Fifteen feet high was that blood-spurting mound of
screaming, kicking horses and writhing, struggling men. Here and
there on the flanks a horseman cleared himself and dashed for the
hedge, only to have his steed slain under him and to be hurled
from his saddle. Of all the three hundred gallant riders, not one
ever reached that fatal hedge.
But now in a long rolling wave of steel the German battalion
roared swiftly onward. They opened in the center to pass that
terrible mound of death, and then spurred swiftly in upon the
archers. They were brave men, well led, and in their open lines
they could avoid the clubbing together which had been the ruin of
the vanguard; yet they perished singly even as the others had
perished together. A few were slain by the arrows. The greater
number had their horses killed under them, and were so shaken and
shattered by the fall that they could not raise their limbs,
over-weighted with iron, from the spot where they lay.
Three men riding together broke through the bushes which sheltered
the leaders of the archers, cut down Widdington the Dalesman,
spurred onward through the hedge, dashed over the bowmen behind
it, and made for the Prince. One fell with an arrow through his
head, a second was beaten from his saddle by Chandos, and the
third was slain by the Prince's own hand. A second band broke
through near the river, but were cut off by Lord Audley and his
squires, so that all were slain.
Pages:
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478