Some Frenchmen faltered but others seized the chance to kill the despised bowmen who had slain so many noblemen during the great battles. Around them, French knights continued to punish the English men-at-arms and some of Chandos’s men suffered grievous wounds, but their defiance still held back the French, many of whom felt the searing sting of an archer’s knife hamstringing them. When they fell, lame, borne down by the burly weight of an archer, those same razor-sharp blades plunged through visors as they squirmed on the ground. Heels drummed, legs bucked, but they could not escape the savage death inflicted.

Will Longdon cursed. He spat venom. Punched a spearman in the face and kicked him hard between the legs. The man vomited, spewing over Longdon. Behind him Jack Halfpenny had taken his twenty archers and followed John Chandos, whose men were cutting a path towards the French Captain of Normandy, Bertrand du Guesclin. Ransom was booty.

Knights jostled in their tight formation. Where a friend had been now was a bloodied corpse, the gap filled by another. Elbows clashed; swords were often useless. Men wrestled, grappling each other to the ground. Longdon heard Welsh curses and screams. Some of his men had gone too far forward. Defenceless against armour, shield and blade they went down, writhing. Arms severed. Legs hacked. Faces torn. Knights pulled up their visors, gasping for breath and freedom from the iron cage. Then they died under sword or knife.

Longdon caught a glimpse of Blackstone. He had cut a wedge towards Charles de Blois but the Breton’s banner stood tall. Yet the French and Breton men-at-arms had made no ground.

Blackstone bent his back, brought his shield closer to his chest and forced his legs to pump harder. Two men fell under his weight, then a third. John Jacob followed at his shoulder and slew those who went down. De Montfort was isolated. He killed an axe-bearing knight but then looked around frantically as others closed in on him. His banner wavered and then fell as the enemy pummelled the bearer’s helm. Blood spurted from the man’s nose and mouth; dazed, he slipped in gore and entrails. A roar of victory rose above the screaming men. They thought de Montfort finished. They thought Brittany was theirs.

They thought wrong. Blackstone barged de Montfort aside to safety and stepped into the breach. There was no victory cry from those he killed. De Montfort regained his balance and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. The heaving mass swayed. Ragged gaps appeared in the French divisions, rent aside like strong hands tearing an emblazoned surcoat, the material resisting and then yielding.