Scharley was the first casualty of the new arrivals. The penitent nimbly avoided a blow from a battleaxe by dismounting, but was overcome by the foot soldiers’ superior strength. Samson rushed to his aid, wielding the halberd pole. The giant wasn’t daunted by the knight coming at him with a battleaxe; he thumped the man’s steed in the iron chanfron protecting its face with such force that the halberd pole shattered with a snap. But the horse squealed and fell to its knees, and the fair-haired knight dragged the rider from the saddle. They began to wrestle with each other, locked together like two bears.

Reynevan and the youngster who had been knocked from the saddle defended themselves desperately against the other armoured men, emboldening themselves with wild shouts, curses and appeals to the saints. The hopelessness of the situation couldn’t, however, be denied. There was nothing to suggest that the furious attackers would remember the order to take them alive—and even if they did, Reynevan could already see himself dangling from a noose.

But fortune smiled on them that day.

“Fight, in God’s name! Kill, whoever believes in God!”

Amid the tramping of hooves and pious battle cries entered more men—another three heavy horsemen in full armour and bascinets with hounskull visors. There was no doubt whose side they were on. Blows from long swords scattered the foot soldiers in kettle hats one after another across the bloodstained sand. The knight with the fish in his coat of arms swayed in the saddle after receiving a powerful blow. Another one protected him with his shield and held him up, grabbed the horse by the reins and both fled at a gallop. A third also tried to flee, but was struck in the head with a sword and trampled by hooves. The most courageous of the foot soldiers were still trying to shield themselves with their pikestaffs, but one after another they dropped their weapons and fled into the forest.

Meanwhile, the fair-haired knight knocked over his opponent with a powerful blow of his iron-gloved hand. When the man tried to stand, he shoved his foot into the man’s shoulder. He sat down heavily, and the fair-haired man looked around for something to whack him with.

“Catch!” shouted one of the heavily armed men. “Catch, Rymbaba!”

The fair-haired man addressed as Rymbaba caught the war hammer—a vicious-looking martel de fer—thrown to him and smashed the helmet of the man trying to get up, once, twice and then a third time so hard it rang. The man’s head lolled onto one shoulder and blood gushed over the aventail, bevor and breastplate from the dented sheet metal. The fair-haired man stood astride the wounded man and struck him once again.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted. “How I like this work…”