At the centre of the camp, servants were bringing seated noblemen food and refreshment. They watched as their men threw a rope over pavilion poles hastily bound to make a gallows. De Montfort, stripped of armour, gambeson and shirt, wore an embroidered robe. He sipped wine from a silver goblet, his hair combed back, still damp from plunging his head into a bucket of fresh water to sluice away the grime. He was flushed with victory and spoke animatedly with his noblemen. His laughter subsided when he saw half a dozen men-at-arms step into Blackstone’s path. They were there to stop any unauthorized approach to their lord and were as confident with their success in battle as their master. Their leader raised a hand and called for Blackstone to stop and state his business. It was a mistake. The force from Blackstone’s fist threw him against the others. They reached for their swords but Killbere and John Jacob already had theirs drawn. De Montfort’s shock caused him to take a step back. The goblet fell from his hand. Beyond Killbere, Blackstone’s men ranged themselves, hands resting on weapons, ready to cause violence the moment Blackstone gave the signal.

‘You dare?’ said de Montfort, gasping at Blackstone’s audacity. His knights and noblemen were on their feet, but unprepared. Their weapons were being cleaned by servants.

Blackstone looked to where Renfred knelt, hands bound behind him, a rope around his neck forcing his head back as the two men ready to haul him onto the cart and his death were pushed away by Killbere and Jack Halfpenny.

‘Renfred is my man. You have no right to take his life. He is my man.’ Blackstone signalled to Killbere. ‘Cut him free.’

A flustered John de Montfort looked panic-stricken as he searched across the heads of the men drawn to the confrontation but saw no sign of John Chandos. ‘Sir John!’ he called.

Blackstone was so close he could have reached out and taken him by the throat. ‘Don’t call for your wet nurse. You will not be suckling off victory’s teat after today if you hurt my man. Why have you taken Renfred?’

‘You dare...’ de Montfort repeated himself, trying vainly to find authority in his voice. ‘... to challenge me? To question my authority here?’

‘Your authority ended when Charles of Blois was found dead on the field of battle. Sir John Chandos and I gave you triumph over your enemy. You may be the Duke of Brittany but you do not seize my men without my permission.’

‘He is a thief!’ said de Montfort – a proclamation to anyone within earshot.

‘He is my captain and he is no thief. I vouch for him.’