“Halt!” whispered Cicely, whose ears were made sharp by fear. “I hear men moving.”
They pulled rein and listened. Yes; between the gusts of wind there was a faint sound as of the clanking of armour. They strained their eyes in the darkness, but could see nothing. Again the horse neighed and was answered. One of their servants cursed the beast beneath his breath and struck it savagely with the flat of his sword, whereon, being fresh, it took the bit between its teeth and bolted. Another minute and there arose a great clamour from the marl-pit in front of them—a noise of shoutings, of sword-strokes, and then a heavy groan as from the lips of a dying man.
“An ambush!” exclaimed Christopher.
“Can we get round?” asked Cicely, and there was terror in her voice.
“Nay,” he answered, “the stream is in flood; we should be bogged. Hark! they charge us. Back to the Towers—there is no other way.”
So they turned and fled, followed by shouts and the thunder of many horses galloping. In two minutes they were there and across the bridge—the women, Christopher, and the three men who were left.
“Up with the bridge!” cried Christopher, and they leapt from their saddles and fumbled for the cranks; too late, for already the Abbot’s horsemen pressed it down.
Then a fight began. The horses of the enemy shrank back from the trembling bridge, so their riders, dismounting, rushed forward, to be met by Christopher and his three remaining men, who in that narrow place were as good as a hundred. Wild, random blows were struck in the darkness, and, as it chanced, two of the Abbot’s people fell, whereon a deep voice cried—
“Come back and wait for light.”
When they had gone, dragging off their wounded with them, Christopher and his servants again strove to wind up the bridge, only to find that it would not stir.