Derry somehow heard him. At Morgan’s shout, Derry glanced over his shoulder and pulled up to gape openmouthed, instantly assessing the situation: Rhydon and Lionel spurring toward him as they saw him wavering, the bodies jerking at the ends of ropes behind him, and Morgan thundering toward all of that disaster at a dead gallop, sword in fist and shouting defiance.

At once Derry spun his horse on its haunches and bolted toward Morgan and the Gwynedd lines, instinctively cutting a diagonal slightly away from Rhydon and Lionel. The enemy lords were close—they could not have been more than ten yards behind when Derry turned—and they were closing fast. He saw that Morgan was fast gaining on the heavier Torenthi warhorses, that he was now almost neck and neck with Lionel’s big bay charger; but behind Derry, Rhydon’s mounted archers were nocking arrows to their bowstrings.

Lionel tried to turn across Derry’s path to block his escape, but Morgan was already abreast of him, yanking his horse’s head to the left and throwing its weight against Lionel’s. Lionel’s horse missed a stride and stumbled, then went down as Morgan’s spurred boot lashed out in a vicious kick.

Lionel was pitched head over heels as his mount hit the turf, and Morgan thundered on past to gain on Rhydon as Lionel picked himself up and snatched at the reins of his staggering horse. A hail of arrows began to rain down on them from the Torenthi escort. The arrows glanced off harmlessly against the steel helmets and mail hauberks of Morgan and Rhydon, but the horses were unprotected; a chance bolt transfixed Rhydon’s mount through the throat and sent it screaming to its knees.

Rhydon landed on his feet as the horse collapsed under him, already running toward the now remounted Lionel and waving his arms frantically for the archers to cease fire. But another arrow caught Derry in the back even as Morgan was drawing abreast of him and the archers were lowering their bows. With an oath, Morgan yanked the faltering Derry across his saddle and wheeled to race back toward his own lines. At the same time, Rhydon scrambled up behind Lionel and the pair of them spurred back toward the east. Morgan, with a fearful glance back over his shoulder, could see Rhydon mouthing maledictions as he and Lionel rode for safety. Morgan steadied Derry’s limp form across his saddle and crouched low as he rode for the Gwynedd army.

But the army was in turmoil, the men milling angrily behind the front lines, naked swords and axes brandished against the noonday sun. In a determined effort to restrain his officers, Kelson was galloping up and down the center of the line, but even he could not be everywhere at once. The troops’ outrage was rising in a roaring crescendo as they angrily shook their weapons at what the treacherous enemy had just done to their comrades.

“Lower your weapons!” Kelson was shouting. “Hold, I say! Don’t you see? He wants us to attack. Sheathe your weapons! I command you to hold!”