Six thousand gallant men of the
bravest race in Europe, men whose very names are like blasts of a
battle-trumpet--Beaujeus and Chatillons, Tancarvilles and
Ventadours--pressed hard behind the silver lilies.
Slowly they moved at first, walking their horses that they might
be the fresher for the shock. Then they broke into a trot which
was quickening into a gallop when the remains of the hedge in
front of them was beaten in an instant to the ground and the broad
line of the steel-clad chivalry of England swept grandly forth to
the final shock. With loose rein and busy spur the two lines of
horsemen galloped at the top of their speed straight and hard for
each other. An instant later they met with a thunder-crash which
was heard by the burghers on the wall of Poitiers, seven good
miles away.
Under that frightful impact horses fell dead with broken necks,
and many a rider, held in his saddle by the high pommel, fractured
his thighs with the shock. Here and there a pair met breast to
breast, the horses rearing straight upward and falling back upon
their masters. But for the most part the line had opened in the
gallop, and the cavaliers, flying through the gaps, buried
themselves in the enemy's ranks. Then the flanks shredded out,
and the thick press in the center loosened until there was space
to swing a sword and to guide a steed. For ten acres there was
one wild tumultuous swirl of tossing heads, of gleaming weapons
which rose and fell, of upthrown hands, of tossing plumes and of
lifted shields, whilst the din of a thousand war-cries and the
clash-clash of metal upon metal rose and swelled like the roar and
beat of an ocean surge upon a rock-bound coast.
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