The soldiers in the ranks had been cheering the Prince’s Own as though they were at a horse race or tourney. When, one by one, the knights fell, the cheers became more sporadic, then dwindled out altogether, and by the time the knights swept up the lone survivor of the Prince’s Own and carried him out of harm’s way, a dread silence had fallen over the ranks of the king’s army.

The dragon warriors ceased their pursuit and drew back among the tall grass. They left behind the dead. The bodies of twenty-nine knights formed an almost straight line leading from the field of grass to the last body, riddled with darts.

Sir Troeven lay with his shattered face turned up to the heavens. No demon would have his soul or the souls of any others of the Prince’s Own. They had kept their oath and God would gather them home.

They carried Prince Marcus off the field on a litter, bearing him up the ridge to where his father waited. They brought with them, as well, the young knight Sir Reynard. Marcus had groaned when they had lifted him off the horse, which they took for a hopeful sign. As for Reynard, he was dying, and there was nothing they could do for him except see to it that he was granted the honor he deserved. Acting on Edward’s command, six knights bore the mortally wounded young knight to his final audience with his sovereign. They lowered the litter bearing Reynard to a place of honor—beside that of the prince for whom he’d given his life.

The full extent of Marcus’s injuries would not be known until they could remove his armor, but Edward felt his son’s pulse and found it strong. His armor had not been pierced by any of the heinous darts. The only damage the armor had suffered was to the left shoulder, which was dented and bashed, probably from the fall off his horse. Those who were expert in such injuries theorized broken bones, maybe a dislocated shoulder, and a bump on the head. Nothing worse. Marcus kept repeating a dark litany, crying over and over, “Death above, death behind . . .”

Once Edward had assured himself that his son was not critically wounded, the king turned his attention to the young man who had given his life for that of his prince.

They had removed Reynard’s visor, and Edward was touched to the heart to see how youthful was the pallid face that looked calmly into his. Reynard tried to speak, but a great gout of blood came out of his mouth and he could not manage the words.

Edward knew what he wanted so desperately to ask.

“His Highness is alive,” the king said, taking hold of the dying knight’s hand. “Thanks be to God and to you and the others, he has taken no grievous wound.”