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him how, when knights and men-at-arms stood shoul­der to shoulder as common infantry in the Scottish wars, facing their enemy’s cavalry charge, the English and Welsh archers had slaughtered the Scots. The English army had learnt its lessons from its defeats; bloody experience had taught them the value of the war bow and cloth-yard long arrows with their armour-piercing bodkin heads. It was men like Blackstone’s father who had saved men like the arrogant knight in past battles. And similar men who would do so again.
    The knight spurred his horse forward. ‘Your men border on the insolent, Gilbert.’
    ‘I taught them myself,’ Sir Gilbert answered. The disgruntled knight rode on. In that moment Sir Gilbert had spoken for his men; defended them to an outsider. A simple lesson in leadership. Blackstone felt a surge of loyalty towards the impoverished man-at-arms.
    As the long day’s light began to fade the horsemen crested the high ground behind Portsmouth. Thousands of small fires burned across the hillsides, their smoke drifting on the wind. The lantern-lit armada nestled in the care of the protective harbour. Blackstone had never seen the sea – a vast field of dark water spreading to the horizon. The last of the daylight reflected on the bay showed up the black hulls of hundreds of ships bobbing on the tide. Blackstone drew level with Sir Gilbert who had reined his horse to a halt.
    ‘Sweet Jesus, we must be going to Gascony,’ Sir Gilbert said.
    Blackstone looked at him, not understanding the significance.
    ‘It’s before your eyes, Thomas. Our King must be going to secure his lands in south-west France. There must be five hundred ships down there.’
    Blackstone had already quartered the harbour in his mind’s eye, broken the scene into accurate measurements – a mason’s skill, second nature now. ‘More like eight hundred,’ he said without thinking that he was contradicting Sir Gilbert, who turned to him, saw his unblinking gaze. Sir Gilbert acknowledged Blackstone’s calculation.
    ‘Then eight hundred it is.’
    He nudged his horse forward, past some of the thousands of men settling down for the night, towards one banner among the many, a black and white ermine-patterned lion with several small crosses on a red field, that of Sir Reginald Cobham.
    An old armourer stood outside the knight’s tent beating a steady rhythm with his hammer against a breastplate curved onto an anvil.
    ‘My lord keeps you busy as always, Wilfred,’ Sir Gilbert said to the armourer.
    ‘Aye, that he does, Sir Gilbert. How many times have I advised him that the iron from the Weald of Kent is not as strong as that from the Forest of Dean, but he says he likes it well enough and doesn’t want to spend the extra money. It’s cheaper to have me beatin’ out his dents.’
    ‘It’s more unusual that any man lives long enough to lay a blade against his armour. Is he inside?’
    ‘That he is,’ said the armourer and went back to his work.
    The brothers lay on the trampled grass with the other archers in their company. The sea’s chill would cramp them by morning, but nothing could dampen their spirits. As Lord Marldon’s men cooked their pottage and ate the dried fish issued by one of Sir Reginald’s captains, Sir Gilbert beckoned Blackstone and his brother to follow him.
    ‘I’m to talk to the men, make sure we don’t have any deserters in the night. Promise them they’ll be paid. Warn them who’s to fight alongside them.’
    ‘Warn them?’ asked Blackstone, keeping up with Sir Gilbert.
    ‘Aye.’ He gave no further explanation.
    ‘Then what am I and my brother to do?’
    ‘Nothing. I want these scab-pickers to see who you are and who you’re with. I’m doing Lord Marldon’s bidding, Blackstone, I can’t wet nurse you once we’re off those boats.’
    They made their way through the campfires until they were close enough to the water’s edge. Sir Gilbert turned and faced the men who would share the danger