John Jacob bled like every other man, but he raised the pennon again and signalled for the men to fall back against the cliff face. They knew where the traps had been dug and their withdrawal gave the French added strength but ten yards later the staggered holes concealed by Blackstone’s ranks snared their ankles. Stumbling headlong, they fell on defenders’ blades. It was a temporary respite as Blackstone’s shields came together, a half-circle of desperate men determined to fight to their last. The French and their routiers faltered. Exhaustion clawed at every fighter but the men who bore Blackstone’s blazon still glared over the rim of their shields. The routiers sucked air, drank heavily from their wineskins, biding their time, waiting for more of their fellow mercenaries to breach the fallen and gather in strength.

The sun had arced across the sky and put Blackstone’s men in the cliff’s shade. The cool air refreshed them. The blood-soaked ground bore witness to the day-long battle.

‘Be ready,’ Blackstone called to Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny, whose archers now stood with their backs against the rock face. He saw they had lost half their numbers. ‘Will?’

‘Aye, Thomas, but no man has more than a dozen shafts.’

‘Then shoot as fast as the Moors. We’ll only drop the shields once.’

They waited. Beyond the river hundreds of wounded men had dragged themselves back from the battle. Would they come again? Blackstone’s resistance had defied everything they had thrown at the outnumbered men. French captains could be heard urging their troops to gather for one last effort to crush the beleaguered English. It boosted the mercenaries’ courage and, with a low murmur soon whipped into a roar, they gathered a hundred paces back from where Blackstone’s men huddled wearily behind their shields. The routiers chanted, beat swords against shields, forcing blood into tired muscles and failing courage. And then they charged.

‘Wait,’ said Blackstone. The routiers pounded forward. Seventy-five yards. They raised swords, bared teeth in a snarling hatred for the Englishmen who refused to die. Fifty yards. The weight of their attack would flatten the shield wall. ‘Now!’ Blackstone said.

The shield bearers dropped to one knee, exposing the attacking mercenaries to Blackstone’s archers. The routiers died at thirty-five yards. Those behind stumbled but the archers shot again, and again. They loosed arrow shafts until they had no more. Blackstone’s men raised their shields. The unexpected violence slowed the French but there were still men further back on the top of the riverbank.

The ground shuddered as William Ashford led a dozen horsemen from the quarry entrance and swept around the steadfast Englishmen, pressing aching shoulders against shields, blood knots biting into wrists, soaked from sweat and their enemy’s gore. Ashford’s horsemen rode through the routiers. They had no fight left in them. The final attack was broken. The French turned and scrambled across the blood-soaked riverbank.