As the man grunted with pain, de Arundell swung the flat of his yard-long sword against the side of the fellow's head and he fell to his knees, blood streaming from his lacerated ear.
'Clear off, you bastard,' screamed Hereward, his own battle lust awakened. He prodded the man in his sword arm with his spiked staff and though the tough leather jerkin prevented any deep injury, the man screamed with pain.
By now, other single combats had begun, as the few invaders outside the enclosure were being attacked by Nicholas's men. They had the advantage of the higher ground and within a few moments, two of the Berry men were lying wounded and the others had taken flight back down the slope. Most of those in the compound were racing to the opening to join the affray, though a few were scrambling over the wall, a difficult task as it was not only chest-high, but was double, with a space between the two layers of moorstone.
As a dozen men began jostling through the entrance, the outlaw archers made themselves known, standing up to loose off a rapid succession of arrows into the press of figures pushing through the narrow gap. There were screams of pain and the rest of the men dived back to take cover behind the grey stones of the palisade.
Amongst them were the two knights, with Richard de Revelle lying almost flat on the ground, shaking with fear as he watched two wounded men dragging themselves into cover.
'Bloody archers,' yelled Henry de la Pomeroy, livid with anger rather than fear. 'Where in hell did they get archers?'
Had he but known it, the six men in the outlaw band had made themselves expert bowmen by sheer dint of practice. Often with little to do between forays, they had spent their time in learning the skill from Morgan, a man from Gwent in South Wales, the home of the longbow. Outlawed for an alehouse brawl in Plymouth, which had left a man dead, he had joined the band almost at the beginning and taught those interested how to make bows and how to use them. Hundreds of hours of practice had strengthened their arms and sharpened their eyes so that, though not up to the standard of professionals in an army, they were more than proficient in a close-quarter situation like this.
As most of the Berry posse cowered behind the protective wall, the few that had clambered over it were in various stages of fight with Nicholas's men. One was set upon by Martin Wimund and another outlaw, receiving a hearty kicking that left him senseless on the ground, while another had managed to fell Peter Cuffe with a blow from a heavy staff. His assailant was about to finish off the ginger-headed youngster, with his dagger, when the nearest archer saved Peter's life with an arrow through the assailant's throat.
'What in Christ's name do we do now?' hissed Richard de Revelle to Henry, as he cowered against the boundary wall.
'Break out and attack the swine,' snarled Pomeroy, his temper getting the better of his good sense. 'They had luck and surprise on their side just then, but it can't hold.'
He was wrong. As Henry waved to the men sheltering around him and got them to dash with him to the gap in the palisade, they ran into another shower of arrows that killed another man-at-arms and slightly wounded Henry in the leg.
Cursing, he dragged himself back into the shelter of the wall, where de Revelle, who had not stirred an inch, looked at the injury and declared it not to be serious, just a glancing cut above Pomeroy's ankle.
As the blaspheming lord bound a kerchief around his leg to staunch the bleeding, there was a loud shout from the nearby slopes.
'Pomeroy! De Revelle! Are you listening? This is Sir Nicholas de Arundell. Can you hear me?' Henry struggled to stand up, putting his weight on his good ankle and using the lumpy stones of the wall to pull himself erect.
'Be careful, man,' hissed de Revelle desperately. 'He may put an arrow through your head.'
De la Pomeroy might be a bully and a boor, but he was no coward, and ignoring Richard's warning he hoisted himself high enough to peer over the palisade.
He saw Arundell, looking much rougher than he remembered him, standing on higher ground a hundred paces distant. Two other men, one an archer with an arrow ready on the string, stood alongside him. Looking round, Henry saw a dozen men encircling the camp, several more of them archers.
'What do you want, you murdering thief!' he yelled at Nicholas.
'I've murdered no one,' de Arundell called back. 'And neither am I a thief, like you and that snivelling coward de Revelle. Where is he, anyway, has he died of fright?'
Pomeroy looked down and hissed at his co-conspirator.
'Stand up, for God's sake! Show yourself, will you?' Reluctantly, Richard slowly rose and peered over the wall. When he saw the archers, he dropped again, but Henry grabbed his cloak and hauled him up to stand alongside him.
'Give yourself up, de Arundell,' blustered Pomeroy. 'You are outnumbered.'
This was met by a chorus of laughter from the men surrounding Grimspound and for devilment, one of the archers loosed off an arrow which smacked against a stone within a foot of de la Pomeroy's head. He jumped and de Revelle ducked below the parapet once more.
'And for what shall we give ourselves up to you, Pomeroy?' shouted Nicholas. 'To be hanged or beheaded?'
'You are outlaws, damn you,' raved Henry. 'We are a lawful posse, come to cleanse the moor of your evil presence.'
'Lawful posse, my arse,' retorted de Arundell. 'Only the sheriff can raise a posse — and he knows the righteousness of my case, as does the coroner, who is riding to petition the king about your wrongdoing.' Henry ground his teeth in frustrated anger. There was nothing he could do to confound this bold outlaw.
He and his men were trapped inside the ring-wall, with half a dozen archers able to massacre anyone who tried to make a dash for it through the narrow portal, 'Can't we hide inside these little huts?' quavered de Revelle.
Henry looked down at him with contempt. 'What good would that do, you fool? They could come to the doorways and pick us off like rats in a barrel.'
The knight they had ousted from Hempston was calling to them again. 'You started this fight, damn you. I wanted no part of it, and if you had not followed us up here and tried to kill us, we would have left for another part of the moor.'
Pomeroy, thankful that Nicholas did not yet know that his old woman retainer had been killed, now realised that there was nothing to do except save his skin and whatever dignity he could salvage.
'So what do you propose, outlaw?'
'I want no more killing or wounding. I never wanted any in the first place. If you throw down your arms, you can walk out of this place and take your dead and wounded with you.'
There was a mutter of agreement from the men cowering inside the pound, echoed fervently by Richard de Revelle. 'Agree to it, accept his offer at once!' he hissed.
Henry gave him a scathing glance, but realised that he was right — they were trapped and had nothing left to bargain with. He shouted across to Nicholas, still standing on a tussock with a sword in his hand.
'Very well, but remember, there will be another day, and next time you will be overwhelmed.'
De Arundell gave a cynical laugh. 'Tell that to King Richard or his Chief Justiciar when they haul you before them. For now, just drop your weapons and clear out of here! You'll not find us in this area again, if you are foolish enough to come seeking us before royal retribution is visited upon you.'
The light was failing by the time the men from Berry had tramped despondently down to the road to regain their horses. They carried two dead men and two who had suffered arrow wounds. Two more who had lesser injuries were helped along by their compatriots, including Henry de la Pomeroy himself, who leaned heavily on the arm of his bailiff as he limped along to his stallion on a damaged leg.
A pile of swords, pikes, maces and staffs lay inside Grimspound, though Nicholas chivalrously agreed that the two knights could keep their swords, so long as they promised not to unsheath them again that day. As the winter dusk approached, the outlaws watched the defeated posse ride away down the valley, the archers keeping a watchful eye for any last-minute treachery until the cavalcade had vanished out of sight. Two of their men had slight injuries, though Peter Cuffe had soon recovered from his blow on the head.