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writhing masses. Free of his assailants, Simon caught at a horse’s bridle. He had lost his shield and his bow, but with his sword he did battle against the mounted man. Then, once more, Malvallet was with him, himself mounted on a stray horse, and helmed again. He charged down upon Simon’s foe, lance poised in readiness, and as the unknown rider would have cut Simon to earth, caught him fairly in the ribs with such force that the man, taken unawares, was toppled backwards out of his saddle, and the wind knocked out of him.
    ‘Up, lad!’ Malvallet cried. ‘Art hurt?’
    Simon swung himself on to the frightened animal’s back, and there in the heat of battle, smiled his tranquil smile, still calm and unruffled.
    ‘A scratch or two. Take no heed of me, Geoffrey of Malvallet.’
    ‘That will I!’ Geoffrey retorted. ‘Stay by me – Nobody!’
    Again they were enveloped in a swirling mass, and with it swept onward, their horses flank to flank, themselves hacking a path before them. Once Fulk drew near, puffing and blowing, his eyes gleaming red through his visor, then he too was swept onward and away.
    To Simon the battle seemed interminable, but although his arm was weary and he had to change his sword to his left hand, he lost not one jot of his grim enjoyment. He fought on beside Malvallet, silent for the most part, his lips set in a hard, tight line, and his strange eyes glowing.
    ‘Canst see Hotspur?’ panted Geoffrey once. ‘Methought I heard a shout.’
    Even as he spoke it came again, caught up by many voices: ‘Hotspur has fallen! Hotspur is dead! Hurrah for St George of England!’
    ‘He is down,’ said Simon, ‘and they waver.’
    Waver they did, and from that moment the zest seemed to go from the rebel army. The fighting became less arduous, but it was not until dusk fell that the battle ceased. And when at last the end came and his tired arm could be still, Simon sat quiet for a moment on his jaded horse, surveying the terrible field inscrutably, with little pity in his glance, but an expression of detached interest.
    Geoffrey of Malvallet watched him for a moment in the half-light, and presently spoke to him.
    ‘Art a very hardy youngster,’ he remarked. ‘What think you of it all?’ With a wave of his gauntleted hand he embraced the battlefield.
    Simon made answer without turning his head.
    ‘It is disorderly,’ he said reflectively. ‘Methinks I will aid them to tidy it.’
    Malvallet realised that he was of a mind to assist in carrying away the wounded.
    ‘Not so fast, not so fast! Is that all ye think?’
    Simon threw him a fleeting glance.
    ‘It has been a fair day,’ he said. ‘I would we might have another.’
    Malvallet laughed at him.
    ‘Thou cold-blooded tiger-cub! Thou hast no compassion for these wounded and these dead?’
    ‘One must die,’ Simon answered. ‘And I would deem this a good death. Why should I pity them?’
    ‘Yet thou wouldst go tend the wounded,’ Malvallet reminded him.
    ‘So they may fight again,’ Simon said. ‘I would help them, but I would not pity them, for that is foolish.’
    Malvallet laughed again, wonderingly.
    ‘Good lack, art made of ice! I’ll not have thee aid the wounded now. Art hurt thyself.’
    Simon cast a casual glance at his arm, round which, through the shattered plates, he had twisted a scarf.
    ‘Hurt? I? That is but a scratch, Sir Geoffrey. And thyself?’
    ‘Well enough,’ Malvallet replied. ‘This is not my first fight. I have been with the Prince here until a few months ago.’
    ‘I pray God ’twill not be my last fight,’ Simon said.
    ‘Or mine. I had thought from thy bearing that an hundred campaigns had seen thee.’
    ‘Nay. But mine is fighting blood.’
    Malvallet eyed him curiously.
    ‘Is it? From what stock dost thou spring, I wonder? Methinks I have seen thy like before.’
    Simon gave his short laugh.
    ‘Look in thy mirror, Geoffrey of Malvallet.’
    Malvallet nodded, not surprised.
    ‘It struck me