Will Longdon faced the men and knew they spoke of their own death. Their quiet courage and acceptance of their fate touched him and the battle-hardened archer felt tears sting his eyes. He nodded.

‘This man,’ said Abid, turning to Salam, ‘his name is Najih bin Wālid. He wishes you to know this.’

Will Longdon’s coarse life of soldiering served him well in this rare moment of emotion that he could not explain. He suppressed the inexplicable sadness he felt by plucking an arrow and examining it.

‘These are fine arrows,’ said Will Longdon, ‘and we will kill many enemies with them.’ He looked at the archer. ‘And tell him I am glad to know his name and that it will be remembered.’

Abid al-Hakam told the man at his side.

‘English,’ bin Wālid said; he placed his hand across his chest in salute, and smiled.

They turned away.

*

By the time the Moors had led their horses across the bridge the sun had peeked over the distant hills. Sayyid al-Hakam was the last man to step onto the bridge. His men had formed up on the opposite bank in plain sight so that an approaching enemy could identify them, but their archers had filtered away into the trees on the left flank. Blackstone stood with the Moor as he looked back at the King’s pavilion and Castile and León’s standard next to Blackstone’s banner.

‘It is in a good place, far enough back for the French and their savages to fight through you, Sir Thomas.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘There is no wind now, but it will be here in an hour. You smell that? The breeze brings the scent of wild sage. The flags tremble. The wind will be at your back from the north-west. We will feel it and let it drive us into them. We kill as many as we can before they get past us.’

‘You could still take a stand with us here. Several hundred men shoulder to shoulder stand a better chance,’ Blackstone said.

‘Sir Thomas, we are watched over by your God, our Rabbul Alamīn, He is the Nameless One who decides when it is we die. Now is our time. We choose how we die and we die as horsemen.’

Al-Hakam tugged the horse’s trailing rein to lead it across the bridge. ‘Fight well, Sir Thomas.’

‘And you.’

The Moor took a couple of steps and then turned back. ‘Don Pedro ordered me to protect the woman, Lady Velasquita, the night she met an English mercenary. This man, he showed her the head of a boy, but it was not the boy they hunted. Be careful. She is known to the devil, and he holds her close.’