“Kill—kill!”
Fulk had an arrow through his sleeve before he marked out his first man. Maybe he had the mastery of these fellows before a blow was struck, for he came at them like a white-faced devil out of hell, and his eyes were as terrible as his sword. He slashed at one man’s bow, and the hand fell with it, the wretch staring stupidly at a bleeding stump. A little fat rascal with a poleaxe had the point under his ribs. A tall, raw-boned horse-thief stabbed at Fulk with a short sword, but not getting home with the blow, had his throat slashed as a judgment. One of the men who guarded Isoult had run forward to join in the tussle, but thought better of it and hung back.
Fulk heard Isoult utter a warning cry.
“Your back—guard your back!”
As he struck the fourth man down he had a vision of Isoult struggling and breaking free. She ran towards him.
“Behind you, behind you!”
Merlin had crept up like a shadow, knife raised. And as Fulk half turned, Isoult ran between them, striking at Merlin’s knife with her arm, and was stabbed between the wrist and elbow for her courage.
Fulk swung a hasty blow at Merlin and knocked him flat. But the blade had not bitten. A long, red bruise showed across the friar’s forehead. His wits had been rattled like dice in a dice-box.
“Run, run!”
She caught Fulk’s wrist, and he saw her arm all red where Merlin’s knife had smitten her.