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of battle.
    ‘I am your captain, Sir Gilbert Killbere. Some may know of me, those who do not can ask their neighbour.’
    A voice called from a group of men somewhere in the distance.
    ‘I was with you at Morlaix, Sir Gilbert! We kicked their arses and slit their bellies then!’
    ‘An archer?’ Sir Gilbert called back to the unseen man.
    ‘Will Longdon of Shropshire.’
    ‘I remember you, Will Longdon of Shropshire! I thought the pox had taken you when you deserted with that French whore. Should I warn the men not to share the same spoon in the cooking pot?’
    The men laughed.
    ‘Can you still draw a bowcord or is your arm exhausted from self-abuse?’ Sir Gilbert asked.
    There was more laughter and jeers.
    ‘That and more, Sir Gilbert. Enough to squeeze a French whore’s tit.’
    ‘Then, we shall oblige you, Will Longdon – and you know I am a man of my word.’
    ‘I do, sir.’
    ‘Good, because what I tell you now is as if it comes from the King’s own lips. Courage will be rewarded, victory will bring more than honour. Your lord, Sir Reginald Cobham, needs no tales embroidered about him. There is no finer nobleman on the field of battle. He’s our commander and we will fight with the Prince’s division. Us, the Earl of Northampton, Godfrey de Harcourt, marshal of the army, and the Earl of Warwick. We’re the vanguard, lads! We’ll get to the French bastards first and we’ll wallow in their blood!’
    There was a raucous cheer. ‘And the plunder!’ one of the men shouted.
    ‘That’s right!’ Sir Gilbert shouted back. ‘The French like their finery, and they hoard coin like a moneylender. When you come home you’ll be living like kings! Though you’ll still stink like sons of whores born in a piggery!’
    The men laughed and cheered. Ale and a full belly helped, though the food was little more than oats, barley or beans boiled with wild garlic and herbs. Nutritious and light to carry, it was a staple diet. Bread was for those who could afford it and meat only for the nobles.
    ‘There are two men standing with me,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘They are archers and I would wager there are few men here who have the strength to draw their bows. This one…’ he half turned and pulled Blackstone to his side, ‘… is Thomas Blackstone who carries his father’s war bow. He is guardian of a dumb creature, his brother.’ He tugged Richard forward so that now all three men stood shoulder to shoulder in the firelight. Richard’s size loomed over them both. ‘A creature that God in his wisdom chose to suffer this imperfect creation in silence. Let it be known that these are my sworn men. Any act against them is an act against me.’
    The men fell silent. No one jeered or called out against the lumbering, crooked-jawed boy.
    ‘Then it is settled and no more need be said.’ He waited a moment before speaking again. ‘But one more thing. There’s a few thousand spearmen on the other side of that hill. They’re to be with us.’ He paused, to lend more weight to his words. ‘Welsh spearmen.’
    Men shouted insults and swore in disapproval.
    He raised a hand to settle the men’s taunts. ‘And I’m told they wouldn’t leave home until they’d been paid in full. Let’s not forget we’re Englishmen. Those bog rats will steal your boots without you knowing it. And if you bend to take them off they’ll mount you as if you were black-faced sheep.’ The taunt lessened the men’s animosity.
    ‘Where are we going, Sir Gilbert?’ one of the men called.
    ‘Does it matter?’ Sir Gilbert replied. ‘You’re paid to kill the enemies of the realm. It’s at your King’s pleasure. I don’t know, lads, but I look at the fodder being loaded; I see hundreds of sacks of grain and all the sheaves of arrows and that tells me we are in for a long campaign. I hear there’s good, strong wine in Gascony!’
    A hard-looking man pulled off his leather cap and rubbed the sweat from his scalp.
    ‘All well and good,