“My horse is as swift as the stooping hawk, my lord,” boasted Reynard proudly. “And he can bear the weight of two of us.” He gave his sword, a family heirloom, into the keeping of a friend and rode his horse near Sir Troeven.

“Summerson, help me lift His Highness.”

The two men lifted the prince by his shoulders and legs and heaved him onto the horse, slinging his body over the front of the saddle. The young knight took a firm grip on the prince with one hand and grasped hold of the reins with the other.

“The rest of you, fall in around His Highness,” ordered Troeven, remounting his horse. “We will form a shield wall with our bodies. If one man falls, another rides up to take his place.”

He had kept sight of the enemy out of the corner of his eye, seeing them taking in all of this. He wondered if they spoke the language, if they understood the commands he was giving. Not that it mattered. They would know soon enough what was at hand. The knights took their places, forming a solid wall of armored men riding in front of the prince, men riding behind, and flanking the prince on either side.

“God save our prince,” Sir Troeven said in reverent tones, and every man repeated the prayer.

“God save our immortal souls,” Troeven said.

Every man repeated that prayer. Every man’s voice was firm.

Troeven raised up in the saddle and lifted his sword. He touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks. The animal plunged ahead, and the knights rode after him.

The Prince’s Own began their race against death.

34

STANDING ATOP THE RIDGELINE, KING EDWARD WATCHED THE nightmare scenario he himself had predicted (but in which he’d never in his heart believed). Edward had watched in grief and (God forgive him) shame as his poor mad son had gone haring off down the hillside, riding wildly through the army encampment, and galloping out into an empty field, waving his sword at the grasshoppers. The king had turned away from the heart-wrenching sight and from the looks of pity and well-meaning banalities of his commanders, when suddenly he heard Wilhelm gasp.

Edward whipped around to see warriors springing up out of the tall grass. Again, God help him, Edward’s first thought was triumphant vindication.

“My son was right!” he cried grimly. “He was right, by heaven!”

His joy at knowing his son was not insane was quickly quenched by the knowledge that if Marcus was right about everything, the king and his army were now facing a terrible foe. In the next instant, he saw Marcus’s horse lurch sideways and fall to the ground, carrying Marcus down with him. Edward lost sight of his son in the tall grass.