Archibald had been busy. He had both ribauldequins loaded and pointing in the direction of the French and then, during the lull after the cavalry charge, he managed to reposition the main barrel and reload it.

As the battle progressed, fewer and fewer French fighters came down to this area so far on the flank. The archers on his left, and the bodies before him, marked those who had been foolish enough to think they could get around him.

‘Where are they?’ Ed asked again.

‘They’ll come, never you worry,’ Archibald said calmly, but his coolness was a mask. Here, it was impossible to see when the French were coming. They could appear over the ground in front at any time, and when they did, he would have his work cut out. ‘Make sure that the powder is in reach, Donkey, and get ready to serve those gonnes as fast as you can.’

He cast an eye over his little encampment. They had not enough men. If a main force of French came rushing down here, he would have time to fire the gonnes once before they were all overrun. He had no illusions about their position.

‘Béatrice, I’d like you to go and find Berenger Fripper.’

‘Why?’ She had that mulish look on her face again.

‘Because, wench, I can’t protect you here. This isn’t going to be an easy battle where we have a clear field of view at all times. And I can’t fight if I’m worried about you all the time.’

‘And I have nowhere else to go,’ she snapped. ‘I have no family but you, no friends but you. I will stay here.’

Berenger pulled Robin and Pierre back, shouting at Felix and Dogbreath to join him with the reserves. He had no idea of the passage of time now. It was impossible to tell how long it was since the first charge. Berenger was desperately thirsty, and he smacked his lips as if it could persuade him that he had taken a draught of ale or even water, but it brought no satisfaction. He shoved Felix after his father into the line, and turned to watch again as the French marched stolidly towards the English.

The Prince and other leaders had stationed archers in trenches near the gaps in the hedges, and now they began to let fly in earnest. These men were less heavily armoured than the cavalry, and every arrow that found its mark caused a grievous wound. Berenger saw three men marching abreast, and all were suddenly struck by arrows almost simultaneously. They collapsed on the spot, instantly dead. Another man he saw struck by an arrow in the breast, and he stared at it dumbly before trying to follow his colleagues, but he fell after only three paces. One man was struck with two arrows at his flank and shoulder, and it seemed to send him berserk. He picked up his sword and ran full tilt into the English line ahead of his comrades, although he was hacked down before he could strike a single blow.

The French were at the hedge now. Some tried to clamber over it, but the hawthorn hedge was so thick and deep that it was all but impenetrable. They were forced to congregate at the gaps in the hedge, and here there was a fearful killing. The men bunched and tried to force their way through, and for a long while the arrows of the archers played a terrible game of death. Men-at-arms stood with lances and swords, cutting down any who managed to pass through, but then there was a roar from the French, and a solid body of men linked arms and ran at the blockage. They pushed and shoved the bodies from the gap, and then trampled their comrades in their urgent desire to get to the English and Gascons on the other side. Berenger heard a bellow, and more men were thundering into the gap and trying to push through.

‘Archers!’ Berenger bellowed.

‘Saint-Denis!’ was roaring from a thousand throats and the French were making good work of it. Enough had stormed the gap to protect their comrades, and now a steady trickle of men were passing through and throwing themselves on the defenders.

Berenger nocked an arrow, and almost loosed it at a great Frenchman who had pelted up into the press of men. As he reached the gap in the hedge, this new fighter pulled off his bascinet, and long, fair hair flew in the wind. He looked like a Viking. As Berenger was about to let fly, two English fighters sprang into his line of sight. He released the tension quickly. It was too dangerous to send arrows into that crush.

‘Archers, follow me!’ he shouted, and sprang down the slope towards the nearest group. He heard a bull-like roar behind him, and knew that Grandarse was near. There was a moment of calm as he ran, the air clean and fresh in his throat, the taste of good soil, clean grass, and nothing evil or foul, and then he crashed into the side of a great bear of a Frenchman, and was stabbing with his sword’s point, and the air was full of the smell of shit and blood and piss, and all beauty and all peace was lost forever.

He felt that he would never see it again.

