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Page 420
one other, tried beyond endurance, broke ranks. Burning themselves and seeing those two ride forth, the knights cheered and rode after. For one freezing instant, Simon feared the King would fall into a rage. Then they would all die. Richard screamed what was no battle cry and also not suitable language for a man engaged in holy work, but he did not hesitate.
The die was cast. Wrong as it was thrown, the King would make his point. He spurred forward, Simon to the left, Leicester to the right and, on either side of them, Gurney, Borritz, Ferrars. Tooney, d'Avennes, Druell, and the Bishop of Beauvais followed. Miraculously Richard brought order out of chaos. The sound of his voice summoned his men together so that, one by one, they would not be swept away. The line began to form with Richard at its center point. The first man the King struck he clove in two. Simon had one moment to marvel before his sword wrought similar havoc. The Saracens were apparently not mail clad. They were quick to attack, quicker to flee away, but ill able to withstand heavy combat hand to hand.
It seemed to Simon that every blow he struck killed a man, so close were they pressed with enemies. But, though those he struck fell away, more came. Simon's breath tore at his chest, his helmet bound temples that otherwise, he thought, might have burst. A mist began to becloud his eyes. The heat scorched him; it seemed a far deadlier weapon than any of the light swords or lances the infidels wielded.
Then, suddenly, they were gone. Simon barely checked a sword stroke that threatened Gurney, gasped an apology. He could scarcely see. Hurriedly he fumbled behind his saddle, drew out a chunk of salted meat. How he would choke it down in a mouth as dry as dust he did not know, but moisture came as he chewed. And then, as the pounding in his head subsided and his vision did not clear, he laughed. It was dust, not weakness that had dimmed his sight. The

 
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