‘I can do without your good cheer, you oaf. Look to yourself and your lads and I’ll do the same with mine. With Renfred on one side and you on the other it’s best you don’t get in our way. Your men-at-arms lumber around like bulls in a field looking for cows to mount.’

‘Better to fight hand to hand, you humped-back dwarf, than sling stones that irritate no more than wasp stings.’

‘I’ll kill any man at forty yards with a sling and so too will my lads, so when you’re being beaten senseless by a French bastard who takes a dislike to your ugly face then give a signal and we’ll favour you with our aim.’

Meulon wiped his mouth and corked the wineskin, tossing it to the archer. ‘Your wine’s turning sour.’

Will Longdon grinned. ‘That’s why I gave it to you.’

Meulon belched. ‘I shall keep you at my back when the fight starts so I can repay you with my farts.’ He walked towards his own men, stepping around the archers’ campfires.

Jack Halfpenny hunkered down as Meulon went on his way. ‘What did he want?’

Will Longdon watched the departing man. ‘To wish us luck,’ he said without rancour.

*

Blackstone and Killbere walked the length of their defences. They spoke to their men, who, like the archers, were busying themselves preparing for the following day’s battle. None of them grumbled or bemoaned their fate at being where they were. Their insults towards each other were tinged with the silent acknowledgement that the man they were taunting would be at their shoulder the next day. Killbere traded a few choice slurs himself with those he had known for years.

Renfred, the German captain, stood nonchalantly whittling a piece of wood. ‘Sir Thomas, did you tell the Moors the French will be here soon after dawn?’

‘I did.’

‘You know they’re fools to strike at them across the river. They’ll kill a few hundred, if they’re lucky, but they’ll go down under French hooves.’

Killbere looked across the river. ‘They sacrifice themselves for their honour, Renfred. They serve the King.’

‘We all die for those we serve, Sir Gilbert, but honour? That’s hard to find.’

‘Did you or your men see any sign of Hugh Calveley?’ said Blackstone.

Renfred shook his head. ‘He will come a different way, I think. No, it was du Guesclin’s advance party we saw. They bristle like a leafless forest.’

‘Then we’ll need to be woodcutters tomorrow,’ Blackstone said.

The German looked at his whittled figure and then tossed it into the river. The carving was of no value; it had served its purpose, allowing the hardened man-at-arms and scout to concentrate his mind on the fight ahead.