And he spurred his horse in the direction Geoffroy had taken, the morroccan riders fast on his track. His mind raced as well, trying to remember the map he had glimpsed at that very morning. He would have planned an ambush twenty leagues ahead, at a ford between a steep ridge and a tangle of hilly woods. Twenty leagues ! The horses were fresh and they wore no armor ; by riding furiously they could maybe catch the king in time.
As the hills on the right started to raise into the ridge he ordered twenty of the Arabs up it, to swipe through the archers he knew would be there, and pressed on with the others. When the road turned left and abruptly down he glimpsed the knights one league ahead; desperately he blew his heavy horn but the furious wind carried the sound east, so he spurred his panting horse harder.
Then he heard it, first the blaring call of an other horn, then the clash of steel on steel. As he passed the crest he saw the jaws of the traps already closed on the Norman cavalry, showered by arrows and surrounded by pikemen as it crossed the narrow ford. At least, he thought bitterly, now he would see what his Saracens were worth.
“ Soldiers !” he ordered “Charge !”
Irishmen outnumbered the five hundred knights almost ten to one, and his own puny force a hundred to one, but the Arabs did not seem to balk at such odds. They yelped a fierce and mysterious shout as he swung his sword and felt a gush of blood on his sleeve. Left and right he hewed, frantically, careful not to let his mount lose any speed. He hoped the mayhem would be enough to give the knights opportunity to rally but had no time to look in their direction.
Suddenly another clamor rose on top of the ridge. Looking in this direction he briefly glimpsed the other Arabs slaughtering the bowmen, and dared a timid hope. If Geoffroy had survived the first shock and could rally his troops… An axe caught him in the chest.
The mail’s steel was good and he had the reflex to jump back at the last moment, yet the blow flung down his horse. He rolled in the mud to avoid the hooves and saw a red-haired irish knight lift his weapon for the last blow, but a Saracen hit him under the shoulder and he fell heavily on the ground. A moment later he was gone.
Castore struggled to his feet, thinking of blowing his horn to gather the troops. A stray arrow grazed his thigh and he yelped with pain. When he opened teary eyes again he saw the Duke just before him, hammered back by a red-haired giant with a two-hand sword. Clenching his feet he limped, limped, and struck him with all his strength in the neck. The man fell and Geoffroy immediately pierced his leather-clad breast with his own blade. He lowered a battered shield.
“ Seagrave.”
“ M’lord.”
Around them the mêlée had strangely subsided and they were let panting for a moment. Castore saw that the duke’s tunic was red with gore. Himself felt a burning sensation in his face. Maybe he had cut himself falling from his horse.
“ I will be on your right” he said, and they fought their way to the cover of the woods. By now his arm was numb with fatigue and his sight blurry. There was a pain in his chest, something broken. He did not see the sword coming at him and fell to the ground, his jaw broken. Shouts rang, feet trampled him. Finally a breath was on his cheek and he felt himself lifted in powerful arms, then lowered near a brook. Geoffroy fell at his side.
“ Castore.” The world was growing dim and silent. Or was it the battle ending ? Blood dripped from the duke’s mouth.
“Castore” he whispered. “Listen… If I die. I want my crown…”
Then everything went dark.