Dazed with the shock, Nigel still kept his saddle, and Pommers, his yellow hide mottled with blood, bore him onward with the others. The French horsemen were now in full flight; but one stern group of knights stood firm, like a rock in a rushing torrent, beating off all, whether friend or foe, who tried to break the ranks. The oriflamme had gone, and so had the blue and silver banner, but here were desperate men ready to fight to the death. In their ranks honour was to be reaped. The prince and his following hurled themselves upon them, while the rest of the English horsemen swept onward to secure the fugitives and to win their ransoms. But the nobler spirits—Audley, Chandos, and the others—would have thought it shame to gain money whilst there was work to be done or honour to be won. Furious was the wild attack, desperate the prolonged defence. Men fell from their saddles for very exhaustion.
Nigel, still at his place near Chandos’ elbow, was hotly attacked by a short broad-shouldered warrior upon a stout white cob, but Pommers reared with pawing forefeet and dashed the smaller horse to the ground. The falling rider clutched Nigel’s arm and tore him from the saddle, so that the two rolled upon the grass under the stamping hoofs, the English squire on the top and his shortened sword glimmered before the visor of the gasping, breathless Frenchman.
“Je me rends! je me rends!” he panted.
For a moment a vision of rich ransoms passed through Nigel’s brain. That noble palfrey, that gold-flecked armour, meant fortune to the captor. Let others have it! There was work still to be done. How could he desert the prince and his noble master for the sake of a private gain? Could he lead a prisoner to the rear when honour beckoned him to the van? He staggered to his feet, seized Pommers by the mane, and swung himself into the saddle.
An instant later he was by Chandos’s side once more and they were bursting together through the last ranks of the gallant group who had fought so bravely to the end. Behind them was one long swath of the dead and the wounded. In front the whole wide plain was covered with the flying French and their pursuers.
The prince reined up his steed and opened his visor, while his followers crowded round him with waving weapons and frenzied shouts of victory.
“What now, John!” cried the smiling prince, wiping his streaming face with his ungauntleted hand. “How fares it then?”
“I am little hurt, fair lord, save for a crushed hand and a spear-prick in the shoulder. But you, sir? I trust you have no scathe?”
“In truth, John, with you at one elbow and Lord Audley at the other, I know not how I could come to harm. But alas! I fear that Sir James is sorely stricken.”
The gallant Lord Audley had dropped upon the ground and the blood oozed from every crevice of his battered armour. His four brave Squires—Dutton of Dutton, Delves of Doddington, Fowlhurst of Crewe, and Hawkstone of Wainhill—wounded and weary themselves, but with no thought save for their master, unlaced his helmet and bathed his pallid bloodstained face.
He looked up at the Prince with burning eyes. “I thank you, sir, for deigning to consider so poor a knight as myself,” said he in a feeble voice.
The prince dismounted and bent over him. “I am bound to honour you very much, James,” said he, “for by your valour this day you have won glory and renown above us all, and your prowess has proved you to be the bravest knight.”
“My Lord,” murmured the wounded man, “you have a right to say what you please; but I wish it were as you say.”
“James,” said the prince, “from this time onward I make you a knight of my own household, and I settle upon you five hundred marks of yearly income from my own estates in England.”
“Sir,” the knight answered, “God make me worthy of the good fortune you bestow upon me. Your knight I will ever be, and the money I will divide with your leave amongst these four squires who have brought me whatever glory I have won this day.” So saying his head fell back, and he lay white and silent upon the grass.
“Bring water!” said the prince. “Let the royal leech see to him; for I had rather lose many men than the good Sir James. Ha, Chandos, what have we here?”
A knight lay across the path with his helmet beaten down upon his shoulders. On his surcoat and shield were the arms of a red griffin.
“It is Robert de Duras the spy,” said Chandos.
“Well for him that he has met his end,” said the angry prince. “Put him on his shield, Hubert, and let four archers bear him to the monastery. Lay him at the feet of the cardinal and say that by this sign I greet him. Place my flag on yonder high bush, Walter, and let my tent be raised there, that my friends may know where to seek me.”
The flight and pursuit had thundered far away, and the field was deserted save for the numerous groups of weary horsemen who were making their way back, driving their prisoners before them. The archers were scattered over the whole plain, rifling the saddlebags and gathering the armour of those who had fallen, or searching for their own scattered arrows.
Suddenly, however, as the Prince was turning toward the bush which he had chosen
