William of Montaubon, the cunning squire, had made his way across
to the spot where the steeds were tethered, and had mounted his
own great roussin. At first it was thought that he was about to
ride from the field, but the howl of execration from the Breton
peasants changed suddenly to a yell of applause and delight as he
turned the beast's head for the English circle and thrust his long
prick spurs into its side. Those who faced him saw this sudden
and unexpected appearance. Time was when both horse and rider
must have winced away from the shower of their blows. But now
they were in no state to meet such a rush. They could scarce
raise their arms. Their blows were too feeble to hurt this mighty
creature. In a moment it had plunged through the ranks, and seven
of them were on the grass. It turned and rushed through them
again, leaving five others helpless beneath its hoofs. No need to
do more! Already Beaumanoir and his companions were inside the
circle, the prostrate men were helpless, and Josselin had won.
That night a train of crestfallen archers, bearing many a
prostrate figure, marched sadly into Ploermel Castle. Behind them
rode ten men, all weary, all wounded, and all with burning hearts
against William of Montaubon for the foul trick that he had served
them.
But over at Josselin, yellow gorse-blossoms in their helmets, the
victors were borne in on the shoulders of a shouting mob, amid the
fanfare of trumpets and the beating of drums.
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