The first of the original mounted men burst into the hedge—a knight on a dying horse came first, and Gavin put him down with a single blow of his axe. Then a trio of men whose horses were dead—they ran into one of the gaps.

It was Gabriel’s gap, and then the battle was no longer an intellectual exercise or a sport. Terror and pain filled the three with rage.

The Red Knight cut with his heavy spear and the first knight’s head leapt from his body. This time, Gabriel knew what to expect and his weapon passed through the low guard on the left side, point down, and rose again as fast as his arms could uncurl—it cut through the second man’s sword and his breastplate, too—up through his aventail, cutting through hundreds of links of riveted chain and then up through the man’s jaw and out the top of his helmet in an impossible cut, as if the man and his armour were made of butter.

And around in a reverso, crossing Gabriel’s hands briefly, right over left and then the right shot out along the haft. His adversary’s parry was useless, and he died, and fell in two pieces.

The men around Gabriel began to cheer.

It gave him no pleasure. It was like cheating on a test.

At his feet, the Gallish line had quickened its pace despite the steep hill and the near mud.

Just to the right of the enemy line—at the edge of the woods—a banner broke out of the trees, and horsemen began to enter the field.

Gabriel’s heart stopped. It was not Bad Tom, or Michael.

It was three antlered heads in black on a golden chevron and a white field, and a voice like thunder roared, “A Corcy!”

Gabriel leaned on his heavy spear. He sighed.

“Lord Corcy will not betray us,” said Desiderata. “You have too little faith in men, Ser Gabriel.”

She pointed. “Look!” she called.

And then Ser Michael and Bad Tom came out of the wood line, a little north and east of Corcy. They had all the Thrakian knights and men-at-arms, and Tom Lachlan led them in his favourite wedge, his heavy lance held well over his head.

“Mount!” Gabriel called. “Sound ‘mount’ Ganfroy!”

He was ready to weep again, from sheer relief. Just for a moment.

Corcy and his retainers struck the end of Du Corse’s line. The men on foot were caught in the flank at open shields, and many were simply knocked down as the local knights rode them over.

Bad Tom’s wedge crashed obliquely into the line of dismounted men-at-arms. They hit it like a plane cutting wood, and the ranks seemed to peel asunder.

Already, at the south end of the Gallish line, men were forming orbs. Pages were bringing war horses forward. It was not a rout—