Killbere groaned. ‘Mother of God, Thomas, you are not.’

‘He must have come here after he killed Kynith at the river. He made a run for it and took revenge for losing Beyard,’ said John Jacob. ‘Why here?’

‘It was in his path,’ said Killbere. ‘It could have been any village or town.’

‘And we brought the survivors here for safety from his previous attacks,’ said Blackstone.

The men let their gaze settle on the slaughter. Bodies lay where they had fallen. A trail of them led away from the town, cut down as they ran. The killing looked little different from the scattered dead across the fields after the battle at Auray.

‘Godfrey de Claville said he did not have enough men to defend the town if de Hayle attacked. I promised to bring him the bastard’s head. I failed. Now everyone we saved and these townspeople are dead. The debt mounts up, Gilbert. Their blood is on my hands.’

‘If the coward had fought in the battle, you would have kept the promise. You cannot kill someone who does not present himself,’ said Killbere.

Meulon nudged his horse forward. ‘Sir Thomas, do we take them down from the walls? Bury them?’

Blackstone shook his head. ‘The French will come. Leave them to their own.’ He tugged the reins to turn the bastard horse and saw Halif ben Josef running from the wagon, robes flapping.

‘Ben Josef!’ Beyard shouted.

The surgeon skirted the men’s horses and ran into the town.

Blackstone rode after him as he turned into a side street. Killbere and John Jacob followed. The bastard horse ignored the dead lying in the street and cantered across their torn bodies. Ben Josef knelt before a ruined house. Four bodies lay at the entrance, two of whom were children. The surgeon sat palms upward, muttering to the God he followed.

Blackstone dismounted. ‘Master ben Josef. Is this your family?’

The old man stared at the two dead children. Their heads had been caved in from what must have been savage blows from a mace.

‘Master ben Josef?’ Blackstone said again as he dismounted, the tenderness in his voice drawing the man’s attention away from the dead.

The kneeling man wiped a hand across his face. Blackstone gently helped him as he struggled to his feet. Ben Josef nodded his thanks. He sighed, and pointed at the dead. ‘I saved these children as surely as I saved your man, Sir Thomas. This family put aside any ill feeling towards me – a Jew, a humbled prisoner whose life could be ended in a heartbeat – and then they welcomed me into their home. Against the wishes of their neighbours. Even against the harsh words of their priest. Their gratitude touched me.’

‘There’s nothing we can do here.’

‘You should give them a Christian burial.’

‘No, we must ride on.’

‘You are a Christian. Do you abandon their souls?’