The Messenger of the Black Prince

by Thomas A. H. Mawhinney

He rose in his saddle. His mace was in the air. The Black Prince stuck out his arm as though with it he would ward off the force of the blow. The mace descended. In the same second the Black Prince urged his horse a little to the side. The arm that was to receive the weight of De Marsac’s mace suddenly dropped. The blow was spent in the air and the weight of the weapon and the force he had behind it toppled De Marsac from his balance. His feet left the stirrup and he fell in a cloud of dust to the road.

The Black Prince could have ended the fight here. He might have jumped to the ground and crushed his enemy with his mace. The advantage was his, but he made no move except to lean over his foe and laugh.

“De Marsac,” he cried, “you ought to wear a cap and bells and carry a bauble in your hands. You would make a good king’s fool.”

If De Marsac was angry before, he was full of venom now. His horse had galloped off in fright and his mace lay on the ground.

“I am not done yet!” he cried and he took his weapon in his hand. “I will fight you till the end.”

It was only an idle boast. The Black Prince threw his leg over his horse and dropped lightly to the road. De Marsac with the fury of a madman whirled his mace about his head. He caught the Prince a heavy blow on the shoulder which would have knocked an average man kicking to the earth. The Prince stiffened himself to receive the shock, then, when it was spent, he knotted his mailed fist. He drove it with all his strength into De Marsac’s chest and dented the armor flat against his body. De Marsac spun and staggered like a man walking in a dream. Then, with his breath catching in his throat, he uttered a heavy groan and fell his whole length sprawling to the road.

I was so intent on the actions of the Black Prince that I almost forgot the Abbot. He had knocked the mace from his enemy’s hand to be sure. And then, when I turned to him again, I saw that the two men had wheeled their horses about and were running at full tilt at each other for the second time. The knight had his sword in his hand but the Abbot, like the Black Prince, was without arms of any kind, for he had hung his mace at the side of his saddle. When the knight raised his weapon to strike, the Abbot lowered his head and shoulders. With a deft movement he caught his foe by the wrist. As his horse was speeding past, he drew in the reins and gave the wrist a sudden twist. It was the same trick that he had done with the mace. The sword dropped from the knight’s hand but this time the Abbot held on. He half dragged his foe from his saddle and as he was slipping backward he dealt him a swinging blow on the side that sent him headlong from his seat rolling over till he flattened out on his back with his arms extended in the form of a cross.

I thought that the fight was now over and that all we had to do was to join the victors. I was burning to deliver my message to the Black Prince and to warn him of the great danger that threatened him from the army that was marching down the valley of the Loire. But I had counted too soon. The archers, who up till now, had drawn themselves up along the side of the road to witness the fray, began to feel the doubtfulness of their own safety. They saw, to their surprise, the Black Prince and the Abbot bowl over the four knights as though they were as inexperienced as boys. And when the leader, De Marsac, was sent tumbling to the ground, they looked to one another for a signal. Their captain was, of course, gone, but the boldest of them strung an arrow to his bow. The others followed suit. Before I could grasp the situation there were the lot of them, some aiming at the Black Prince, some at the Abbot, and one, indeed, had the thought even to cover us.

Charles gave me a shove in the ribs. I knew what he meant, so while the going was opportune, we edged back step by step, until we found ourselves in the shelter of one of the scrub trees. There were rocks around, as I have already said, so that with no more ceremony we jumped behind the first, then the second, till we were far enough away to be entirely safe.

Then I got the jar of my life. I heard a laugh, a wicked mocking laugh. Before the echo of it died away the Dwarf of Angers popped his head out from behind the boulder next to us. He must have gone the whole distance back to his cave, for he carried in his hands three strong bows and as many quivers full of arrows slung over his shoulder.