Blackstone saw the sea beyond the cliff’s edge. The vast expanse of horizon made him light-headed. He was in no condition to fight. Defeat settled over him like a coastal fog, seeping deep inside him. Like a drunk, he argued aloud with himself. Cursing his exhaustion. Berating his lack of defiance. Blackstone squeezed his eyes tight. He fled into the past, a fugitive from his own weakness. He saw the horde at Crécy; heard the cries of terror as man and horse fought and died; remembered how as a sixteen-year-old archer he had smashed and clawed his way through the tide of killing to try to save his brother. Voices in his memory from Poitiers cried out of the driving urge to kill the French King. The images fought to gain the upper hand. His mind swirled. He burst into the room at Meaux and saw his slaughtered wife and child. Blackstone stood still, blood and recollection surging through him. He raised his face to the sky and bellowed his rage.

He was downwind from those he pursued but de Hayle turned and saw him. The woman snarled, perhaps in surprise that Blackstone was still alive. She said something, her words snatched away by the wind. De Hayle unsheathed his sword and waited, a broad grin on his face that told the approaching Blackstone the routier was ready to kill his weakened opponent and would do it quickly.

Blackstone could not run. His legs refused to go any faster but he lengthened his stride to close with the murderous de Hayle, his determined approach showing he wanted nothing more than to gut the man from crotch to chin. Blackstone’s foot caught a tuft of heavy grass. His leg almost gave way, but he recovered quickly. He heard de Hayle laugh.

‘Come on, Blackstone, you’re like a drunk who’s spent a night in a whorehouse,’ he taunted. ‘I’ll kill you quickly and then we can be on our way. I have a purse full of gold to spend.’

Blackstone concentrated on the man’s face. It was a target to carry him forward over the tussocks. When he was twenty yards from the mercenary, he drew Wolf Sword. He looked at the woman, who stood unmoving thirty paces beyond de Hayle.

‘You cannot live, Thomas,’ she called. ‘The poison is already in you. I’m surprised you made it this far. The more you labour the quicker it works. I should have given you a stronger dose. There is no need for you to suffer the humiliation of defeat or feel the pain of his blade. Sit by the stream and let the poison take you gently.’

Blackstone gripped Wolf Sword, wrapping his free hand over his fist, squeezing every bit of strength into both hands. He staggered, shaking his head to clear his blurred vision as he looked from one to the other.