“Onward, onward!” he shouted. “Follow me!” He set spur to his horse and charged forward. “St. George, St. George for us!” he cried.
Others followed his example. Montlice and Malvallet galloped forward side by side with Simon a little to the fore.
“Follow the Prince!” roared Fulk. “The Prince and Victory!”
A rumble went through the lines: “The Prince, the Prince!” There was a sudden surge forward, as the King’s men charged up the hill after that heroic, flying figure. Some fell into the disastrous ponds, some stumbled in the entangling pea-rows, but the bulk kept on till they had overtaken their leader. Then onward still to meet the enemy’s right flank. Like some heavy thunderbolt they fell upon it, and carried on, as it were, by their own impetus, they rolled it back and back, hacking and hewing before and beside them, until they had enclosed it between themselves and the King’s division.
Far away to the right Simon could see Fulk, swept from him by the tide of men, wielding his sword like one possessed; and nearer to him was Malvallet, cut off from the main body of the fight and hard-pressed by Percy’s men, yet holding his own nobly. From his own tight-packed corner Simon saw Malvallet’s horse go down, and Malvallet spring clear. A man on foot caught at his own horse’s rein, but before he could strike Simon had bent forward and slashed him across his unvisored face. Then he broke free, and cut himself a way to where Malvallet fought. Down he came upon the group at a full gallop, and ere the rebels could turn to see what it was that fell upon them so suddenly like a bolt from the blue, he had struck. His huge sword with all his iron strength behind it descended on one hapless shoulder where it joined his victim’s neck, and cleaved through the sheltering armour as though it had been so much cardboard. As the man fell, soundless, Simon came to Malvallet’s side, and sprang to earth. His sword swept a circle before them, and with his free hand he thrust the horse’s bridle into Malvallet’s hand.
“Up, up!” he cried, and sprang forward, lithe as a panther, to bring one man to earth by a single stroke so nicely measured, with so much skill and brute force behind it, that his two-edged sword split the helm on which it fell, and also its wearer’s crown. He leaped back again as Malvallet shook the reins clear of his arm.
“At my back!” Geoffrey gasped, and swept his sword up suddenly to intercept a deadly blow at his neck.
“Fool!” Simon answered in a fury. He caught his horse as it would have bolted past him, and setting his feet squarely, forced it back upon its haunches. From the saddle-holster he snatched his treasured bow which not all Fulk’s remonstrances had induced him to leave behind. Down he went on his knee, seeing that Malvallet could still stand alone, and calmly fitted an arrow to the bow. Calmly, too, he took aim, and bent that mighty weapon. The arrow sang forth, but so sure was Simon of his skill, equal, Fulk said, to that of the best bowman in all Cheshire, that he paused not to see it hit its mark. One after another he fitted arrows to his bow, and shot them among the dwindling group about Malvallet, until a sound behind him warned of danger. Up he sprang, catlike, and in a flash exchanged bow for sword. And with this he did so much good work that when Malvallet came to guard his back, he had killed a man outright, and dealt three others some shattering blows.
“I am with thee!” Malvallet called from behind, but Simon needed no encouragement. Not for nothing had he trained his muscles throughout the years he had been at Montlice. His arm seemed tireless, his eye unwavering.
Then the body of the fight swept down upon them, and they were all but lost in its writhing masses. Free of his assailants, Simon caught at a horse’s bridle. He had lost his shield and his bow, but with his sword he did battle against the mounted man. Then, once more, Malvallet was with him, himself mounted on a stray horse, and helmed again. He charged down upon Simon’s foe, lance poised in readiness, and as the unknown rider would have cut Simon to earth, caught him fairly in the ribs with such force that the man, taken unawares, was toppled backwards out of his saddle, and the wind knocked out of him.
“Up, lad!” Malvallet cried. “Art hurt?”
Simon swung himself on to the frightened animal’s back, and there in the heat of battle, smiled his tranquil smile, still calm and unruffled.
“A scratch or two. Take no heed of me, Geoffrey of Malvallet.”
“That will I!” Geoffrey retorted. “Stay by me—Nobody!”
Again they were enveloped in a swirling mass, and with it swept onward, their horses flank to flank, themselves hacking a path before them. Once Fulk drew near, puffing and blowing, his eyes gleaming red through his visor, then he too was swept onward and away.
To Simon the battle seemed interminable, but although his arm was weary and he had to change his sword to his left hand, he lost not one jot of his grim enjoyment. He fought on beside Malvallet, silent for the most part, his lips set in a hard, tight line, and his strange eyes glowing.
“Canst see Hotspur?” panted Geoffrey once. “Methought I heard a shout.”
Even as he spoke it came again, caught up by many voices: “Hotspur has fallen! Hotspur is dead! Hurrah for St. George of England!”
“He is down,” said Simon, “and they waver.”
Waver they did, and from that moment the zest seemed to go from the rebel army. The fighting became less arduous, but it was not until dusk fell that the battle ceased. And when at last the end came and his tired arm could be still, Simon
