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infantry. It was near the end of June and the heat and dust made the going seem even slower than it was. Blackstone had never seen so many people or such a hive of activity in his life. There were thousands on the road. Craftsmen, wagoners and soldiers jostled with knights riding palfreys, their pages leading their master’s destriers, the powerful war stallions whose unpredictable temperament made them kick out at those crowding them from the rear. Squabbles and short-tempered curses flew between those of equal rank, while the nobles and knights kept a haughty disdain for anyone of lesser stature. Banners, denoting the nobles and knights banneret, fluttered in the freshening breeze. Blackstone knew that a poor knight such as Sir Gilbert was not permitted to display a pennon. Instead, he wore his arms painted on his shield, a black sword, like a crucifix, startling in its clarity against an azure field, the same design repeated on his surcoat. He wanted to be noticed by friend and enemy alike.
    Sir Gilbert had spoken little since they set out from the manor house, where the county’s archers had gathered. Blackstone knew most of them from the market days and archery competitions. The younger men, gathered from the villages and hamlets, were of mixed humour. Most were ready to serve and take their pay, proud that their lord had provisioned them with horses and weapons. John Nightingale was not much older than Blackstone, and his good humour and stories of a drunken father, a mother who pro­duced a child a year and the girls he had bedded kept the men amused for the day’s journey to the coast.
    They were mostly men of eighteen and nineteen years of age, though three or four of the men-at-arms were in their mid-twenties and had fought in the Low Countries. Some of the young men’s boisterous enthusiasm for the adventure that lay ahead was allowed free rein; the veterans kept to themselves and Sir Gilbert spoke more with them than the others. Blackstone felt the exclusion from their comradeship but did not share the visceral excitement of the younger men. How, he wondered, could he protect his brother in the turmoil that was surely to follow? The quiet, uneventful life they led at home, despite the lack of comfort, gave them a sanctuary of sorts where the world seldom intruded. June was the month for haymaking, a second ploughing and sheep-shearing. Now war had ploughed a deep furrow through their lives.
    His brother, by contrast, rode without concern. The sun warmed him and the freshening south-westerly wind played on his face. Released from the daily back- breaking work at the quarry, to him the freedom of riding across the chalk hills with the tantalizing tang of the sea carried on the breeze was elixir. His grunting happiness caused little rebuke from the county men who knew him, but a knight slapped him across the shoulder and told him to stay silent.
    Blackstone was uncertain what to do. The man had seniority and Blackstone had no rights to challenge him, but felt compelled to offer some kind of defence for his brother.
    ‘He cannot hear you so when you strike him he has no under­standing.’
    ‘Then perhaps I should strike him harder to give him whatever understanding he needs. Get him to stop that snuffling grunt. It’s worse than having a pig on the end of a rope. Though a pig would at least serve a purpose.’
    Blackstone could not afford to antagonize a war veteran of senior rank and the nervousness in the pit of his stomach halted any immediate response. Sir Gilbert was riding ahead but he turned on the saddle and looked at Blackstone. It seemed he was waiting to see what Blackstone would dare to say in response.
    ‘His value lies not in his deafness or with him being mute, but in the strength of his bow arm. He will be of great use to a knight on foot facing heavy cavalry.’ Blackstone paused and then said respectfully, ‘My lord.’
    Sir Gilbert nodded and turned away. The boy’s father must have told