"Ay, my boy, 'tis thy father. He fell in the thickest of the fight, and thou hast lost a noble sire and I a brave soldier. Now, bear up, Raymond, and get thee to the camp and attend to thy hurts, for thou wilt be required anon."
Wounded in body and mind, the young squire was led to the camp, where it was found that the Frenchman's sword had driven the stout steel bascinet heavily against his temple, leaving a dark blue bruise to show how near he had been to death. Simple remedies were applied, and, having divested himself of his armour, Raymond recovered himself sufficiently to set out to find the body of his father, bearing a torch to aid him in his quest.
He remembered well the place where he had last seen him, close to a little stunted thorn that grew on the edge of the slope which the Prince's division had held so well.
A veritable mound of bodies showed how firmly the archers had stood, and how fierce had been the contest, for in a circle around the tree lay a heap of red-crossed surcoats, their wearers lying still in death with their faces to the foe, while around lay the bodies of their attackers, three deep in places, their rich dress and armour proving that the flower of French chivalry was unable to vanquish, although it had broken through, that double line of English archers and men-at-arms.
The men of the Hampshire companies had suffered more severely than any, and Raymond, as he pursued his quest, came across many faces which he sadly recognised.
Here and there, dotted over the ghastly field, were feeble glimmers of torches showing that others were engaged in the doleful task of looking for their fallen comrades, though in some instances ghouls were engaged in their dastardly work of robbing the dead.
At length the ruddy glare of the torch threw its beams upon the form which Raymond recognised only too well. Stretched on his back, his sightless eyes staring up at the starry sky, lay Redward, the outlaw and master-bowman, the body bearing the ghastly traces of eight separate wounds, all of which were in front, proving that to the last he had fought with his face to the foe.
Sorrowfully Raymond gazed upon his slain sire; then, realising that the sooner he performed the last rites there would be the less chance of the spoiler's fell work, he proceeded to carefully remove the body to the shelter of the stunted tree, so that he could return to the camp to find, if possible, the priest attached to the company.
As he lifted the heavy corpse he was startled to hear a feeble voice exclaim, "Blessings on thy kindness, noble sir; I pray thee assist me."
Recovering from his astonishment, the squire discovered, pinned beneath his father's body, a wounded knight. Swiftly Raymond bent to his aid, and, cutting asunder the laces of his bascinet, he found the stranger to be none other than Sir Reginald Scarsdale!