Geoffrey repeated the question, for this knight's device was very similar to the first's.
"It can be none other than Sir Yves' brother, Sir Denis. I see that his shield shows that he is his brother's cadet. But stand to it; the time is at hand. Peter, sound a rousing tucket, I pray thee!"
Thus ordered, one of the English archers blew a shrill blast upon his horn, and the next moment volleys of arrows, bolts and stones whistled through the air. The close array of mounted men was transformed into a shouting, panic-stricken, struggling mob. Many fell, dead or wounded, the plunging, terrified horses adding to the tumult. Here and there, men braver and cooler than their fellows stood at bay or attempted to force their way into the houses that sheltered their assailants.
Three cross-bowmen had made Sir Denis their particular mark, but, doubtless carried away by their excitement, their aim was faulty. One bolt shattered itself against the knight's steel breastplate, another glanced from his helmet, while the third missed entirely.
Closing his visor, Sir Denis slipped from his horse and, mace in hand, strode towards the door of the nearest cottage. In vain quarrels and stones rattled against his armour of proof, and, like a man bearing a charmed life, he continued his advance.
"Make good the door 'gainst him," shouted Gripwell to the two English archers. As he spoke a thunderous blow of the Norman's mace burst in the upper part of the door.
Peter, the archer who had given the signal for the onslaught, immediately delivered a spear-thrust; but the knight, with a sweep of his ponderous weapon, shattered the head of the spear from the haft. Quick to take advantage, the archer grasped the end of the mace, and a fierce struggle ensued.
Sir Denis' mace was secured to his wrist by a chain, so that even had he quitted his hold the weapon would still be attached to his person, yet he had no intention of so doing.
Swaying to and fro on either side of the partially demolished door, archer and knight strove for mastery. Both were powerful men, and both equally determined to gain possession of the mace. At one time the mailed casque and shoulders of the Norman would be dragged through the irregular aperture; at another the Englishman was sore put to prevent himself being hauled from his retreat. Nor could his comrades give him assistance by laying hold of the knight's weapon; all they could do was to rain powerful, yet futile, blows upon the armour of the struggling foeman.
Meanwhile Gripwell, after giving the archer instructions to hold the doorway, had darted to the inner room, where a pail of charcoal, intended by its late owner for cooking purposes, glowered darkly on the floor.