‘When they draw up, send up one shaft, just one, and shoot it as close to them as you can. Then they’ll know where they will die.’ Blackstone heard his centenar send the order down the line to his bowmen as he urged the bastard horse twenty paces forward with John Jacob at his side bearing his unfurled banner. Thirty yards away Álvaraz did the same with his flag bearer. To all intents and purposes they looked like a disciplined army of men led by captains of renown, backed by archers and supported by hundreds more on the hill. If luck favoured them, then the approaching men would not identify the varied colours of the silk and dyed cloth banners that flapped tautly towards them.

The routiers spilled over the far hills, a breaking wave of ill-disciplined men intent on slaughter. The only visible banner was that of Bertrand du Guesclin, whose ransom had been paid by the French King so the Breton captain could lead the routiers into Spain. A lone trumpet sounded from the centre of the swarm where the banner tugged hard against its staff. At first the front riders did not hear the clarion call, but when it was blown again they slowed and halted. The banner carrier nudged his horse aside, which revealed that the man riding next to him was du Guesclin. Five hundred routiers stopped several hundred yards away and then edged their horses slowly forward. When they reached 430 paces in front of Blackstone Will Longdon bent his back, hauled on his bowstring and loosed a yard of ash high in the air. It reached its zenith, was carried and then flattened by the following wind and struck fifty-five yards to the front of the approaching men. The warning was clear.

The routiers’ horses’ blood was up from their strenuous journey, making their riders hold them on a tight rein, no one wanting a bolting horse to take them into the lethal storm that awaited. The nervous beasts fought their riders but kept their distance. Du Guesclin rode his horse forward another ten yards and then stopped. He squinted against the low sun; then he raised an arm in a peaceful gesture. Blackstone rode to him.

‘Sir Thomas, we met on the field at Auray.’

‘And you have gained your freedom.’

‘A generous king has made Sir John Chandos a wealthy man.’

‘The French monarch is playing a deceitful game. He sends you and others to dethrone Don Pedro when in truth he seeks to put a French army at my Prince’s back.’

Bertrand du Guesclin was a swarthy, short man, well muscled with a pugnacious face. His smile did not soften the features. ‘What do we know of politics?’

‘You know about tactics. Your reputation is well earned.’

‘And yours.’

The Breton eyed the skyline again. He was still a good distance away, which made him less certain as to the men half obscured by the crackling banners.