Gabriel smiled. “You know what?” he said. “We are going to rock de Vrailly back. And then we’re going to ride north and collect the rest of our forces.” He paused, watching Du Corse, who was giving a speech. “And then, by my powers, I’m going to show Master Thorn something.”

The Galles gave a throaty roar.

The horsemen put their beasts to the trot and then the canter. They had charged once, and they weren’t fresh, and they, too, were on their second or third fight in a few days. Many of their horses hadn’t recovered from a sea voyage. Those didn’t get past a trot.

And when they passed Cully’s almost-invisible line of withies stuck into the ground, the arrows fell on them.

Gabriel took a riding horse from Nell and rode back along the hedge to the Queen.

Towbray’s men had come a third of the way up the hill. The militia hadn’t even come as far.

“About time to go, your grace,” he said. He smiled at Amicia.

She frowned. “You love war,” she said. She shook her head. “It’s an odd thing to love.”

The Queen made a face. “I’m ready to go wherever you lead,” she said to her captain.

He nodded at Ser Francis. “When we charge, follow us down,” he said. “We’ll cut our way out and ride for Lorica.”

Ser Francis nodded. “What are the odds on my fief in Thrake?” he asked.

“Not bad at all,” Gabriel answered. He trotted back to the hedge. All the archers were working as hard as men can work, their bodies straining into the big bows, their back muscles and arms doing a day’s work in a few minutes.

Cully pulled a shaft to his ear and let it go.

Flarch and Ricard Lantorn called out, almost together, “Twenty.” Most of the archers only had a hand of shafts in the ground at their feet along the gaps in the hedge, and maybe three more in their belts.

It was not yet even noon.

He rode to Gavin, dismounted, and tossed his reins to Nell, who gave him back his spear.

Out in the fields below, everything had changed.

Du Corse’s cavalry were dead or dismounted. Many of them were still coming, because they were insanely brave. Near at hand, a man in a fine segmented breastplate had six or seven arrows in him and still came forward. He was only a few yards away.

Cuddy put a four-ounce arrow into his groin from almost close enough to touch, and the man went down to die in agony. But there were others.

A short bowshot behind them, Du Corse’s dismounted men came on unscathed. Du Corse led them in person, and they cheered as they came, trudging over the damp ploughed fields in their heavy armour.