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grimly.
    ‘We are to march forth, God be thanked!’ he told Simon. ‘Glyndourdy is not come, so the King will pit his strength against Percy. Stafford is to lead the van, the King takes the right wing, and the Prince the left. We are to go with the Prince. Malvallet also. Malvallet is the Prince’s friend,’ he added. ‘I did not know. He is very like thee in face, Simon.’
    ‘Save that he is dark. Do we enrol ourselves under the Prince’s standard?’
    ‘Ay, at once. Summon me John the Marshal and Vincent, lad, and see to it that thou bearest thyself in readiness within the hour. I will carry my great cross-hilted sword, and the old lance.’
    Simon nodded and went quickly away to carry out his orders. In an hour he was fully equipped, riding behind his lord, and after what seemed to be a marvellously short time, the army was marched out of the town, fourteen to fifteen hundred strong, north to Hayteley-hill, whereon Hotspur had drawn up his army.
    ‘God’s my life!’ muttered Fulk. ‘This is a pretty place for fighting!’
    Simon surveyed the ground coolly, and frowned a little. Along the foot of the hill were a number of ponds, and in front of them grew thick rows of peas. Behind these obstructions were the rebels ensconced.
    There was a long, long wait, during which the horses stamped and fidgeted restlessly, and the men murmured among themselves. Then from the royal lines went forth a herald to treat with Percy. Another wait followed, and the herald returned, accompanied by a man clad all in armour and mounted on a fine horse, with his squire behind him.
    ‘Worcester,’ said Fulk. ‘Are we to treat, then?’
    No one had an answer for him, and he sat silent, waiting. To Simon it seemed hours before the Earl returned to the rebel lines, and after that was still another long pause. Evidently Hotspur refused to accept the terms laid before him, for there was a stir in the enemy’s lines, and word came down the King’s army that the King was about to give the order to ‘advance banner’. It was now long past noon, and from the impatient, chafing men came something of a cheer, and cries of ‘St George for England! St George, St George!’
    Fulk settled himself more firmly in his saddle, curbing his horse’s sidling movements.
    ‘Is thy blood fired, Simon?’ he asked, smiling from beneath his helmet.
    Simon’s eyes looked out, cool and watchful as ever.
    ‘Ay,’ he said shortly. ‘Does Stafford charge?’
    Fulk nodded.
    ‘God help him, yes! I mislike the look of yon army, Simon. Hotspur is no novice in battle, but there is some talk of a prophecy concerning him that says he will fall today. Keep at my back as far as thou art able, and do not lose thy head. Hey, we are moving – and so are they!’
    After that there was no time for conversation. Through the hampering growth of peas charged the van, led by Stafford, and to meet him came Hotspur, thundering down the hill with spears levelled, and from either wing the archers shooting. Suddenly the air seemed thick with flying arrows, and alive with cries and the clash of arms. Among the ponds and beyond them the vans of the two armies engaged, and for a while nothing could be seen save a medley of soldiers fighting together in growing disorder.
    A shout went up from Hotspur’s lines, and one cried from beside Simon: ‘Stafford is down, and they are through!’
    An order ran down the Prince’s flank, and in a moment they were in action, galloping forward to charge the enemy’s right wing.
    In a minute they seemed to be in the midst of a storm of flying arrows. One whistled past Simon’s head, but he only laughed, and spurred on, trampling peas underfoot, and hacking through. A cry came to his ears, taken up by many voices: ‘The Prince is wounded! The Prince is wounded!’ The ranks wavered and fell back irresolute, appalled by the flood of arrows. One rode up to the Prince who had plucked the arrow from out his cheek and was staunching the