These warriors were armed with the most powerful weapon known to mankind—fear. They could have attacked en masse and probably slaughtered Troeven’s small force in less time than it would take to speak of it. Such an attack would gain them nothing, however. Mere death. Whereas now, his knights were shaken and demoralized. White-faced beneath their visors, they cast terrified glances at the enemy and each other, wondering who was going to fall next. And, to make matters worse, the king’s army was watching with all their eyes and listening with all their ears. Some of the footsoldiers—good, stout yeomen, but illiterate and superstitious—could hear the screams and the cry of “demons.” They would see their knights, their commanders, their liege lords, being picked off one by one at the enemy’s leisure. Dying on their knees. Unable to fight back. King Edward would see his son captured, or, worse, roasted in his own armor like a plucked goose at Yuletide.

“No, by my soul,” Troeven swore to himself. “Damn your eyes, shut up!” he cried viciously to the knight, who was praying. “And get off your knees! God Himself would be ashamed of you. There’ll be no miracles here unless we make them!”

His voice snapped whiplike, and the knight fell silent.

“We swore an oath to protect our prince,” Troeven said, looking around the assembled knights, looking each man straight in the eyes. “And, by God, I intend to keep that oath. Are you with me?”

There were hesitant nods from some, curt nods from others. Here and there was a firm, “I am with you, my lord.”

“Good,” said Troeven grimly. “Now we must all make up our minds to one thing—none of us will leave this battlefield alive.” He glanced out at the enemy, watching, waiting. “Give yourself to Death and you take away Death’s hold over you.”

He went on swiftly, not giving them time to think, “I need the lightest man among you.”

Everyone looked to Sir Reynard, a knight who had just won his spurs in the last tourney, a young man of such slender build that one of his fellows had joked only this morning that he rattled around in his new armor like a dried bean in a kettle.

“I am the lightest, my lord,” said Reynard. His courage was holding firm, even under this onslaught. “What is your need of me?

“You will be responsible for the prince. Toss away your sword and shield. You won’t have use for weapons. Your task is to ride for our lines. No matter what happens around you, you pay no attention. You ride. Do you understand?”

“I do, my lord,” said the young man.

“Is your horse fast? If not, take mine.”