose violence.