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Page 235
growing more intense. With his eyes on the gate in the wall of rough logs, Simon loosened his sword and checked that morningstar and battle-ax could be slipped from saddle bow to wrist without fumbling. His eyes then slid reluctantly to the pitch-arrow sacks. They were dangerously flat. If the Welsh had discipline enough to remain behind their palisade, it would be necessary to assault the encampment, and that was sure death for many.
Gold blazed suddenly from the dewdrops that clung to the grass tips. The warm orange of the fires turned a sickly yellow. The sun had lifted over the treetops of the lower eastern slope. Simon bit his lip. All at once, a mass sigh almost as loud as the morning breeze swept along the line of men. The gate was opening.
"Hold," Simon ordered.
It was the men's instinct to ride forward at once to catch the emerging fighters at a disadvantage. For a counterassault on a besieged keep, the move was right. The Norman-trained knights and fighting men determined upon a sortie would come out with cold determination to engage because they had a good reason to come out. Here reason was all against a sortie. Safety and good military tactics dictated sitting still when the opposing force was neither strong enough for assault nor well-provisioned enough for siege. What drove the Welsh was irrational rage. Simon knew the few fires that had been started would do no real harm nor would the green logs of the palisade burn long. Every move had been calculated to enrage and insult, particularly the exposure of his men-at-arms, so few of them, drawn up in battle formation. If his men attacked, thus displaying their anxiety, the Welsh might come to their senses and retreat. To sit still and wait would seem contemptuous and enrage them further.
Suddenly, as if they had been waiting to see whether Simon's group would charge, the gate swung fully open and a band of horsemen burst forth with couched

 
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