And probably Brian would have fared just as badly at William Martel's hands, had their positions been reversed.
"Trumpeter, blow the signal to horse; let the Brabanters prepare to ride, and the Black Troopers of Ardennes—the last comers. We will ride to-night, Alain. Art thou too wearied to go with us?"
"Nay, my lord, ready and willing."
"And Osric—it will refresh thee; we start in half an hour—give the horses corn."
In half an hour they all rode over a new bridge of boats lower down the stream, and close under the ordnance of the castle,[22] for the forts at Crowmarsh commanded the lower Bridge of Stone. They were full three hundred in number—very miscellaneous in composition. There was a new troop of a hundred Brabanters; another of so-called Free Companions, numbering nearly the same. Scarce a hundred were Englishmen, in any sense of the word, neither Anglo-Norman nor Anglo-Saxon—foreigners with no more disposition to pity the unfortunate natives than the buccaneers of later date had to pity the Spaniards, or even the shark to pity the shrinking flesh he snaps at.
Just before reaching Bensington, which paid tribute to both sides, and was exempt from fire and sword from either Wallingford or Crowmarsh, a troop from the latter place came in sight.
Trumpets were blown on both sides, stragglers recalled into line, and the two bodies of horsemen charged each other with all the glee of two bodies of football players in modern times, and with little more thought or care.
But the Wallingford men were strongest, and after a brief struggle the Crowmarsh troopers were forced to fly. They were not pursued: Brian had other business in hand; it was a mere friendly charge.
Only struggling on the ground were some fifty men and horses, wounded or dying, and not a few dead.
Brian looked after Osric with anxiety.