He saw Will and the company as he reached the English battle. They were at the hedge’s gap, but were hemmed in by a phalanx of Frenchmen, and Will already had a streak of red where his cheek had been opened. The company was being pushed back, through the hedge, and the French were beginning to pour through in pursuit. Berenger would have made his way towards them, but he couldn’t. He watched as the French lines flowed forward in an unstoppable tide. There was a moment when he saw Will’s face turned towards him, and he felt sure that he saw in Will’s face a fresh joy, as if he had finally lost his doubts and uncertainties. Then the company rallied to him, and as Berenger watched, Will’s sword was raised, and the company counter-attacked the French at the hedge. It was a sight to make an Englishman’s heart surge with pride. The men rushed down the little slope, and met with the fair-haired Frenchman and his companions, and a fresh fight began, with maces swinging, axes hacking, and all weapons rising and falling with a hideous, irregular rhythm. The clatter of steel falling on steel was enough to set Berenger’s teeth on edge, and he bellowed to his archers to follow him.

They ran on, through sodden mud and over the bodies and limbs of the dead and dying, slamming into the flank of the French near the company. Berenger saw Saul and Fulk at his side. They were close to three of the men from Will’s own vintaine, and as they approached, there were flares of recognition, and the men seemed to gain strength from seeing that there were more on their side. The fair Frenchman had a sword in one hand and a mace in his other, and he wielded both with abandon. Berenger saw the spiked steel ball strike a man’s head, crushing bone and ripping away the flesh, before swinging up and around to slam into a man’s upper arm. He shrieked as his sword fell from nerveless fingers, and then his throat was opened by the sword, sending a thick gout of blood gushing over the men nearby.

And then Berenger saw Will take on the French monster. His sword darted and hammered, while he held a dagger in his other hand that he used to try to get inside the Frenchman’s defences, slipping in and back with speed. Then he suddenly lunged, and Berenger saw his blade had gone wide, blocked by the Frenchman’s own. It was a fatal error, Berenger thought, but just then a sword came slashing towards him, and he had to deflect it, countering with a cut that took his assailant in the side of the head. His helmet was dented with the force of Berenger’s blow, and the man fell even as Berenger stabbed at his face. Then Berenger glanced back and saw that Will’s manoeuvre had been a feint. Even as his sword was knocked away, his dagger had reached the Frenchman’s throat and, angled upwards, stabbed up from below his jaw and into his brain.

The man was dying when Berenger saw them, but then a freak movement in the crowd showed him that the Frenchman had dropped his mace, and had put his last strength into one more blow. He had taken his sword and shoved it underneath Will’s breastplate, and up into his body. Will was transfixed, but the two men struggled, each pushing his weapon further into the body of his enemy, until both fell and were hidden among the trampling legs of their men.

Berenger was engaged again as Will and his opponent fell. A sword flashed past his face, narrowly missing him, and he had to ram a man from his side – whether English or French he had no idea – then reverse his sword and stab hard at the man in front of him. He felt his blade skitter across a breastplate, catch in something else, and he shoved with all his might. A man gave a gasp of agony, and he pulled the blade free to see him fall. He didn’t know whether the victim was a friend or foe, but that didn’t matter in the mêlée. All that mattered was to stab and kill, and stay alive. Avoid the swords and knives that were aiming for him every moment.

He ducked under another blow aimed at his head, felt himself begin to slide in the mud, and fought to maintain his footing. A man on the ground would be stabbed by men of both sides in case he was an enemy. No one on the ground would survive – he mustn’t fall – a hand caught his armpit, and he was up again, panting, a little behind the front line. Fulk eyed him gravely, nodded to himself, and threw himself back into the battle.

Berenger paused to catch his breath. Around him men were flowing forward to take part in the fight, and the French had been pushed back and back, until now they were held at the bottleneck of the gap in the hedge once more. Men’s bodies were all about, on the ground, leaning against the hawthorn, piled thickly so that the fighters at the hedge itself must clamber over their dead colleagues to join in. A vintaine of archers had arrived to the right, and were pouring arrows into the flank of the French. Looking up, Berenger saw Hawkwood directing their arrows. The French advance was slowing as the arrows tore into their ranks, and then Berenger saw the flash and heard the roar of a gonne. There was a thunderous belch of evil-smelling smoke that wafted over the battlefield, and suddenly a mass of French warriors fell to the ground. A second great detonation came, and another column of fighters was flung to either side like gaming dice. The rest of the men wavered at the sight of their comrades falling, and the reek of brimstone moved more to blench and try to withdraw.

‘Push them out! One more shove!’ Berenger roared, and ran into the press again. The English with him took heart as he bellowed, ‘The French are running!’ and their efforts started to tell. The French tried to recover, but suddenly the sound of trumpets could be heard, and they began to retreat. The English cheered, and some started to pursue their vanquished opponents, but Berenger saw their danger. ‘Leave them! Don’t chase them, or they’ll catch you!’

