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Page 236
lances. Simon uttered a stifled oath. His men were not knights, not trained for charging with a lance; in any case, they had none. He grasped his battle-ax and flicked a glance down the lines of men; most of them were doing the same. If they had not charged with lances, most of them knew how best to withstand such a charge.
"Now! Pour le roi Richard!" Simon bellowed.
The horse had been ready even before Simon clapped spurs to him. He leapt forward. As they thundered between two groups of shield bearers and archers, Simon saw the wickerwork objects cast aside, saw the archers scatter, running back to where their horses were being held. He crouched forward under his shield, holding his ax close to his horse's body. A forest of lances tipped forward, the sun turning the burnished steel tips to gold. How many? Too many.
To Simon, who had fought his way up from nothing in tourneys little less brutal than actual war, the blow on his shield was nothing. A practiced twist threw the lance harmlessly aside. The danger came from his other-side where a lance leaned in on his unshielded right. The ax, turned in his hand, struck outward. The splintering of wood was a harsh promise of momentary safety. Only momentary. Simon leaned out to the right and struck again.
Beyond the horsemen he was aware of a yelling crowd of footmen. Then he was through the line of riders. Not so many as he had thought when he faced the lances. He hooked the ax back to his saddlebow and drew his sword while he wheeled his horse, spat an oath when he saw loose horses running free. He had no time to look at the accoutrements and see whether his men or the Welsh had fallen. Behind him he heard Beorn's voice. The man was singing! Just as he struck out against a sword blow launched at him, Simon laughed aloud. He had caught one of the words of the song; it was a bloodcurdling obscenity.

 
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