“Stand aside! Stand aside! Let Malvallet finish!”
Even as he shouted to them they had sprung away from the gateway, pressing back against the walls to let Malvallet through.
Plunging into Belrémy came the English, Malvallet at their head, unmistakable by his black plumes and surcoat. He held his lance in one hand, his shield in the other, with the bridle of his own horse, and that of Simon’s huge black charger. Behind him came his own men, and such was the force of their charge that they bore the French backwards into the town, so that they broke, and fled in confusion. In that brief respite Geoffrey wheeled about and came back to the gate. He saw Simon at the entrance of the tower, and charged down upon his assailants, scattering them.
“All safe?” he cried.
Simon caught his horse’s bridle, and the shield from the saddle.
“Ay. I wait to see all in. Ride to the western ramparts now.”
Geoffrey turned again, and galloped back into the open street. An order was shouted, and the vanguard closed in behind him, horse and foot, orderly in an instant, the archers with their crossbows held ready. The cavalcade streamed down a side street, making for the western gate.
Again the bridge shook, this time beneath the weight of Alan’s onslaught. In he came, red plumes waving, and his brilliant surcoat stretched out behind him by the wind. Close behind him, riding three abreast, were his horse-archers, skilled warriors every one, mounted on trained chargers. As Alan rode past, Simon shouted to him above the clatter of hoofs on the cobblestones.
“On to the marketplace! I join thee there! ’Ware men from the right!”
Alan glanced quickly over his shoulder, and waved his sword gaily in token that he had heard; then he was gone down the main-street to where the French had gathered, ready to defend their own.
In silence Simon watched his soldiers come running through the gateway, pikes levelled, and every foot striking the ground as one. His eyes glinted as he observed their shining armour and their disciplined appearance. There was no semblance of riot in their attack; they came swiftly and orderly, fine men all of them, and well equipped.
At last came Walter of Santoy, in green-and-russet, Beauvallet colours, riding at the head of the rearguard, some score and a half men-at-arms mounted. They halted within the town, and spread quickly to guard the bridge at a sharp command from Santoy. Eleven of them rode on to where Simon stood, and saluted, dismounting, and holding their steeds in readiness for the men who had entered the town with Simon. It was all done as if by machinery, without fluster.
Then at last Simon moved. He turned, and called up the stairs of the gate-tower.
“All in! Down now to me!”
Down the stairs clattered the three men he had left aloft, wounded every one, but dauntless. Six of Santoy’s men went up to hold the tower in their place, and the three tired warriors mounted their waiting chargers, for they were to form Simon’s bodyguard. One man of the eleven was too badly wounded to move, but the others swung themselves into their saddles. Simon looked them over.
“It was well done,” he said, and from him that was praise enough to set them blushing. He glanced towards the one who was wounded, and raised his hand to his helm in stiff salute. “God be with you, Malcolm.”
“And with you, lord!” Malcolm gasped, and fell back into the arms of the surgeon who had come with Santoy.
Simon mounted his coal-black horse, and watched Cedric fling himself into the nearest horse’s saddle.
“Onward!” he said, and spurred forward down the street in Alan’s wake.
The English had pressed on to the wide marketplace, but there the French were gathered, soldiers and townspeople and there they made a determined stand.
“Way for Beauvallet!” Simon roared, and pressed through to the fore. A hundred voices took up the cry; a wave of relief seemed to sweep through the English ranks.
“Way for Beauvallet! Follow the Gilded Armour! The Lion, the Lion! Follow the Gilded Armour!”
The marketplace was a medley of fighting men, a blaze of colour, with here and there the red-and-gold of Montlice showing, fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Malvallet black. Green-and-russet men were scattered all over, and away to the right, the King’s men hacked and hewed with Alan at their head.
Simon pressed on towards one of his captains, rapped out a sharp command, and rode to the left. The captain wheeled about to the right, shouting Simon’s order as he went. In a moment it seemed the English fell into two divisions, and the left flank charged after the great golden figure ahead, bearing down upon the enemy like a battering ram. Back and back fell the French till the marketplace was left behind, and the mad fight swept on into the narrow streets beyond.
Women shrieked from doors and windows, hysterical at the sight of blood, and the sound of steel on steel and the roar of voices. Children who had slipped out into the road, fled hither and thither, terrified at this sudden invasion of fighting men. One babe ran right out into the road almost beneath the plunging hoofs of Simon’s horse. He wrenched the animal back upon its haunches and swung it deftly to one side, stooping to hoist the child up by its mud-spattered skirts.
An agonised, sobbing scream came from the side of the road, where the mother had flattened herself against the wall. Simon cut his way towards her, the babe held safe behind his shield, its face buried in the folds of his surcoat. He handed it down to the woman.
“Get ye within doors,” he told her sternly, and was gone again into the melee.
From the other end of
