‘Well, my lord. You have won the day. Time to honour our dead and reward the living,’ said Blackstone.

A trumpet sounded ahead. Then another.

‘That’s Chandos. He summons you,’ said Killbere. ‘They’ve captured or killed de Blois.’

‘Go, my lord,’ said Blackstone. ‘Claim your rightful title. You are Duke of Brittany now.’

De Montfort nodded and pressed a hand on Blackstone’s arm. ‘I will do as you say, Sir Thomas. You saved me and you rescued Brittany. I will not forget what you and these men have done this day.’

John de Montfort followed the clarion call and walked up the hill to where pockets of men gathered in the distance.

Blackstone turned away with Killbere and John Jacob. Will Longdon had retrieved his bow and weaved his way towards them. Dried blood on his hands and arms told their own story. He had a dozen silver inlaid belts over his shoulder.

‘Will? How many archers did we lose?’ said Blackstone.

‘Nine or ten of the Welshmen. Halfpenny’s lads are safe.’ They splashed across the ford. The dead lay everywhere. A keening buzzard circled. Crows hopped from body to body, shooed away by looters stripping the corpses.

‘We killed far more than we lost,’ said John Jacob.

‘Aye, but I don’t know how,’ said Blackstone. He raised Arianrhod to his lips. ‘Angels at our backs.’

‘And the devil in our sword arm,’ said Killbere.

The rout continued across the distant ground. Those who had fought with Blackstone were content to let Chandos and de Montfort’s men give chase and bear down on the straggling army. The view from where Blackstone and Killbere stood showed bodies scattered across the landscape. Death entwined men in their last desperate urge to live. Blackstone sluiced water over his head as men around him stripped off their armour and splashed themselves; others lay in the shallows and let the bloodied water wash the sweat and heat from them. Pennon bearers rammed the shafts into hedges, their blazons still flying aloft in victory. Men-at-arms lay back, drinking from wineskins, spreading out before them the stripped mail and plate they had scavenged.

‘Sir Thomas!’ John Jacob pointed to the top of the hill where Meulon and his men guarded the baggage train. Black smoke rose above the treeline.

Blackstone ran.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Meulon had watched the battle begin as the wall of men clambered up the incline. The three divisions looked ready to swamp Blackstone and the first line of defence but the throat-cutter had stood in such ranks in the past and knew Blackstone had planned well. Armoured men would struggle up the hill, and every advantage no matter how slight would aid those who opposed them; Blackstone’s men never wore full armour.