For a few minutes he had kept his post on the high deck at the stern, that he might better see how the fight was going. Then, however, with his score of men in full armor, he went down in the waist, stepping forward to meet the onset of the French knights who dashed in to avenge their fallen leader. He had not been their only commander, evidently, for now in their front there stood a knight whose splendid arms and jeweled crest marked him as a noble of high rank.
"God and St. Denis!" he shouted. "Down with the dogs of England!"
"St. George and King Edward! I am Richard Neville of Wartmont. Who art thou?"
Their swords were crossing as the Frenchman responded, "Antoine, Count de Renly! Down with thee, thou of Wartmont! I will give an account of thee to thy boy Black Prince."
"I am another boy, as he is," was the reply from the young lord; for his antagonist was certainly not taller than himself, and they were not badly matched.
All around them the fierce mêlée went on. Arrows whizzed; the spears of the Welshmen flew; there was hard hammering of sword and axe on helm and shield. One fact came out which men of knightly degree might otherwise have doubted. It was seen that a strong Irishman, with only his buff coat for armor or for weight, could swing a weapon more freely and with better effect than could a brave knight a head shorter, of lighter bones, weighed down by armor of proof and a steel-faced shield. Fierce was the wild Irish war-cry with which these brawny men of Ulster and Connaught rushed forward, and their swinging blows were as the stroke of death. Shields were dashed aside, helmets and mail were cloven through. Slain they were, a number of them; but they had not fallen uselessly—there were not now so many Frenchmen in full armor.
Richard and De Renly were skilled swordsmen, and for a time neither of them seemed able to gain any advantage. The Frenchman was a knight of renown, however, and it angered him to be checked by a mere youngster, a boy, a squire only, from the household of the Black Prince. He lost his temper, and pushed forward rashly, forgetting that he was not now upon firm land. The wind still blew, and the waves were lifting the ships, grinding them one against the other with shocks that were staggering. There was blood upon the deck at the spot where the mailed foot of the count was pressed. He slipped as he struck, and the sword of the English boy smote hard upon his crest.
A rush, another slip, another blow, and De Renly lay upon the deck, with the point of Richard's blade at the bars of his helmet.
"Yield thee, De Renly!" he shouted, "rescue or no rescue. Yield, or thou diest!"