The captains broke off and went to their men. Meulon cursed quietly to himself. The ground between the river and the cliff was too soft for men to drive stakes into. All they could hope for was that the rocks and fallen trees they had dragged from the river and laid across its bank would slow an enemy riding hard across the shallows. The staggered slit trenches they had dug were a foot deep, wide enough for a man’s boot or horse’s hoof, sufficient to make a horse stumble if they got ashore. If the French had learnt their lessons from the past, then they would abandon their mounts and attack on foot. It made no difference: men on foot or horses would have to scramble over the traps before Blackstone’s men killed them. Enemy dead would block the bridge once Will Longdon’s archers had wreaked their violence but Meulon knew, as did every other man, that the weight of numbers would drive the routiers through their defences. Meulon’s right flank and Ashford’s left would push the attackers’ centre onto Blackstone’s arrowhead formation. Those routiers splashing across the shallows who survived Will Longdon’s archers would face the lines of the men-at-arms, where they would be drawn in and smothered. The enemy’s superior numbers would eventually drive Blackstone’s ranks back and as they were diminished they would draw closer together to form a last pocket of resistance, backs against the cliffs, guarding the quarry entrance so that a handful of them could escape and warn Don Pedro. Someone had to tell the Prince of Wales that Thomas Blackstone and his men had died obeying his command at the Field of the Fallen Eagle.

They had faced overwhelming odds before and there was always a time to die. Meulon spat and kicked a stone. Godforsaken places were where fighting men found their courage. He dismissed any thought of defeat. Will Longdon and his archers were settled by their fires, using the light to check and fuss their arrowheads and fletchings. Every man had river pebbles and stones piled next to him.

The centenar looked up as Meulon loomed over him. ‘Will, you’ll be on my left so tell your men to keep their aim true because if we have to fight the skinners at the riverbank I don’t want an arrow up my arse.’

Will Longdon passed him his wineskin. ‘You keep your big arse out of my lads’ way and you’ll have no cause for complaint.’

Meulon drank and nudged his toe against the centenar, who had begun checking his arrows again. ‘You take heed from what Sir Thomas said. If they overrun us you and your bowmen get back to the cliffs. That’s your best chance.’

‘Sword and buckler is the last chance any of us archers have.’

‘Aye, well, if it comes to that the rest of us will be dead.’