“Strike, my friend, strike harder. You would do better with a bulrush.”
Of a sudden his whole front changed. His chin rose higher, his lips and nostrils grew thin, and his eyes ceased smiling. Blows leapt at Guy like flames, licking him on every side and driving him back. The fight ended with his stumbling and shooting forward under Fulk’s sword, where he lay like a red beetle, very flat and still.
The men of the door set up a howl of rage, for this tawdry and swaggering bird had made them believe in his crowing. They came pushing in, bunched together, scythe-blades and bills poking forward, lusting to smite, yet afraid of that uncompromising sword. Fulk stood with head thrown back, nostrils dilated, eyes mocking them with a flare of scorn.
“Come, my lords and nobles, come nearer.”
His fierce pride of birth, and his lean valour, awed them, though they cursed him and handled their weapons.
“Fetch in the chopping-block, Harry.”
“We’ll have his head off before cock-crow.”
“Knock the whelp’s legs from under him with a pole.”
They edged forward in a half circle, encouraging each other, and pointing to the swashbuckler who still lay flat on his face. And since all their eyes were towards Fulk of the Forest, they did not see Isoult of the Rose and Father Merlin standing in the doorway.
It was Isoult’s voice that whipped the boors back. They parted and let her through, since she carried a knife, and stabbed at those who faltered.