The sun’s rays slanted across the hillsides, throwing light onto the cloths’ fluttering hues. The line of men spread across the valley, some riding haphazardly on their flanks across the lower slopes, then easing their mounts down to the main body of men. They soon choked the valley’s breadth; their advance slowed and then stopped.

‘Not just skinners,’ said John Jacob. ‘It looks as though every dispossessed Frenchman we’ve ever beaten in the past has joined du Guesclin. They must need the snivelling French King’s money badly. His and the Pope’s, that is.’

Killbere hawked and spat, leaning on his sword hilt as if idly watching a tournament’s pageantry. ‘It’s more than that: it’s business as usual, John. Their cocks harden at the thought of killing Thomas. Can we see who rides with the Breton? My eyes have become as weak as my bladder.’

The approaching host drew closer, their horses at the walk, until they reined in five hundred yards from Sayyid al-Hakam’s men drawn up across the river front. The routiers’ prize lay across the river beyond the Moors.

‘D’Aubricourt’s there, so too de Bourbon,’ said Blackstone.

‘Aye, well, he’ll be out for revenge because we killed his father at Brignais. They’re resentful bastards, these French,’ said Killbere.

‘I thought I saw Arnoul d’Audrehem’s colours,’ Blackstone said. ‘He’ll have scores to settle.’

Killbere shielded his eyes. ‘Their arses are twitching now that they have to get past the Moors.’

An uneasy calm settled over the two forces facing each other. The routiers advanced slowly, caution guiding them. Bertrand du Guesclin’s banner was back among the host, a dozen ranks and more between him and the front riders.

‘Wait,’ Blackstone said to himself. ‘Another hundred yards and they’ll be level with the trees... Just ... wait,’ he muttered, willing al-Hakam to draw their enemy closer. There was no need. Sayyid al-Hakam was a veteran fighter. As the routiers’ front ranks crossed the imaginary line the Moor raised himself in the saddle and lifted his sword. His men did not move, and the fact that they didn’t charge momentarily confused the enemy. They pulled up their horses.

‘God’s tears!’ Killbere spat as al-Hakam’s mounted archers surged from the trees. It looked as though their horses were at full gallop from a standing start. Two hundred bowmen, shields on the same arm as their bows, stormed across the open ground. No sooner was the first man level with the routiers than they shot into the startled men. Not once, not twice, but repeated, rapid shooting. A dozen heartbeats saw them fell a hundred men and more. Screams shattered the morning air as routiers’ horses panicked, trampling their fallen riders.

Will Longdon’s archers bellowed their support.