Even after his words, some men did try to follow the French, and were soon cut to pieces. Berenger saw a knight running after some French, battling with two men, but then he was surrounded and disarmed and hustled away. His ransom would be ruinous, Berenger considered briefly, but a ransom was better than death at the hands of the French army, which was all Berenger or his archers could expect, were they to be caught.

He was watching the men being pushed and forced back to the French lines, when he gradually became aware of cheering. He looked over to Hawkwood and saw him gesticulating wildly, while his vintaine appeared to celebrate behind him.

‘What is it?’ Berenger shouted.

‘They’re going! The French have conceded the field!’

‘Come on! Let’s get them!’ Imbert bellowed, and ran after the nearer men. He stabbed and slashed with his weapon and a man was thrown to the ground as Imbert ran on to the next.

‘Nick! Don’t follow him! Felix, you too! Hold to your place!’ Berenger roared.

Those in the line who had been preparing to hare off after Imbert hesitated. Two from Hawkwood’s vintaine had already gone, but now Hawkwood too stood in front of his men, arms outstretched, roaring out his command to stay and hold the line. Berenger turned to see Imbert attack another Frenchman, and Imbert’s eyes caught his for an instant. An expression of dull, horrified realisation came into his face, but then he was fighting for his life as a small number of French fighters realised that he and the few English were alone. Then he disappeared beneath their blades.

Archers were soon loosing arrows into the backs of the retreating men, and Imbert was avenged, but Berenger could feel the men behind him staring accusingly.

‘He was told,’ Berenger said. ‘I warned him.’

Gaillarde watched with horror as the French line advanced and seemed about to wash over the English line like a massive tide. She could see men falling on both sides, and in the midst she saw Berenger and her husband, only yards apart. The archers were fully in the thick of the fighting, and she clutched at her throat as she saw Denisot stumble, fearing that he had been hurt, but then he was up again, and she saw him thrust from the path of three more Frenchmen. A horse rode at him, and she gasped with horror when she saw a war-hammer strike her husband’s helmet. Denisot wobbled, and stepped away, teetering like a slender birch in the wind, only to fall towards two other men. One caught him and pulled him from the worst of the battle, and Gaillarde wanted to run to help save her man, but even as she moved, Arnaud was there in front of her.

‘No! You mustn’t,’ he said, and turned back to face the men. ‘If you go there, you will die.’

Denisot could hear a roaring in his ears as he was dragged from the front of the line. A young man, barely eighteen surely, from Hawkwood’s vintaine was with him, helping him, and gently deposited him near a tree to sit. Denisot realised that the ringing in his ears was subsiding, and he felt the youth clasp his arm, looking up gratefully as he said something. Denisot could make out not a word over the thunderous noise in his ears. He pulled off his helmet and stared at the dent near the crown. His skull felt as though it might have been cracked.

He was only a matter of yards from the fighting line. All about him, men were shouting encouragement and defiance. A skinny youth had a notched sword in his fist, and stood now with his mouth wide, bellowing insults to the French, building his own courage until the urge to fight overwhelmed his natural reluctance to head nearer to danger. He lifted his sword high, and ran to where a pair of Frenchmen had burst through the wall of English. Denisot saw the French move apart as he reached them, then one knocked his sword aside easily, while the other stabbed him in the throat. They left him on the ground, rolling and squirming as he drowned in his own blood.

Denisot realised that the two were heading towards him. He tried to stand, but his legs would not support him. He fell back to sit, staring at them as they approached. His rescuer ran to stop them, but as he swung his sword, one caught his sword-point in his mailed glove and easily moved it aside, then clubbed the lad in the face with his own sword’s cross. The fellow collapsed, and the second man swung a hatchet. It caught the lad’s face, and he hacked twice more before the two looked up at Denisot.

In that instant, Denisot’s mind cleared. He was no longer a French bayle, no longer a loyal servant of King Jean II, no longer confused or in doubt; he was only a man on a battlefield who had seen a friend die. He set his helm back on his head, drew a sword, picked up a discarded axe, and walked to meet the two.

