‘A few. I captured a handful of men and was awarded most of their supplies. We are a small town. It was a generous reward that added to our grain stores.’

‘I am looking for a man called Beyard. A Gascon. He fought with de Grailly. I was told a Breton lord captured him.’

‘I took no Gascons, only Navarrese. I’ll ransom them when the time is right.’

A dishevelled man, his drab cloak stained with what looked to be dry blood, came into the room. He pulled back his cowl with one hand and gripped a rolled cloth to his chest with the other. ‘I was pulling teeth,’ he said by way of explanation to de Claville, his eyes on the wounded man. ‘And him?’

‘Wounded with a knife blade. We cleaned the wound and packed it with herbs,’ said Blackstone.

‘Waste of time. Herbs cause harm, didn’t anyone ever tell you that?’ said the barber-surgeon. ‘Cow dung is what you need to seal a wound.’

Blackstone knew differently. He had seen the curative effects of herbs on his men’s injuries, but he remained silent. A battlefield surgeon could act with speed and efficiency if he was the right kind of man.

‘Tell me what you plan to do before you do it,’ said Blackstone.

The surgeon pulled back his sleeves. His grubby fingers probed Meulon’s wound. Meulon’s body recoiled. ‘I feel the metal,’ he said. ‘All right, what I’m going to do to him will wake him up. Get men in here to hold him,’ he told de Claville and unrolled the bound cloth, exposing cutting knives, pliers and a saw. Their pitted blades were chipped and dull. Cleaner knives would be found in a badly run kitchen. ‘I cut here,’ he said, showing a lateral and horizontal cut across Meulon’s side. ‘He’s a big man but getting in deep enough and pulling out a shard of a blade, I don’t know. I might cut into his rib. I am not responsible, you understand. The body holds many secrets that we do not understand. He’ll bleed like a pig,’ he said matter-of-factly and reached for a knife.

Blackstone grabbed his arm. ‘You will not go near my friend. I would have my own men treat him before I let you rip him apart.’

The surgeon trembled. The man towered over him, threatening violence. ‘My lord, he will die anyway. Better that I try.’

Blackstone took a handful of the man’s cloak, marched him to the door and threw him into the street. He turned to de Claville. ‘He’s a butcher. I’ve seen men die on the battlefield because of men like him. Is there no monk or nun who knows how to heal? An apothecary?’