“Silence now until I speak. The time should be soon. Follow me close, but keep your swords hidden and show no fight until ye see me draw. Cedric, stay by me throughout.”
A low murmur of assent came and then all was eerily silent. Yet through the chilling darkness and the tense period of waiting Simon’s magnetic personality seemed to spread over his men so that their jagged nerves were soothed. Not one amongst them but placed his whole trust in Simon, believing implicitly that he would lead them to victory.
Time crept by on leaden feet, and bit by bit the grey light grew stronger. Above, all was quiet as the grave, so that the very silence seemed to din in the waiting men’s ears.
Presently one fidgeted unconsciously, and drew a deep, sobbing breath. Against the light they saw Simon raise his hand, and once more there was quiet.
Then, as from a long way off, a horn sounded, wailing across the land. Thrice came the call, and something like a gasp of relief broke from eleven tense throats. Away in the camp, Geoffrey of Malvallet had given the signal for attack. Still Simon moved not, but stood rocklike, waiting.
Faintly came the noise of a great shout. Holland had obeyed the signal. Eleven men fixed their eyes upon their lord, muscles taut, to move at his least command. He stood immobile, his head slightly tilted, listening.
Gradually the noise grew, though it came muffled into the mine. An explosion rent the air; Holland had trained his one cannon on to the western wall the better to attract attention.
Nearer at hand turmoil sounded, subdued at first, but increasing in volume. The town was awake, and plunged into sudden and desperate activity.
At last Simon moved, and spoke one word.
“Follow.” He mounted the rude step and scrambled through the hole with surprising agility. Quickly his men followed, and found themselves on a patch of waste ground behind some rude houses, amidst rubbish and garbage. They closed up behind Simon and strode after him across the uneven ground.
“Remember, ye are soldiers of Belrémy,” he reminded them. “Spread a little, but follow me.”
On they went, and broke into a trot as they emerged upon a narrow street. It was thronged with hurrying men, and from the windows and doors of the houses women called, some hysterical, others calm. Soldiers were running towards the western ramparts, buckling on their swords or mailed gloves. Simon’s little band separated quickly and ran after him, to the south, pushing and jostling the excited townsfolk. From behind came the roar of Holland’s attack, but they tarried not to listen. On they sped, out into the main street and down it towards the gates, always keeping the green plumes in sight, and gradually drawing near to Simon again.
Through the rapidly filling street the gates loomed large ahead, and from them came part of the garrison, mounted, and galloping to save the western walls, heedless of the scattered humanity flying from before the plunging hoofs.
They were upon the gates now, and Simon’s voice rang out, clarion-like above the din.
“To me, and do what I do!”
Full upon the startled sentries he rushed, and cried:
“The Seneschal! The Seneschal!”
They fell back instantly, thinking he came from the Marshal, and he swept on, his men at his heels, to the gate-tower. There again they were accosted, but this time the sentry but asked for news.
“They are through on the western side!” Simon shouted, and thundered up the stairs, sword drawn. At the top some fifteen men were fretting, trying to hear or see what was toward. They fell upon Simon.
“What news? What news? Are they through? Bring ye commands?”
Before they had realised he was a stranger, he had struck, and with a quick movement, he had flung his cloak about the foremost, muffling and blinding him. The room was suddenly full of armed men, and they hacked down the tiny garrison with deadly precision. Swords were wrenched from scabbards, daggers drawn; all was confusion in that desperate fight. Then again Simon’s voice rang out, and they saw him wrench at the lever which let down the bridge.
“John, Malcolm, Frank, guard me this!” he called, and was lost again amid the scuffling fight.
A cry went up for help; someone reached the great bell-rope, and set the iron bell clanging a wild alarm; dead and wounded lay upon the floor, but Simon’s eleven men were whole, three of them guarding the drawbridge lever as he had commanded. Simon plunged forward to the door, waving a huge key.
“The rest follow me!” he cried, and was gone down the winding stairs. Out they raced, pell-mell, to the barred gate.
The bell had stirred the garrison station nearby to action. From a little way off came shouts from the oncoming soldiers.
“Guard my back!” Simon gasped, and struck down a man who sought to stand against him. He leapt over the body and fumbled with the key. Cedric was at his side; behind them, his men were engaging with the startled enemy. Slowly, slowly the bolts were pushed back, and the iron bars removed. The gates swung back.
Simon swerved round on his heel to meet the attackers. Some dozen men-at-arms were striving desperately to reach the gate, but Simon’s men had the advantage of them and could hold them in check till Geoffrey came. Simon hacked a way through for himself and Cedric, intent on reaching the gate-tower before the soldiers, who were even now in sight, some mounted, and charging down the narrow street. He was just in time, for a small body of men rushed to the tower to draw up the bridge before it should be too late. They came upon a great knight in golden armour, who stood within the doorway, and met their charge like a rock. His sword slashed and thrust mercilessly, his brow was lowering.
Then a welcome sound fell upon Simon’s ears, a roar and the thunder
