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the others, as weak as a child, saw his brother, the grunting deaf mute, earn himself the comradeship of men during those days.
    And then the wind shifted. The fleet followed the King’s flag­ship the George away from the coast and into the Channel. Blackstone stood at the bulwark, his legs steadying him against the pitch and roll of the vessel, his salt-encrusted hair matted like chain mail. The ships’ banners, snaking tails of colour, were unfolded. It was a stirring sight, the undertaking of a warrior King taking his army to war. Sir Gilbert spat over the side. He was smiling, looking at the sky, watching the banners. He turned to Blackstone.
    ‘We’re not going to Gascony, boy! I can tell you that!’ His face shone with a fierce joy. ‘I wondered why Godfrey de Harcourt was made a marshal of the army.’
    ‘I don’t understand, Sir Gilbert.’
    ‘You’re not paid to. Godfrey’s a Norman baron with no love for King Philip. Our noble liege is slapping King Philip in the face. We’re going to Normandy.’
    A day later, on the twelfth of July, the vast fleet filled the horizon as the leading ships swept into the bay of St Vaast la Hogue, their shallow draught allowing them to run easily aground well in to shore. Sir Gilbert had prepared his men and, with Blackstone at his shoulder and Richard a pace behind, splashed ashore at their head. A great roar came from the vanguard of archers and horseless men-at-arms. Blackstone heard himself yelling like the others, spurring himself on. All along the waterline Blackstone saw what must have been a thousand archers pounding across the rippled wet sand towards the hundred and fifty-foot escarpment. But no enemy fire rained down on them. He felt the strength return to his legs, his lungs sucking the energy into them. Everything was so crystal-clear, so bright. Every ship was etched on the sea and every man’s surcoat, no matter how dulled, seemed a patch of strident colour.
    Blackstone, grinning at the joy of it, turned his head and saw his brother loping effortlessly a pace behind. As they crested the rising ground, a dozen or so levies were running for their lives – fishermen or townspeople, Blackstone didn’t know which – but within moments death whispered through the air. The veteran archers had drawn and loosed before Blackstone had even perceived them as a threat.
    ‘Blackstone! Here and here!’ Sir Gilbert shouted, pointing to places on the cliff top. ‘If it looks like a threat kill it.’ He made the same command to another fifty men, placing them in defensive positions.
    Nicholas Bray, who commanded the company of archers, spat a curse at him. The climb had taken its toll on the forty-five-year-old centenar’s lungs.
    ‘You turd! Sweet mother of God, Blackstone, who’s the idiot? You or the donkey? Sir Gilbert’ll crack your skull!’
    It took a second for Blackstone to realize it was no good facing the bay – the enemy was behind him. The blood rushed to his face, but no one else had noticed the mistake.
    ‘You stay here until you’re told otherwise, we’ll be moving inland soon enough.’
    ‘Do we get the horses?’ Blackstone asked, wanting more than anything to involve himself.
    ‘Horses’ll be like mad bastard lunatics after being cooped up on ship for two weeks, ’specially them bloody destriers. They’ll gallop ’emselves free of it up and down this goddamn forsaken beach. You can say a prayer of thanks that our Lord King fooled the French. If they’d been waiting for us we’d be crow meat.’
    He turned and walked the line of defensive archers, cursing their mothers and blessing their King as he went. Blackstone and his brother did the centenar’s bidding. They stayed in their positions and watched for a counter-attack. None came.
    Ten yards away John Nightingale called, ‘I’ll kill more than you and Richard both when I see them!’
    ‘If they don’t see you first,’ Blackstone told him, aware that the older veterans were