"Aim low, archers!" squealed small Prat, and forthwith the battle joined.
The weary rear-guard rocked and swayed beneath the onset, but Prat and his archers shot amain, arrows whistled while pike and gisarm thrust and smote, as, encompassed now on three sides, they fell back and back towards the yawning gates of Belsaye; and ever as he fought, Beltane by times turned to watch where Duke Ivo's threatening van-ward galloped—a long line of gleaming shields and levelled lances gay with the glitter of pennon and banderol.
Back and back the rear-guard staggered, hewing and smiting; twice Beltane reeled 'neath unseen blows and with eyes a-swim beheld Roger and Ulf, who fought at either stirrup: heard of a sudden shrieks and cries and the thunder of galloping hooves; was aware of the flash of bright armour to his left, rank upon rank, where charged Duke Ivo's van-ward before whose furious onset Sir Benedict's weary pikemen were hurled back—their centre swayed, broke, and immediately all was dire uproar and confusion.
"Ah, Beltane—these be fresh men on fresh horses," cried Sir Benedict, "but hey—body o' me—all's not lost yet—malediction, no! And 'tis scarce half a mile to the gates. Ha—yonder rides lusty Hacon to stay their rush—in upon them. Beltane—Ho, Pentavalon!"
Shouting thus, Sir Benedict plunged headlong into the raging fury of the battle; but, as Beltane spurred in after him, his weary charger, smitten by an arrow, reared up, screaming, yet ere he fell, Beltane, kicking free of the stirrups, rolled clear; a mighty hand plucked him to his feet and Ulf, roaring in his ear, pointed with his dripping axe. And, looking whither he pointed, Beltane beheld Sir Benedict borne down beneath a press of knights, but as he lay, pinned beneath his squealing charger, Beltane leapt and bestrode him, sword in hand.
"Roger!" he shouted, "Ulf—Walkyn—to me!"
All about him was a swaying trample of horses and men, an iron ring that hemmed him in, blows dinted his long shield, they rang upon his helmet, they battered his triple mail, they split his shield in sunder; and 'neath this hail of blows Beltane staggered, thrice he was smitten to his knees and thrice he arose, and ever his long blade whirled and darted.
"Yield thee, sir knight—yield thee!" was the cry.
"Ho, Roger!" he shouted hoarsely, "Ulf—Walkyn, to me!"
An axe bit through his great helm, a sword bent against his stout mail, a knight spurred in upon him, blade levelled to thrust again, but Beltane's deadly point darted upward and the snorting charger plunged away—riderless.