The Prince’s Own were there, however, shocked at the sight of the enemy springing up under their noses, yet keeping their heads, keeping their oaths to guard their prince.

Wilhelm began shouting commands. Men rode off with their orders and horns blared and drums rolled. Knights who had been asleep in their tents shouted for their squires and their servants. Groomsmen flung saddles and barding onto the horses, as squires sought to lace up armor with hands that shook, while the knights cursed them for being clumsy and slow and did more harm than good by trying to help. The camp was thrown into confusion, as the soldiers ran to try to see for themselves what was going on. No one paid heed to orders, and there was chaos as the officers charged in among the soldiers, using blows and curses to restore discipline.

Edward did not move. He kept his gaze focused on the Prince’s Own, and he was cheered by the sight of the initial charge crashing up against the front ranks of the dragon warriors. He could not see clearly, but he could guess at the carnage caused by the war horses plowing into their ranks. One knight won through to where he’d seen Marcus’s horse go down.

“Who is that?” Edward demanded. His eyes had lost some of their sharpness over the years and he could not make out the knight’s device.

“Sir Troeven Hammersmith,” said one of his knights.

“Ah, a good man,” said Edward.

Sir Troeven dismounted and was lost to sight amid the tall grass. The Prince’s Own closed ranks around the fallen, all except for two, who had been riding behind and found themselves cut off, surrounded by an enemy that had recovered from the shock of that initial charge with astonishing swiftness.

Edward could not see what was happening with Marcus, but he could picture the knight ascertaining if the prince was dead or alive and, if alive, making a hurried determination on how best to remove him from the field.

Edward expected swift action—either his own knights attacking the enemy or the enemy attacking them—and he was surprised and uneasy over what looked to be a stalemate. The knights sat their horses. The enemy held their position. Neither made a move. Wilhelm took out his spyglass—a gift from his father, and his pride and joy. The prince trained it on the enemy.

“What do you see?” Edward demanded impatiently. “What the devil’s going on?”

“It is as Marcus told us, Father,” said Wilhelm, and his voice held a note of wonder. “These strange warriors are not armed, and there are women fighting among their ranks.”

At that moment, one of the two knights who had been cut off from the main body began his ill-fated charge into the enemy. They watched him fall from his horse.