Blackstone and every man around him stared in awe at al-Hakam’s archers’ speed and skill. Not only were their bow arms shielded, but the fingers on the hands that drew back the bowstring gripped the pommel of their sword hilts, with the long double-edged blade resting backwards across the crook of their draw arms. By the time the lead archers reached the end of the routiers’ front line, their arrows were expended, the bow discarded and the sword fully gripped, ready to hack into the panicking routiers.

‘Kill them! KILL THEM!’ Will Longdon cried out.

Blackstone’s men’s blood was roused by the ferocity and skill of the mounted archers, who now slashed their way into the huddled ranks of mercenaries. Blackstone strode forward, knowing his men were fired with the lust to kill. He faced the ranks of men-at-arms and archers. ‘Hold! We hold! They’ll come soon enough!’ He saw his captains control their men and then he turned and faced the far bank again where Sayidd al-Hakam held back his cavalry. His archers fought with sword and shield, driving their lightweight mounts into the enemy’s heavy coursers even though the mercenaries showed no pity as they scythed into the courageous smaller horses.

Will Longdon choked back the tears of anger that threatened him. The man he had befriended would already be dead. He saw the routiers’ sheer weight of numbers heave forward. And still al-Hakam held his men in check – until the skinners were two hundred yards from him, trying to skirt the fallen mounts, trampling their fallen comrades. Despite their numbers they could not yet get a clear run to spur their horses into a gallop.

And that’s when Sayyid-al-Hakam bent low over his horse’s withers and surged forward. Blackstone felt the ground tremble. Dust quivered and fell from the old stone bridge.

The French-led routiers had not learnt the lesson from Crécy and Poitiers and every engagement since when they fought the English. They stayed mounted. Bertrand du Guesclin and the French commanders with him remained steeped in their arrogance. Instead of withdrawing a half-mile, dismounting and setting up defensive positions on foot, they persisted in jostling forward, as eager as ever to claim honour and victory. But four hundred Moors on horseback, no matter how lightly armed, brought ferocity and fearlessness to the fight.

Al-Hakam’s men hurled steel-tipped spears into the routiers and then, sword in hand, swarmed into the fray, leaving a trail of blood-soaked ground where man and horse writhed from the savagery inflicted on them. Further back in the French ranks, banners and pennons wavered, showing Blackstone that the Moors had penetrated deep into the enemy’s ranks.

The battle on the far side of the river took two hours. It would soon be over.