The French came forward so tightly packed the line of men wavered like an uncertain tide disrupted by the undulating ground beneath their feet. Blackstone stood a yard behind John de Montfort so that the divisions behind him saw him as their commander. Charles de Blois led his own men from the front, taking them across the shallow ford. French spears bobbed up and down as men stumbled and fell, the weight of their armour slowing their advance and their feet snagging on rocks and river stones. Men behind trampled them underfoot for the unrelenting march forward could not be stopped. Crossing the river fractured the tightly packed formation and only when they reached the near bank where Blackstone and the English army waited did they re-form. As each rank clambered up the hill those behind struggled to find their footing in the wet grass churned into mud by those ahead. The waiting men could hear their curses.

Blackstone saw de Montfort’s impatience. ‘Wait, my lord, they are not yet sufficiently tired. They still have to gather themselves. Sweat will blind them and chafe beneath their armour. Let them come.’

De Montfort nodded, still eager for the attack to begin. Blackstone looked away to the right flank where Will Longdon’s archers stood ready, interspersed between Chandos’s men-at-arms and where Killbere stood with Blackstone’s men. The approaching French armour clanked and scraped as they shuffled tighter together. Their shields encumbered them, colourful blazons of beasts of the forest and birds of the air. Pennons bobbed, banners furled, dipped and rose again as their bearers struggled on, trying to keep their footing. Drumbeats drove them on. Steady, steady, another pace, another yard. Bellowing voices rose, commands to wheel centre and face the waiting army above them.

‘Now?’ said de Montfort.

‘No,’ said Blackstone.

De Montfort watched as Blackstone slipped Wolf’s Sword blood knot over his wrist and settled his shield. It would be soon.

The rhythmic thump of drumbeat and men’s footfall shook the ground. Any moment now and the archers would loose. Blackstone counted the seconds. Every stride nearer brought the French closer to death. Memory stirred in him. An extended arm, back bent from the effort of pulling the draw weight of his bow. The picture in his mind of where his arrow should fly. And then the release. Bend, pull another yard-long shaft from the cluster rammed in the ground at your feet. Bend, nock, draw and loose. Over and over as the air whistled and fluttered with thousands of arrows. The thud of impact. Hailstones on armour. Clattering, drowning out pain.

‘Now?’ de Montfort’s voice eager. Jarring. Breaking the memory.

Blackstone felt rather than heard the creak of the yew bows. The intake of breath from the archers as they heaved their cords back. And then Will Longdon’s cry. ‘Loose!’

Whoosh. Bird flight. Startled from the ground. Beating rapidly upwards. And again.