He had seen them fight. They were competent to meet any opponent who engaged the pair together. He would not. As the distance between them shortened, he began to run straight at them, but then, as the two moved apart, he lurched to the right, and now he swung his axe at the nearer of the two men. His blade slammed into the man’s forearm, and while the fellow tried to reach him with the sword in his other hand, Denisot blocked with his axe-haft, and stabbed with his right, his sword-point ramming up along the man’s armour and skipping off.

Denisot saw the man’s companion trying to come around to attack his flank, but he slipped to the left, blocked another sword-thrust with his own sword, and flicked the axe round in a wide arc. It slammed into the man’s leg, just at the knee, and while it was not strong enough to cut through the thick steel of his armour, it delivered such a shock to the joint that the man fell. Whether it was broken or not, Denisot didn’t care. He hefted the axe in his hand and stepped forward warily to the second man.

This one had the hatchet in his left hand and a sword in his right, and he moved slightly crabwise towards Denisot, the sword first, the hatchet held high.

Denisot glanced over the man’s shoulder and saw, lying on the ground, the fellow who had pulled him from the battle and saved his life. His head was aching and sore, and he had a roiling, hot sensation in his belly that wouldn’t go away. It felt like acid, bubbling and frothing over a fire. If he stopped he would vomit, he thought.

The Frenchman took two quick steps forward. Denisot saw a stone near his foot and kicked it to his enemy. The man set his foot to one side to avoid stepping on it, and Denisot reached in to stab with his sword. His blow was parried, and as it was, he brought the axe down. It slammed into the man’s shoulder, and he gave a shriek, wildly hacking with his hatchet. Denisot blocked with his sword, caught the hatchet, and then slashed with his axe. For an instant, he thought he had made a mistake. The axe moved on with no resistance, and he thought his blow had missed. All too soon he realised that he had left his breast wide open to any attack, and now the man’s sword was rising as though to paunch him. But then he saw the man’s eyes widen, and suddenly a great spurt of blood gushed where Denisot’s axe had opened the veins of his throat. The man dropped sword and hatchet and desperately reached for his neck as if to stem the lethal tide, and Denisot swung his axe again, and his suffering was ended.

He turned to see the other Frenchman sprawled, his leg crooked and broken. Denisot walked to him. He stabbed once with his sword.

He felt nothing.

Gaillarde saw the lines begin to separate. How long had it been? An hour? Two? She could not tell. All she knew was the overwhelming relief that Denisot was not injured.

‘It is a fierce battle!’

It was Arnaud. He had disappeared as Denisot was pulled from the battle, and now he returned looking strangely excited. But most of the men here looked excited, she thought. He took a cup from the bucket beside her, and splashed water over his face before taking a draught, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘How goes it?’ he asked.

‘I thought my husband was dead for a moment there!’

‘I saw,’ he said. ‘But you mustn’t go down there. You do see that?’

‘If he needed me, I—’

‘If you went, he would spend his efforts to defend you, and be killed. You would distract him, and that would be terrible for him.’

‘You saw him. He tried to have Bernard release me, remember?’

‘But you don’t love him? You will stay with me.’

‘I have to go back to him,’ she said. She could see Denisot now. He was limping a little, but he looked well enough. ‘He is my husband,’ she added with pride, and walked down the slope towards her man.

Behind her, she didn’t see how Arnaud’s face fell, twisted with jealousy. Nor how he glared at Denisot as she reached her husband.

Berenger stared up at the sun and felt the warmth soaking into his flesh. It had been a hard fight, that, and looking up at the sun he could see that it had lasted a long time. It was surely afternoon now, and the weariness in his shoulders and legs was telling. He was almost done. The effort of that last push had all but broken him.

Looking out over the plain, he could see that the French line was broken and exhausted. The men who only a few minutes before had been trying to break through the hedge and kill the English and Gascons beyond, were now little more than a faded rabble. And as they retreated, so he saw the second battle of Frenchmen marching away. They must have seen the collapse of the first battle and decided to save themselves, he thought. Surely the fight was over, he thought with elation, and was about to give a cry of relief and joy, when he saw the third battle, and the call was stopped in his throat.

And then he saw the commander’s flag from the first battle being taken away with a small party of knights. That must be the Dauphin with his remaining household knights, he thought, and then he glanced at the rest of the French army.

The French had three lines of soldiers, three battles. The first under the Dauphin had marched up boldly and been beaten; the second was commanded by the Duke of Orléans, but even now Berenger could see a man riding from the Dauphin’s party. It was a man with dark hair, gleaming breastplate and accoutrements, who reminded Berenger of someone. Then he recalled the esquire to whom Thomas had spoken during the negotiations yesterday. It was surely him.

