The Winning of the Golden Spurs

by Percy F. Westerman

Meanwhile their comrades were eager and alert. The bowmen had chosen their arrows and strung their bows; the men-at-arms had drawn their swords and had discarded their belts and sheaths to enable them to run the quicker to the aid of the two devoted men, and with eyes intently fixed on the gate of the barbican they awaited the signal to rush headlong across the open space that lay between them and the fortress.

To the waiting soldiers it seemed hours ere their two comrades drew near to the outer work, but when within a few paces of it a sentinel stood forth on the wall and challenged them. Then, apparently suspicious of their errand, he blew a loud blast on a horn, which was immediately answered by the appearance of five or six men from within the barbican, while over a score lined the walls of the main stronghold, some of whom began to wind their cross-bows.

At the same time the door was thrown open, and a man, apparently a captain, stood on the threshold. Up to now these preparations were simply a matter of form, no matter who the newcomer might be, and fortunately the iron-nerved Englishmen understood this, for, staggering under their loads, they still advanced with bent heads to avoid recognition.

Suddenly the guardian of the gate realised that it was not a pair of ignorant peasants that he had to parley with. But the knowledge came too late. Peter of Purbrook had thrown down his load and dashed, sword in hand, at the astonished Norman. Before the latter could retreat a step he had fallen with his head cleft to the chin. His body lay athwart the threshold, and ere the others could rush to close the gate the Englishmen had pushed their baskets, filled with stones, against the door, and were awaiting the onslaught of their foes.

With hoarse shouts of encouragement the English men-at-arms rose from their ambush and rushed madly to their comrades' aid, while the archers, shooting rapidly and coolly, directed a dropping fire of arrows at the defenders on the walls. But they of the outwork had gathered to defend the gate, and already a fierce struggle was taking place, the two gallant Englishmen being hard pressed by the enraged Normans.

With axe, spear, and mace the defenders strove to thrust back the daring intruders, while the latter, regardless of their own safety, essayed to keep open the gate. Two of the Normans fell, their bodies adding to the ghastly pile at the entrance to the barbican, but directly afterwards Myles of Fareham was slain by a savage spear-thrust.

Undismayed by the fall of his comrade, Peter of Purbrook hurled an axe at the helm of the slayer of his friend, then, clearing at a bound the heap of corpses, bade fair to drive back the defenders single-handed, while his comrades, with Raymond well in the fore, were already halfway across the intervening space.

Carried away by the heat of battle, Raymond saw as in a dream the figure of the devoted man-at-arms clearing a path for his countrymen; the next instant there was a blinding flash, a deafening roar, and a thick, choking cloud of sulphurous smoke.

One of the defenders, with the fury of despair, had fired off a bombard, the huge stone ball crashing through friend and foe alike, and bounding over the springy turf till it came to a stop a few paces from the edge of the forest.

Appalled by the sound, the soldiers hesitated, but when the smoke had partially cleared away the gateway was deserted.