‘It doesn’t matter. It’s one more obstacle for them to get around and horses panic when flames reach them. I should have thought of it before now.’

Killbere grinned. ‘You must be getting old and forgetful.’

‘If we live through today, I’ll be grateful for that.’

Killbere strode away as Blackstone raised a hand to William Ashford, who stood with his men in formation. ‘William, you are down the line at my left with Tom Brook behind me. You must protect Jack Halfpenny and his archers who stand between us.’

‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’

‘We must give Tom and those you’ve chosen time to get back to the horses.’

Ashford pointed to ten men who stood ready with shields. ‘If God favours us and they live long enough, they’ll cover Tom back.’

‘Good. They need to judge when that time has come, William, because we’ll be busy.’

Blackstone opened his stride to where Jack Halfpenny and his archers waited in formation between the men-at-arms on the left-hand side of where Blackstone would stand. ‘Jack, you see Ashford’s men back there? They’ll give cover for Tom to reach the horses.’

The ventenar looked along the ranks, cast a look over his shoulder and shrugged. ‘They’ll not have a chance if the French get too close on our flank, Sir Thomas,’ he said, already seeing how such a move might weaken the fighting line. ‘Best I have half my lads turn and cover them.’

‘Aye, Jack, best you do that,’ said Blackstone. It was what he would have done in the young archer’s place.

Men stacked dry wood and brush kindling chest high on the riverbank and draped the abandoned blankets over the pyres.

Blackstone looked at the preparations he had made. There was nothing else to be done.

He scanned the sky and saw the high dark shape of a hawk circling lazily on the rising warm air.

‘They’re here,’ said Halfpenny.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Horses whinnied as the distant skyline altered shape. An indistinct wave was flooding towards them. The bristling banners and pennons spiked the air, wavering as the dark tide gathered pace like flotsam caught in a fast-moving river.

Blackstone strode to his position two hundred yards back from the bridge where John Jacob and Killbere stood ready. If they were overwhelmed they had another three hundred long strides to put their backs against the cliffs. Will Longdon had placed a pile of stones on the bridge wall at 350 yards from where his archers stood. That’s where the routiers would first endure the storm of steel-tipped arrows.

‘It’s not Calveley,’ said Killbere. ‘It’s the ugly Breton bastard du Guesclin and his paid skinners.’