He got his spear in the rest in good time, and he caught his first man almost at a stand. The blow from his lance snapped his neck inside his helmet and he fell like a man who had been hanged, his head lolling horribly.

The impact didn’t break Gavin’s lance, so he went on, unhorsing the second man on the right, and then Bohemund was savaging another horse and it was all a tangle, a swirling dog fight. The Galles were all as big as Gavin and as well-armoured. But Bohemund took him past the third and fourth man—

He knew from the sound that his brother had struck behind him. Something hit his helmet so hard his ears rang—he lost his sword, plucked out his dagger and rammed it into a man’s armpit under his raised arm and then—no thanks to any planning—Bohemund plunged through the narrow gap in the hedge and out into the newly planted cornfield. The young maize was already tall enough to carpet the ground, and not yet tall enough to give any cover.

An arrow slammed into his back plate and he cursed. But he pointed his horse up the slope and crouched low on his saddle, hoping that the archers would see his arms on his surcoat.

Gabriel went through the Galles like a threaded needle where an awl has already passed. He unhorsed men on either side as if it was a tilting game—rings—and not a blow landed on him. He watched Gavin pass the gap in the hedge and he touched his spurs to Ataelus and they were through—he just managed to get his lance tip up and not unhorse himself on the hedge, which would have been embarrassing. As he passed the hedge, he had a flash of Ser Danved and Angelo di Laternum running their courses.

The open field was like a different world. They had emerged on the south side of the hedge, so none of Du Corse’s men-at-arms were there. But new banners were flooding into the field from the south. The leading banner was the Earl of Towbray’s.

Ser Bertran, Le Shakle and di Laternum all emerged from the hedge with Ser Danved at their heels, a heavy mace in his hand. He was roaring his war cry.

There was nowhere to rally in the patchwork of planted fields. Nor did Gabriel want another go. He pointed uphill with his lance. “Go!” he shouted. “Follow Gavin!”

In the fields below him, the Earl of Towbray’s knights hooted and began to cross the first ditch. Gabriel watched them. On the road, a man took aim with a crossbow and loosed, and Gabriel had a moment’s deep fear, and then the bolt sailed into the ground well short.

A heavy rider burst out of the hedge. He saluted as he rode past. “I’m the last, Monsieur!” called Jean, Ser Bertran’s squire.