‘Ah. You’ve heard of him?’ The routier raised his bound hands and blew snot from his bloodied nostrils. ‘Ronec’s a clever bastard. How many use another name to bring money into our purse? Ronec is as English as you and me, Sir Thomas. Ronec le Bête, he calls himself. Married a French whore after the truce, sired a clutch of bastards here and there. The “Beast” sounds better in French than English. Puts the fear of Christ into everyone.’

‘I have fought across France and Italy for half my life and I never heard of him until yesterday,’ said Blackstone.

The mercenary shrugged. ‘So what? A man lives and dies and no one knows his name. But he has ambition. Who can blame a man for that? Besides...’ He sniggered. ‘Shield yourself behind a false name and those who pay for the slaughter keep their hands clean.’

Killbere pushed his knife under the man’s chin, forcing him onto his toes as a trickle of blood ran down his throat. ‘My lord,’ the man begged.

Blackstone pressed a hand against Killbere’s arm, lowering the blade. ‘I may not save you from the rope unless you tell me his name.’

The routier looked at the blood he had wiped from his neck. ‘He’s from a good family in Essex. Turned bad. Thieved and killed and was imprisoned by the sheriff but pardoned by the King when he invaded back in ’59. He fought in the Prince of Wales’s division at Rheims. Ranulph de Hayle. That’s who he is.’ The killer grinned, his arrogance undiminished, having bought himself a better death. ‘Sir Thomas, how about giving me one of the girls before you hang me? I’ll take her quick. That one. The youngster. No loss to you and a man can die happy with drink in his belly and his cock pleasured one last time.’

Blackstone and Killbere looked to where the man leered. A girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, offering comfort to the orphaned child she cradled.

Blackstone grabbed him by the scruff of his jupon and marched him into the open. The routier blustered and cried out but Blackstone ignored him as he turned to face the survivors in the forest. ‘This man raped and killed. He is yours to do with what you want.’ He pushed the terrified man away from him.

The routier stumbled. Got to his feet, clasped his bounds hands in supplication. ‘Sir Thomas. You promised me a good death. Hang me, lord, I beg you,’ he pleaded as the survivors emerged from the trees and headed towards them.

‘We have no rope,’ said Blackstone.