‘Goddammit, Meulon, you’re twice the size of any man here. An ancient oak does not have the same girth,’ said Killbere. ‘You fight with that wound and it will tear. We bartered to have ben Josef with us so we may continue the fight when we are able.’

‘I have fought with worse injury,’ Meulon said.

‘I want you here,’ said Blackstone. ‘You and twenty men are to guard Beyard, ben Josef and the boy. The bastard who killed Kynith is not among the enemy ranks. Beyard was his ransom and I doubt he’ll let him escape so easily. I need you and Beyard alive and ready to fight again. The Prince has plans for us that go beyond this fight. Arm yourself, set up a perimeter and let no man approach within fifty paces without warning. You can be sure that if Ranulph de Hayle comes he will present himself as an English captain not as Ronec le Bête. I need you here, my friend.’

Meulon looked from Blackstone to Killbere. ‘Very well, Sir Thomas. I’ll do as you command.’

‘And if he does get close, kill the whoreson,’ said Killbere.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Blackstone rode back to the front of the army. Sir John Chandos took up position, as did Killbere. Their horses were taken to the rear by the pages. Blackstone pulled the bastard horse up next to de Montfort.

‘My lord, you are shriven?’

De Montfort nodded. ‘And you, Sir Thomas?’

‘God knows where I am if He needs me.’

De Montfort glanced at the pagan symbol nestling next to a small gold crucifix. ‘You give yourself to Christ and the Goddess of the Silver Wheel?’

‘I give myself to my sword that bears the swordmaster’s mark of the running wolf. Beyond that it doesn’t matter.’ Blackstone looked across the enemy host, whose ranks were so tightly packed it would be hard to put a blade between one man and the next. Every man carried a five-foot-long spear and a short-handled battleaxe at his side as well as his sword and knife. ‘They’ll aim to come at us in unbroken ranks. It will be like hacking our way through a forest. The archers will slow them but men on foot do not yield as easily as if they were mounted – a screaming horse pierced with broadhead arrows thrashes in its agony and creates confusion. Today we’ll have to attack when the men close ranks and cover themselves with shields against arrows raining down. That’s when we’ll break them.’

De Montfort licked his lips, his nervousness palpable. Blackstone handed him a wineskin. ‘Drink,’ he told the young knight.

‘I am not afraid,’ he said.

‘Then you’re a fool,’ said Blackstone. ‘They outnumber us. They are led by Bertrand du Guesclin, who is the best commander the French have. They are well armed, seasoned in war. Their sheer weight could crush us.’