Not quite a rout. But in the centre of the line Du Corse’s standard wavered.

The captain pointed with his war hammer at Du Corse’s standard. “Follow me!” he roared, and charged.

Down through the hedge poured his household knights—the tournament champions who’d been with him all day. Behind them came all the pages and archers—and the Queen and Blanche, and anyone else with a horse. Even Bob Twill the ploughman, on Blanche’s spare rouncy.

Du Corse’s banner went down. Tom Lachlan’s great axe went up and down, and then he swept out his dread sword, and men cheered. Ser Michael’s lance was as steady as a fence pole, and every man he touched, he threw to the ground, broken.

The whole mass bunched in one melee, the line crumbling and bunching, like a thin snake trying to eat a very big meal. But the company men stayed together, and followed their orders. They knocked a hole the width of twenty lances in Du Corse’s line and took his banner, and then swept through.

Tom Lachlan, having knocked his own hole in the line, dismounted by Du Corse.

Lord Corcy rode right past him and slammed a slim steel axe into the wounded Galle’s helmet. He reined in and raised his visor. “I need him to trade for my sons,” he said.

Du Corse’s men did not break. Some died, but more were simply knocked into the ground. The rest clumped into the corner of the field by the lane and prepared to sell their lives dearly. Only as they rallied did they see how few their assailants were, but by then the Thrake stradiotes had swept into their pages, and were herding a fortune in Gallish war horses—even ill-fed and spoiled by sea voyage as they were—up the road to Lorica.

A half dozen archers—trapped in the woods west of the road since the original charge of the Galles—slipped out of the trees and joined the company and were double mounted. Will Starling grinned and Daud the Red and Wha’hae slapped their bared arses at the distant Galles.

And then, the Queen well-protected in their midst, with a handful of high-ranking prisoners and some rich ransoms, they mounted fresh horses where they could and rode north, towards Lorica.

De Vrailly rode up to the Earl of Towbray. The hilltop town lowered above them.

Towbray shrugged. “The militia won’t advance, and Du Corse ordered me to cover the hill,” he said. “What can I do?”

De Vrailly glared at him with unconcealed contempt.

He rallied Du Corse’s veterans and made camp in the field below the town, which he had the survivors of the routiers clear, loot, and burn to the ground. But burning Picton couldn’t get him back his army’s morale, or the three hundred horses he’d lost.