‘And miss this fight against you? Why do you think I fought for my life? I knew you and your kind would one day need to be whipped like a village cur. This is the day.’

Charles de Blois heeled his horse.

Blackstone and the others watched them canter away to where their men had formed up, readying themselves for the fight should the talks fail. Shouted commands ordered the armoured knights to dismount. Blackstone yanked de Montfort’s reins, startling the younger man; the expression of dread on his face was plain to see.

‘You wanted a fight: this is how it begins. They are seething with anger from our insults. It will make them reckless. Look to your front and see the four thousand men who want you dead. Look left and right and see those who will keep you alive. Are you ready?’

‘I am,’ said John de Montfort in a whisper full of fear.

‘Then do as we say and follow our lead and we will give you the Duchy of Brittany this day,’ said Blackstone.

De Montfort nodded. Words failed him as he watched the massed troops he needed to defeat.

‘There’s the priest,’ said Chandos. ‘No man wants to die unshriven. It’s Sunday. Get to mass, my lord, and pray for your soul.’

A cart had pulled up in front of the army. They had brought the priest from Auray to give thanks to God and absolution to the men who were about to kill or die. The priest found his balance and stood in the back of the open wagon before the gathered host with raised hands. Charles de Blois and his knights would adhere to the same ritual on their side of the river. A man’s sins needed to be washed away, just as the river would sluice away their blood.

De Montfort spurred his horse. Blackstone and Killbere watched him.

‘Well?’ said Chandos. ‘Will he come through this?’

‘We’ll make sure he does,’ said Blackstone. He and Killbere turned their horses and rode along the flanks to the rear. Meulon was strapping on his broad leather belt. Ben Josef stood next to a wagon where the rescued boy and Beyard still lay. Blackstone saw the crease in Meulon’s belt. He had tightened it an extra notch.

‘You’re not to fight, Meulon. Not in this battle at least.’

‘Sir Thomas, I am healed enough. I’ll not have my men fight without me.’

Blackstone glanced past him to where ben Josef shook his head.

‘You’re tightening your belt to aid the wound,’ said Blackstone.

‘The Jew has starved me. He feeds me little more than goat’s milk and crushed grain. I shrink from his ministrations.’