"Prick them up, Ralph," he ordered.
The longbow twanged, and clothyard shafts flew over the grass like angry hornets; but each buzz ended in a shriek of agony, as the arrows drove through leather jerkin and flesh. A hoarse voice rasped from the unkempt ranks.
"Enough, lords! Have mercy on your poor slaves! Do not slay us!"
"What is this?" demanded Hugh, surprised. "Do you yield to our mercy?"
A frowsy fellow, armed like his mates with a knotted club and a knife, stood forth from the group and flung himself on his knees.
"We ask only that you let us go free, lords," he pleaded. "Do not send us back to the seigneur to be branded and whipped. We will die first!"
"What mean you?"
Hugh rode forward to the man's side, moved to pity.
"We are masterless men, lord. We have no homes, no food or cattle. We were hungry. But we meant no harm."
"The corpses of those you slew prove that," agreed Hugh grimly. "Think of a better reason for mercy."