Blackstone watched men stream across the bridge to where a legion had made their last stand. They guided the pack horses up towards the rocky cliffs. The Romans had built their bridge in one of the few accessible places. Elsewhere the craggy cliffs made the gorge too difficult even for Rome’s engineers. This bridge spanned three hundred yards and Blackstone looked back to the far bank where the shore broadened into an open space above the high bank. The route leading away from the shoreline went east to the valleys that would bring the enemy from Burgos. Riverside shrubs, underwood and trees softened the breadth of the opposite shoreline. The river’s current was strong enough to slow horsemen attempting to cross the shallower parts of the riverbed. Blackstone’s captains were already dispersing the horses, leading them into protected shelter behind a cliff face that had been dug out and quarried, perhaps by these same Romans who used the stone to build the bridge. Time had not weakened their efforts and the bridge’s several arches looked to be as strong as when first built.

‘You looking at the masons’ skill or being weaned from the witch?’ said Killbere.

‘Thinking how we’ll stop them before they get to us. We can’t destroy it and we can hold it for only so long. The French can’t go up or downriver and outflank us because the cliffs are too steep. The cliffs at our backs protect us,’ Blackstone pointed at the water breaking over rocks revealing shallower water. ‘If they ford there, either side of the bridge, then we’re outflanked.’

‘Will and his lads can bring enough of them down to slow them but we don’t have many arrows, Thomas, and they’ll be hard pressed to hold the bastards back with sword and buckler.’

‘We’ll put al-Hakam’s archers to good use,’ said Blackstone, ‘but even if we slow the skinners at the bridge, then we still need to stop them getting ashore from the shallows.’

Killbere studied the ground. They had five hundred yards from the river to the cliffs at their backs. Al-Hakam’s men were erecting the King’s pavilion and flying his banners. To an approaching enemy it would look like Don Pedro’s camp. Men went about preparing the deception, gathering bundles of dry kindling and firewood. There would be a hundred campfires lit that night dotted across the broad riverbank. If the French routiers were as close as Blackstone thought, the twinkling firelight would draw them like a moth to a flame. By dawn the enemy would be across the river.

‘Time is against us, Thomas. Best we get to what needs to be done.’

*