“That am I, your host of old.”
“I wish I had met you in better company. But friends we are, and friends must be.”
And he dismounted, and did his best for the wounded man, promising to return and fetch him off before night, or send yeomen to do so.
As he pushed on through the wood, the Abbot began to see signs of a fight; riderless horses crashing through the copse, wounded men straggling back, to be cut down without mercy by the English. The war had been “à l’outrance” for a long while. None gave or asked quarter. The knights might be kept for ransom: they had money. The wretched men of the lower classes, who had none, were slain: as they would have slain the English.
Soon they heard the noise of battle; and saw horsemen and footmen pell-mell, tangled in an abattis, from behind which archers and cross-bowmen shot them down in safety.
Hereward dashed forward, with the shout of Torfrida; and at that the French, taken in the flank, fled, and were smitten as they fled, hip and thigh.
Hereward bade them spare a fugitive, and bring him to him.
“I give you your life; so run, and carry my message. That is Taillebois’s banner there forward, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Then go after him, and tell him,—Hereward has the Abbot of Burgh, and half a dozen knights, safe by the heels. And unless Ivo clears the wood of his men by nightfall, I will hang every one of them up for the crows before morning.”