"Ralph," he muttered; "Ralph, dear boy, if I should be left behind too, there's a gold chain I would like thee to have, and my goshawk, she's been well trained, and thou wilt be kind to her, I know. There's little Alice, my sister, too, give her my bells and jesses; and to mother--No, certes, Ralph, I'll not play the girl. Art not ashamed of me, Ralph?" and Dicky tried to whistle a tune, but it only came in a melancholy pipe from out his barred helm. "Marry, 'tis the heat," said Dicky ruefully.
"Nay, Dicky, cheer up. There's thy Frenchman in the gay armour a-head. Think of the ransom thou art going to get."
"Ah, Ralph, my boy, methinks 'tis the ransom Sir John Merlin told us had been paid for all of us long years gone by that I shall win to-day. I wish I had paid more attention to my prayers--But marry, come up! here we go! Oh! this is something like! Have at them! A Cheke! a Cheke! say I. St George for merry England!--Ah!"
His voice suddenly changed, and the poor boy reeled in his saddle, as a fierce and burly French man-at-arms drove his lance into his corslet and broke off the point. Dicky's head fell forward. He dropped his lance and clutched the pommel of his saddle. Everything swam before his eyes, and he fell from his horse with a groan.
But Ralph had well revenged him. His lance caught the Frenchman under the gorget, driving the chain shirt into his neck, and bore the man-at-arms out of his saddle to the ground.
The melée had now become fierce. The French, who were well handled by their skilful young leader, the Vicomte de Thouars, who was only twenty-seven years old, had kept a body of men-at-arms behind their infantry in reserve, and to watch the movements of the Breton vanguard. This fine body of troops, under the celebrated James Galliotti, seeing the change of formation of the square, charged at once, and took the vanguard in flank. The infantry were cruelly handled, and orders were issued to spare not a single man who wore a red cross. Out-generalled, and abandoned by the rest of the army, for the main battle had been utterly broken, the Swiss pikemen were doggedly holding their ground, or slowly retiring before the fierce onslaught of the French, while the rearward, seeing how hardly the battle was going, had fled without striking a blow. The men of the Wight and their Breton comrades were gallantly upholding the honour of their race. Shoulder to shoulder, and back to back, the pikemen stood, fiercely exchanging thrust for thrust with the eager warriors of Gaul. But numbers were against them, and gradually their ranks were thinned.
The Captain of the Wight, boldly seconded by his knights, esquires, and men-at-arms, had plunged into the midst of the French cavalry.
Three knights the Lord Woodville had himself unhorsed, his lance was gone, but his sword still flashed, and rose and fell, and Ralph still rode beside his lord.
Seeing how fierce was the little band of men around the Captain of the Wight, the French men-at-arms turned aside to easier conquests, and the battered and wounded knights and esquires were fain to rest grimly on a little rising ground they had gained to the right of the battle-field.
How different was the scene from the morning. Of all that gallant, gay, and careless army, no coherent mass remained. The dusty road was covered with piles of dead and dying men. Broken pikes, splintered lances, pools of blood lay all around. Here and there fainting men, sore stricken, leant upon the end of their halberds, or sank swooning to the ground. A weary group of English still held together, and repelled the relentless onslaught of the French; but they had no hope, and had nowhere to go. No quarter was offered or asked, and their only object was to sell their lives as dearly as possible.