The knight rode hard to the Duke’s battle, and Berenger felt his breath catch as the entire force of men began to move. They all stepped forward, but then there was a curious-looking ripple down the line, and to Berenger’s amazement, the battle began walking away. There was an odd silence about it, and then, on the wind, he caught the sound of catcalls and jeering. It was the final battle, accusing them all of cowardice.

Only the last command remained. But this third was fresh. It had not been tested in battle yet. It was rested and eager, having seen the bitter fighting about the hedge, and it had one great advantage. In the middle of the battle there was the great, blood-red banner of Saint Denis, the Oriflamme. It stood out proudly over the heads of the men. It was the flag of King John II of France. He would not admit defeat!

The Oriflamme was the symbol of France herself, the banner of her Kings. It was said that when the Oriflamme was raised against a foe, France must prevail. The Benedictines of St Denis guarded the banner with great care, for this was more a religious symbol than regal, but when war came, the King would go and fetch it. And now it was raised against the English.

Berenger had seen that flag once before, when the French raised it on the field of Crécy, only for them to be utterly defeated. Now he felt no trepidation to see it again. It had given the French no aid when they had needed it before. It would not help them now.

The battle advanced to the blaring of trumpets and horns, and a drum beat slowly. Gradually it straightened into a long line of men on foot, with a knot of household knights gathered about the figure of King John under the Oriflamme towards the middle. This would be a hard contest now. The English had been fighting all day, and arms and legs were already weary.

As he watched, he saw the pavisers dashing forwards with their great shields. Behind them crouched the crossbowmen. As soon as they were coming within range, English archers loosed their arrows, and Berenger saw them fall all around the shields. A few less cautious crossbowmen were hit and fell, but for the most part they huddled safely behind their defences, letting their bolts fly. Berenger saw a man-at-arms cough, falling back as though punched in the chest, and then stare at the bolt feathers protruding from his chest as he toppled over. Soon bolts were flying in a regular sequence, and men were being hit up and down the English line. However, most bolts went astray, or lost their power by penetrating the hedge, so that their speed was greatly reduced and their danger dissipated.

Grandarse appeared at his shoulder. ‘Frip, ye mad bastard, you’re supposed to be with the reserve, man! Get back up the hill! Take your men and get back to your position. If you see Hawkwood, tell him to go with you. I’ll be up there myself soon.’

Berenger nodded and, bellowing to his men, pulled them back to the place where they had stood before. He saw Hawkwood on the way, and then two other vinteners, and all returned to their positions on the knoll overlooking the field. The battle, from here, was hard to see, but Berenger found a vantage point on some rocks near the wood’s edge.

The French came closer. Berenger saw the archers on the flanks bending their bows, releasing their arrows in a regular cloud, but even as he watched, he saw archers gazing about them, ceasing to loose, and realised that they were running out of missiles. They had been fighting for hours already, and almost all their supplies were gone.

With a tremendous roar and clatter, the French reached the hedge and set upon their enemies. Berenger saw men grabbing pavises and hurling them at the hedge to give them something to clamber over, and then they were in among the English.

‘Dear God,’ he prayed, ‘preserve us from our enemies.’

He saw archers on the flanks running down to the fight, flinging aside their bows and drawing swords. He was about to join them when he felt Grandarse’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Not now, Frip. We’re to stay here until we’re called, man. We’re the reserve. We’re needed here. Don’t run off again.’

Archibald tried to cajole, he even tried to beg, but Béatrice refused to listen. She was going to stay and help serve the gonnes. Ed was as unhappy about it as Archibald, but there was little they could do, short of carrying her away bodily. When she decided her mind in that way, both knew that arguing was fruitless.

‘In that case, you had best get working,’ Archibald snapped at last.

The horns and drums were clear on the late afternoon air, and they could all sense the tension. There was a loud thundering of stamping boots, a rumble that Archibald could feel, he was sure, through his feet. The noise of thousands of men marching forward, some willingly, many unwilling but determined to do their part for their King. And the thin English line readied to repel them. Looking up at the Englishmen cradling their weapons behind the hedge, Archibald felt a pang of sadness. Most of them looked so weary already. They had the drained expressions of men who had toiled too hard, and who knew that this latest effort could be their last. Many would not live to see the sunset, he thought.

‘Master!’

