De Montfort grimaced. Perhaps from the bile that rose into his throat. ‘As you wish, but they found his man with some of my gold and silver coin. More than two thousand francs were stolen before the battle.’

Chandos looked at Blackstone.

‘Renfred is no thief,’ Blackstone told him.

De Montfort pointed a finger, stopping Blackstone from offering any further defence. ‘You do not have the evidence. My blazon was on the satchel, stolen from my pavilion.’

Chandos had no choice but to question Blackstone. ‘Thomas? What’s happened here? I know your captain. Renfred would not steal.’

‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ said Blackstone. ‘I stole the money.’

Blackstone might as well have struck de Montfort across the face. He staggered back, dazed by the revelation. Even Chandos could not mask his surprise.

‘I asked you for gold and silver, de Montfort, but you cosseted it like a hen sitting on eggs. Money is to be used. The odds against us were too great. No matter how valiantly our men fought, the sheer weight of numbers would have crushed us. Therefore I came into your pavilion and took the coin, and then I sent Renfred with it into the heart of the enemy. The Bretons are greedy: whoever offers them more they will take it. You saw them desert. Why did they leave the battle? Abandon a leader such as du Guesclin? Renfred – risking his life – told them that if they deserted they would be paid. Better to collect gold and silver for certain than risk dying before getting the chance to loot the battlefield, no? It was a gamble, but it worked. Your gold weakened the enemy. It helped give you victory. You must learn who to trust. Decide, young Lord of Brittany. Do you wish to put a rope around my neck? Or even try?’

The dumbfounded silence was all the answer Blackstone needed. He looked at Chandos.

‘My men and I will leave at dawn. We’ve done our part. Let us hope we helped the right man win.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A week later Blackstone and the men looked at the twenty or more defenders who had been hanged from Villaines’s town walls. Wisps of smoke persisted from smouldering timbers on torched houses. Blackstone kneed the bastard horse towards the gates. The town’s captain Godfrey de Claville, who had accepted payment for ben Josef and given safe passage so that Meulon could be treated, hung over the main entrance to the town. His limbs had been severed; his entrails spilled from the open cavity. His mutilated body was an obscene act of violence from the vile creature Ranulph de Hayle who rightly called himself le Bête.

‘That son of a whore de Hayle is the culprit. Look there,’ confirmed Killbere, pointing to men slain by crossbowmen. ‘They wear his colours. The bowmen took some skinners down before they overwhelmed them.’

‘I am responsible for what’s happened here,’ said Blackstone.