The swiftest of these was a
certain Squire, Geoffrey Poulart, who bore a helmet which was
fashioned as a cock's head, with high comb above, and long pointed
beak in front pierced with the breathing-holes. He thrust with
his sword at Calverly, but Belford who was the next in the line
raised his giant club and struck him a crushing blow from the
side. He staggered, and then pushing forth from the crowd, he ran
round and round in circles as one whose brain is stricken, the
blood dripping from the holes of his brazen beak. So for a long
time he ran, the crowd laughing and cock-crowing at the sight,
until at last he stumbled and fell stone-dead upon his face. But
the fighters had seen nothing of his fate, for desperate and
unceasing was the rush of the Bretons and the steady advance of
the English line.
For a time it seemed as if nothing would break it, but gap-toothed
Beaumanoir was a general as well as a warrior. Whilst his weary,
bleeding, hard-breathing men still flung themselves upon the front
of the line, he himself with Raguenel, Tentiniac, Alain de
Karanais, and Dubois rushed round the flank and attacked the
English with fury from behind. There was a long and desperate
melee until once more the heralds, seeing the combatants stand
gasping and unable to strike a blow, rode in and called yet
another interval of truce.
But in those few minutes whilst they had been assaulted upon both
sides, the losses of the English party had been heavy.
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