Each had drawn his sword, and the
two armies paused to view the fight. In the first bout Sir
Maurice Berkeley's lance was struck from his hand, and as he
sprang down to recover it the Frenchman ran him through the thigh,
dismounted from his horse, and received his surrender. As the
unfortunate Englishman hobbled away at the side of his captor a
roar of laughter burst from both armies at the spectacle.
"By my ten finger-bones!" cried Aylward, chuckling behind the
remains of his bush, "he found more on his distaff that time than
he knew how to spin. Who was the knight?"
"By his arms," said old Wat, "he should either be a Berkeley of
the West or a Popham of Kent."
"I call to mind that I shot a match of six ends once with a
Kentish woldsman--" began the fat Bowyer.
"Nay, nay, stint thy talk, Bartholomew!" cried old Wat. "Here is
poor Ned with his head cloven, and it would be more fitting if you
were saying aves for his soul, instead of all this bobance and
boasting. Now, now, Tom of Beverley?"
"We have suffered sorely in this last bout, Wat. There are forty
of our men upon their backs, and the Dean Foresters on the right
are in worse case still."
"Talking will not mend it, Tom, and if all but one were on their
backs he must still hold his ground."
Whilst the archers were chatting, the leaders of the army were in
solemn conclave just behind them.
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