Blackstone did not need to dig his heels into the bastard horse. Ears up, it fought the bit, gathered its strength in its haunches and reared forward. Blackstone cursed but had half expected the temperamental beast to take the fight forward. It barged the first horse, forcing its rider to sway in the saddle. The man’s guard lowered. Blackstone swung Wolf Sword and cut deeply into the man’s neck. Before he tumbled from the saddle Blackstone was already past him to face a more determined mercenary, who controlled his mount, swung hard into Blackstone, hammering down with a spiked mace towards the bastard horse’s head, intent on blinding or maiming the great war horse. Blackstone pressed his leg into its side. It responded instantly and changed direction. The blow missed. The attacker’s arm swung low between the two horses; with his body protected by his shield the man immediately curved the lethal mace upwards, intent on catching Blackstone’s exposed side. He put too much effort into it, mistiming the wild strike. His arm was now level with his shoulder. Blackstone rammed Wolf Sword’s hardened steel into his ribs. The mercenary roared with pain, tried to stay in the saddle but lost control. He slumped; his mount swayed uncertainly as it faced the line of horses. John Jacob rode forward to meet the wayward horse and swung his battleaxe into the mercenary’s face guard. The blow spilled the man from his saddle, his horse galloping clear.

The mêlée was short but Blackstone saw the madness had stirred others from du Guesclin’s company to surge towards the lightly armed Moors on their flank.

‘Will!’ Blackstone shouted.

Longdon and the men nearest to him pivoted, bent their backs and shot. A dozen arrows sped across Álvaraz’s front ranks. So accurate was the volley that the attackers died only yards from the Moors, who fought to hold their horses still at the sudden enemy onslaught. The brief attack was over.

Bertrand du Guesclin called out to Blackstone. ‘I will find you again and next time I will choose the ground.’

‘You’ll need more men,’ Blackstone answered.

‘Then I will have them.’ He yanked the reins and the horsemen rode off, abandoning their dead and wounded.

The Moors’ leader urged his mount towards Blackstone. ‘You send your arrows so close you nearly kill my men!’

‘Your men were safer with my archers than the Frenchmen. Either get back to your position or run home to al-Hakam and tell him how fearful you were when English and Welsh bowmen shaved your beards. Decide!’ There was a short silence as the Moor fought to control his fury. Blackstone continued: ‘Stop your damned bleating – you sound like a goat being dragged to slaughter. Or next time I will leave you to the wolves.’