‘They’re practising at the butts in the far corner,’ said Meulon. ‘Just keep your men in check. Feed and water them and bed them down with the horses.’ He glared at the stocky archer. ‘Keep your men away from them.’

‘Aye, well, you tell William Ashford to keep his cut-throats in check. And Renfred and Beyard. Don’t come here telling me how to control my men.’

‘You’ve as much sense as a pig’s arse. Where do you think I’ve been? Sir Gilbert had me tell all the captains.’

‘Then consider your job done and let me get about my business.’

Meulon’s scowl could sour milk. Will Longdon grinned. ‘Meulon, you told me so I’d go over and make their acquaintance.’

Meulon glanced over his shoulder to check if Blackstone would hear him, but he was standing over two hundred yards away. He lowered his voice. ‘They shoot fast. Quicker than you.’

Will Longdon’s eyebrows arched. ‘You bastard. You taunt me on purpose.’

Meulon’s teeth appeared behind the heavy dark beard. ‘Thought you might learn something.’ He clapped a heavy hand on the archer’s shoulder and sauntered to where Blackstone stood with Killbere and Álvaraz.

‘Jack?’ Will Longdon called to Halfpenny, who was sitting with his men as they checked and repaired arrow shafts. The young ventenar looked up.

‘Bring your bow,’ said Longdon.

*

Thirty Moors stood at the butts beyond the courtyard’s far corner. A dozen archers stood in line pulling back on their curved bows while their companions waited their turn and fussed with their bow cords and fletchings, behaving no differently than Will Longdon’s men. Archers nursed their weapons as tenderly as any mother caring for a child. Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny stood watching until someone finally noticed them.

‘All right, lads?’ said Longdon with a smile. ‘Me and Jack here thought we’d come and teach you how to shoot.’

Two of the Moors stepped towards them and said something. Their words weren’t accompanied by a smile.

Will Longdon pulled a face and gestured, showing he did not understand. The Moors, now watched by their companions, talked to each other, glancing at the two rough-looking Englishmen. In contrast to the belted, robed Moors, Longdon and Halfpenny looked like vagabonds with their grease-streaked leather jerkins and grubby linen cowls.

‘Give them something, Will,’ said Halfpenny. ‘They’re the most miserable bastards I’ve seen all year. I’ve seen happier dead Frenchmen than this lot.’

Will Longdon rested his bow against his chest and rummaged in his jerkin. He came out with a small piece of dark meat and a half-eaten apple.

‘You can’t give them pig,’ said Halfpenny. ‘Their kind don’t eat pig. Like the old Jew.’

‘It’s smoked boar meat,’ said Will Longdon.

‘That’s the same as pig. It’s swine. They don’t eat swine. Give them the apple.’

‘It’s my last one.’