Meulon gestured to where ben Josef tended to the wounded. ‘Helping him. Whatever’s happened to the lad he’s scared for his life and I thought the old man might help soothe him by speaking his own language.’

‘All right,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll have him watched and talk to ben Josef. I don’t want the boy running off. We need to find out more.’

‘He won’t run,’ said Beyard. ‘He sticks to me like shit to a blanket. He was in that cell with me long enough to watch the others die. I was the only one who helped him. He’ll stay with me and I’ll feed him.’

Blackstone looked across the battlefield. ‘Ranulph de Hayle took no part in the battle. He must have a reason for snatching him. He’s playing both sides and as the boy has nothing to do with us then he must be of value to the French. Beyard, you’re stronger?’

‘The potions strengthen me every hour.’

‘Then you will stay as the boy’s guardian until we find out more.’

Blackstone looked to where the baggage attendants were heaping dirt on the burning tar barrel until they extinguished it. ‘De Hayle hadn’t expected to have a fight on his hands. I thank God you’re healing, Meulon.’

Meulon looked at ben Josef again. ‘He has a touch and a skill I have not seen before, Sir Thomas. I’m glad of it.’

‘We need wine and food. Fighting sucks a man’s vitals,’ said Killbere. ‘Thomas, let’s rid ourselves of mail and plate and wash the stench of the fight from us. I’ll get the attendants to fetch water.’

Killbere placed a hand on Meulon’s arm as he passed. ‘Well done, my friend.’

Will Longdon followed. ‘This was a quiet camp when we left you in charge. Now we have to share it with the dead. I hope my loot was not in that wagon.’

‘I fed the flames with it,’ said Meulon.

Longdon grinned. ‘I would expect nothing less.’

Blackstone pulled fingers through his wet hair. ‘Has Renfred returned?’

Meulon shook his head.

Blackstone winced. ‘I sent him into a viper’s nest. Post sentries. Let’s not give de Hayle a chance to mount a sneak attack when the army is scattered and our guard is down. He tried once; if I were him I would strike again when an enemy thought an attack had failed.’

Meulon grunted, cleared his throat and spat. ‘But he’s not you, Sir Thomas.’

*