De Claville looked puzzled as to how Blackstone knew; then, when he glanced at the abandoned wagons, he realized.

‘You defeated men who were my friends, some who served with me in the past. Your part in the victory has already brought you credit and honour. If you gave your word for my safety and that of my squire, I would accept it. I have no desire to cause harm to anyone under your care.’

Godfrey de Claville looked past the villeins to where Blackstone’s men were spread out across the meadow. He had too few men to withstand a sustained attack and Blackstone knew it. He could hold off an assault against the low walls and defensive ditches for a short while, but these men would keep pressing until they were within the town. No matter how hard the militia and townspeople fought, Blackstone’s men would win.

‘I give you my word,’ de Claville said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Godfrey de Claville ushered Blackstone and John Jacob through the gates. The barricades in the streets would have slowed any assault but Blackstone knew that a determined attack would have broken through. They dismounted in front of a broad-fronted building as de Claville’s men pressed curious onlookers aside. There were fewer houses than in many other towns but the streets twisted and tangled along one side and then flared into an open space where sheep and goats grazed. Blackstone saw women drawing water from two different wells and a priest hurrying head down, either in prayer or in hope that the savage-looking men who had come into the town were not harbingers of doom. Perhaps, Blackstone thought, he was in a hurry to hide his brass candlesticks. Blackstone handed the bastard horse’s reins to John Jacob as de Claville beckoned men to lift Meulon’s great frame from the litter. It took six of them.

‘In here,’ said de Claville.

Blackstone followed him inside to a cool room with a vaulted roof. The sweet smell of spring grass wafted through an open window. A long table, scrubbed clean, with benches either side, dominated the room.

‘My men eat here. There are kitchens in the next room.’ De Claville gestured for the litter-bearers to lift the unconscious man onto the table. They heaved him up and were then dismissed to return to their duties at the wall.

Blackstone put a hand against Meulon’s forehead, its pallor and his shallow breathing telling him that his friend’s life might be forfeit by nightfall.

‘I have sent for the barber-surgeon,’ said de Claville.

Blackstone nodded. The room would have barely seated thirty men. So that was the town’s strength, apart from the town’s militia, which would be pressed into service when the need arose. ‘You took prisoners at Cocherel?’