Blackstone’s wheel towards Killbere and Chandos had cut the body of the French attack in two. Killbere was lying on the ground on his back across fallen men, knees raised to protect himself from sword points, shield tight across his body, head tucked in. He cursed every whoreson’s mother for dropping them from her belly as they struck at him. Chandos was too far ahead to turn back. Blackstone’s savagery carved a path to Killbere, and his attackers fell, mutilated, writhing in agony from vicious wounds. John Jacob and de Montfort despatched them as Blackstone leaned down and hauled Killbere to his feet.

‘Gilbert? You’re hurt?’

Killbere snapped back his visor. Blood trickled into his beard. He shook his head. Slammed down the visor again and, without another word, fought on. The four men became a phalanx. A broadhead arrow piercing through the French division whose strength had now crumbled. A ring of Chandos’s men guarded a stocky bareheaded man with a swarthy complexion, his armour filled from his barrel chest. It was Bertrand du Guesclin, alive, captured by Chandos. He was a prize.

Chandos had veered away with his men as Will Longdon and the Welsh archers scurried across, piercing the visors of the fallen with their archer’s knives. Jack Halfpenny had held his position with his archers ready to shoot should a counter-attack come in from their blind side, a flank that spilled away across undulating ground, curving down into a broad meadow valley protected either side by forests. If Charles de Blois had reserves, then they would swarm from concealment and, like a knife wound in a man’s side, pierce the body of men. No threat appeared. Crushed and suffocated men sprawled underfoot; wounded raised an arm for mercy but none was given unless their blazon denoted rank and then they were claimed for ransom.

Blackstone and the men splashed across the ford in pursuit of the retreating French. In the distance Charles de Blois’s banner wavered and fell. It signalled the end. His army turned and ran.

Blackstone and Killbere let the men behind them chase after the survivors. Killbere pulled free his helm and cowl. A blow had cut his scalp. He snorted snot from his nose and spat, then pulled off a gauntlet and tested the wound. It was nothing. He coughed and spat again, gasping for breath like every man around him. ‘Much more of these blows to my head will scar me like animal tracks through a forest.’

‘I need a new shield,’ Blackstone said, freeing his arm from it. An axe remained embedded in it.

‘A woodpecker would make less mess,’ said Killbere. A hundred blade strikes scarred the shield.

John de Montfort bent double and vomited. He straightened. Men’s cries became more distant. Blood trickled down his hand from an arm wound. Blackstone’s open helm showed a blood-flecked face.