De Marsac’s mouth fell open. He looked, as though he were in a dream, from the Scrivener to the knight on the black horse.
“You!” he cried. “I have seen you, too, some time and some place before!”
“You have, de Marsac,” came the reply in a voice that shook like a peal of thunder. “We have met ere this. But today it will be for the last time. I shall not raise my visor, for I think you know now it would be useless. I am Edward, the son of England’s King, the Black Prince!”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE BLACK PRINCE AGAIN
The last sentence came like the crack of doom. The four men started in their saddles. Even the horses raised their heads and snorted. Without a word De Marsac and the Abbot—or the Scrivener as I knew him—closed their visors and with a grimness faced their foes. The Black Prince drove his spurs into his horse’s side and plunged forward. He closed his huge fist and swung his arm with all his might against the knight who was nearest. There was no time to draw a weapon. So sudden and with such determination was the attack that the man caught the blow on his helmet full in the face. His head went back with a snap and he fell to the road without a sigh or groan.
The Abbot was not far behind. He, too, urged his horse to the fore. But even in the hurry he took time to lay his hand upon his mace. The knight whom he had singled out was quick enough to draw his sword and to take a steady aim at the Abbot’s head. As the mace wheeled in the air the sword fell. It struck the top of the Abbot’s helmet so sharply that I heard the ring of it where I was standing. The steel was dented in but the sword shivered into a hundred pieces and left the useless pommel in its owner’s hand. Then the mace struck. The clang of it was like the sound of a great muffled bell. The Abbot had lifted himself in his stirrups to get a better swing. The knotted points crashed against the neck of his opponent. There was no armor broken but the force of the blow was strong enough to drive him forward with his face down flat over the horse’s mane.
That made two knights out of the fight at the first encounter. It is true that De Marsac and the other had tried to maneuver so that they could all strike at the same time. But the speed with which the Black Prince and the Scrivener had acted was more that they had counted on. They were left, with their horses prancing madly about, in the middle of the road while the two victors galloped on past and slowly reined in their steeds and turned around ready for the next trial.
They came back at an even trot. The Abbot had his mace grasped in his right hand taking a sure aim as he came up. The Black Prince sat like an iron statue on his horse. His mace, which was thrice the ordinary size, hung idly at his side. The Abbot singled out the remaining knight as his target. The men met. Their maces rose and fell in the same breath. Their aim was each at the other’s head. But their arms locked. The maces crashed together with a loud clap. The Abbot turned in his saddle and with a slight movement gave his wrist a twist. The mace fell out of his enemy’s hand and he was left on his horse with no weapon save his sword.
The Black Prince looked on the fight as though it were a mere play. He came on a little behind the Abbot, straight at his foe. De Marsac knew the strength he was to encounter. He poised his weapon in his hand to get the balance of it so that he might strike his hardest blow. He intended to come down upon his enemy’s head, for it was there that he considered him most vulnerable, and if successful, would put a quick end to him.