‘I thought as much. He’s not here, is he? It was doubtful you’d let him fight against such odds. You held the ground so he might escape and reach the Prince.’

Blackstone made no reply. Hugh Calveley was one of the best field commanders and knew what options Blackstone had faced. Calveley gave a slight nod of his head towards the men waiting behind him. ‘You caused Bertrand du Guesclin and the French heavy losses. But they want you, Thomas, more than anything in the world they want you, and now that we are here we can give them what they want.’

‘There will be no surrender, Hugh.’

‘And I would not ask it.’

‘Then we have said all that needs to be said.’

Calveley leaned forward on his saddle’s pommel. ‘The French and their skinners are grievously hurt and without my men they will have no more stomach to fight. Thomas, I did not come here to kill our King’s Master of War.’ He wheeled the horse away.

Blackstone’s exhaustion and relief threatened to put him on his knees. He faced his ragged handful of men, raised Wolf Sword above his head and heard their roar of victory.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

It took two weary days of travel for Blackstone’s men to reach Puebla de Sanabria where Don Pedro was waiting at the Iglesia de Santa María del Azogue. The town was spread across the top of a hillside within the bend of two rivers, a clear vantage point to observe any approaching enemy and a safe enough place for a fugitive King seeking refuge. They had carried their dead on horseback to the small town’s church for burial. The routiers abandoned their own dead, leaving them to rot. Blackstone’s losses were heavy. Twenty-seven archers had fallen and thirty-six men-at-arms. Their slow ride north took longer because of the men’s wounds and exhaustion; in reality it was little more than a funeral procession that brought tears to those whose friends had died.