Ed was pointing, and there, over the lip of the land, were the first of the French.

‘Dear God,’ Archibald prayed, ‘protect us, poor sinners though we be. Amen,’ and he crossed himself and bowed his head a moment. Then: ‘Turn that ribauldequin, you lazy shit for brains! Béatrice, get ready to reload!’ and he blew on his match.

From his vantage point, Berenger saw the first waves pick up speed until they were running full tilt at the hedge. The English archers were there to back up the rest of the line of English fighters before the collision, but then Berenger saw the rippling of spears lowering as the French began to charge; there was a rattling crash as the two armies came together and Berenger saw the gleam of swords rising and falling, the evil metal showing oily and foul with blood, and he saw the blood spraying from a hundred vicious wounds, the men falling, a man here falling hard on his rump as if pushed, only to roll over, another running screaming from the press clutching a stump that squirted blood, another crawling with his bowels dragging a yard or more behind him, and Berenger swore to himself that he would never again come to war willingly, but would avoid it ever more.

There was a shout, and the archers prepared themselves as a small body of men appeared from the right, arguing and shouting, and the archers released the tension in their bows, letting the arrows point to the ground once more.

‘Grandarse! We need your men!’

Denisot lay on his back, panting after his exertions. He was aware of a movement of men around him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Grandarse and his vintaines trotting off towards the woods. There, he saw Gaillarde once more, and thought how beautiful she looked, almost like an angel come down from Heaven, while all about was blood and horror.

He saw her face blanch, and there was a shout from the line of the battle. Denisot turned and saw that there was a fresh eruption of French fighters. They had broken through the line of English and were attacking them from the rear.

Only a few Englishmen had realised the danger, and were falling on the French. Denisot picked up his weapons with a weary resolution. They must all work to prevent this breakthrough turning into a catastrophe. It wouldn’t take much for the English to be persuaded to bolt, with the sudden shock of an assault from their rear. Already cries of alarm were going up, and as Denisot hefted his sword’s hilt and trotted to join the others, he saw Pierre and Felix throwing themselves into the fray. A pair of Frenchmen turned to battle with them, and as Denisot reached their side, he saw Felix push a man from his father’s side. Denisot’s sword slid into the man’s flank before he could recover and stab Felix.

It was a crushing, insane fight. Denisot was hemmed in on all sides. Before him an Englishman, at his left Felix and Pierre, to his right a lean, black-haired man, someone behind him, pushing. And a short way in front, the French.

The line was a confusion of noises. Shouting, screaming, the rattle of weapons hitting weapons or clanging off helmets, the stertorous breathing of men struggling to hold the line. The French had formed a mushroom: a stem pushed through the English line, and then turned to assail the rear of the English like a cap. But reinforcements were coming with every moment and adding to the numbers who stood with Denisot, and the French mushroom was being squeezed and forced to contract. Denisot set his shoulder at the back of the man in front, and shoved. There was a shriek somewhere in front, and Denisot looked up briefly to see a Frenchman who was being hacked about terribly by three men. Felix was one, and he swung a short sword with abandon, until the Frenchman fell underfoot. The next man was there, and Denisot saw Felix lift his sword and bring it down, lift it again, and then there was a cry, and when Denisot glanced to his side, he saw Pierre. Felix had brought his blade back too far, and the point had entered his father’s neck, slicing through to the bone. Even as Denisot watched, Pierre fell to his knees.

Felix was unaware of the accident. He cut again and again, and his latest opponent fell; he stepped forward, and then he must have become aware that his father was no longer behind him. He glanced around, and saw his father lying on the floor. In that moment Denisot saw the raw misery on his face. Felix dropped his sword and was about to fall to his knees to help his father, when an axe cut into his neck. He toppled, already dead before his body hid his father’s from view.

Denisot felt little at that moment. His world was a sweating area of grim, relentless toil. He pushed, the man in front of him moved forward. There were more bellowed orders, and he pushed once more. There was a slippery sensation underfoot, and the unmistakable odour of blood and piss, and he was pushing again, when suddenly everything seemed to move about him. Like a drunken man in a world that was spinning around him, Denisot was vaguely aware of the men all about him, but all his concentration was focused on remaining upright. To fall in that mêlée could spell instant death.

The man before him was stabbed. He toppled and collapsed, and Denisot was just able to keep to his feet, but the haziness was all but engulfing him, and he could feel his legs wobbling. He had to keep on his feet.

He must stay upright!