"If any of the Ffreinc get in behind us," Bran told him, "you'll have your hands full right enough. Tuck will tell you what to do."
As Bran turned to lead his small group of archers to their places at the edge of the grove, a hand reached out and halted him. "Lend me a bow. I can draw."
"We want to fight too," said one of the men, speaking up.
Bran turned and shook his head. "I know, Will-when you're healed and practiced."
"Even crippled as I am I'd wager I can still draw better than anyone here-saving only yourself, my lord."
"No doubt," Bran allowed, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "But let be today, Will." Bran's eyes slid past Will to Noin and Nia, and the young, round-shouldered, whey-faced Ffreinc monk hovering a few steps away. "Look after your family and your friend here-and take care of Angharad. See that none of them come to harm. That will be help enough."
Bran hurried away to join the archers, and Will turned to the worried young monk behind him. "Come along, Odo," he said. "Follow Noin and help her see to the old woman and her horse, and look sharp, unless you want Abbot Hugo to get his hands on you again."
They hurried to join the others in the hollow, and Tuck gathered the rest. "This way!" he called, and led his crew of seven unarmed warriors to a small glade midway between the archers and the hollow where the rest of the Grellon had found their hiding places. "We will stand here," he told them. Then, raising his stubby oak branch lengthwise, he held it high, saying, "Get one of these to hand quick as you can, and hurry back. We'll make ourselves scarce behind the trees there, and there"-he pointed out the nearby boles of massive oaks-"and over there. If any Ffreinc get past Bran and the others we'll do for 'em."
The last words were still hanging in the air when there came a cry from the edge of the wood where Bran and the bowmen were waiting. As the shout echoed through the grove, they heard the fizzing whir of an arrow as it sped from the string. Almost instantly, there followed a short, sharp scream and a crash. A heartbeat later, a rider-less horse careered into the wood.
"Bless me," remarked Tuck. Turning to his company, he said, "Get some wood in your hands, lads, and make a good account of yourselves. Go!"
As the forest-dwellers scattered, two knights burst into the grove in full gallop. One of them had an arrow sticking out of his shield, and the other had a shaft buried deep in his thigh. Both turned their horses and prepared to attack the archers from behind. But even as the great steeds slowed and came around, the soldiers seemed to crumple upon themselves; their weapons fell from slack hands, and both plunged from the saddle with arrows jutting from their backs like feathered quills.
Tuck heard a call from beyond the grove, and suddenly the attack was finished. They waited a few moments, and when no other riders appeared, the Grellon darted out to retrieve the arrows, pulling them from the dead knights.
"Here," said Tuck, gathering the shafts, "I'll take those. The rest of you get back out of sight."
The friar quickly made his way to the edge of the grove, where the archers were hidden amongst the trees. He hurried to the first one he saw.
"Siarles," he called softly. "What's happened? Have we turned them away?"
"No, Brother," replied the forester. "They're down the valley." He pointed down the slope, where a body of knights was milling about on horseback. "They're just regrouping. They'll charge again when they get their courage banked up." He cast a glance behind him into the grove. "The two that broke through-what of them?"
"Dead, I think. Or as good as." He handed over the retrieved arrows.
"That makes three, then," said Siarles, sticking the shafts in the soft earth at his feet.
"God with you," Tuck said, "and with your bow." He made a hasty sign of the cross and hurried back to his place behind the tree to await the next attack. In a little while he heard the hard drumming of horses' hooves. The sound grew, and when it seemed the riders must be on top of them, he heard the thin, singing whine of arrows streaking to their marks-followed by the awful clatter of horses and heavily armoured men crashing to earth.
The second attack faltered and broke off as quickly as the first, and for a moment all was quiet in the grove again, save for the agonized whinny of a dying horse. Again, Tuck waited a little space, and when nothing else seemed about to happen, out he crept and ran to speak to Siarles.
"Is that the last of them?"
"Maybe." Siarles gestured with his bow toward the valley. "They've gone away again, but I can't see what they're up to this time."
"Pray they've had enough and decided to go home and lick their wounds." Tuck peered around the trunk of the tree to the near hillside, taking in the corpses of four more horses and men lying in the grass. But for the arrows sticking out of their bodies, they might have been napping in the sun. The guards of the archers were already at work pulling arrows from the bodies. "Looks like they've gone," the friar concluded.
"Just to be sure, you and yours best stay hid until Bran says it's safe to come out."
The friar returned to his crew of defenders to find that they had stripped the weapons from the fallen knights. One of the Grellon offered him a sword. "Thanks, but no," he replied. "You keep it. I'm at my best with a staff in my hand. I wouldn't know what to do with an awkward long blade like that. Now get back to your places and stay alert."
The third attack was long in coming, but when it came the Ffreinc struck as before, charging straight for the grove-and as before, the arrows sang and horses screamed. But this time three knights succeeded in getting past the archers. Arrows sprouting from shield and hauberk, they pounded into the grove swivelling this way and that, looking for something to slash with their swords.
The Ffreinc charge carried them past the tree where Tuck was hiding. Gripping his branch, he lunged out as the nearest horse passed, thrusting the sturdy length of oak in amongst its churning hooves. The resulting jolt nearly yanked his arm from his shoulder. The makeshift staff was torn from his grip and went spinning across the ground. But his aim succeeded, for the horse stumbled to its knees, pitching its rider over its broad neck as it went down.
The knight landed with a grunt on the soft earth, arms flailing, weapons scattering. Tuck ran for his staff and snatched it up. The unhorsed knight made to rise, but the stalwart priest gave him a sharp rap on the back of the skull which sent his pot-shaped metal hat rolling. A second tap put him to sleep.
Two of the Grellon were on the unconscious knight instantly. They rolled him over; one relieved the soldier of his sword and belt, and the other took his dagger and shield. They pulled his mail shirt up over his head and tied it there, then quick-footed it back to the shelter of the trees.
"God have mercy," breathed Tuck, and looked around to see what had become of the other two knights. One had quit his saddle owing to the wounds he had received and was lying on his side on the ground wheezing like a broken bellows; the other was in the grip of three Cymry who were taking turns bashing him with their clubs while he slashed wildly with his sword. The nimble Welshmen dodged the strokes and succeeded in hauling the knight from the saddle. While one of the Cymry seized the reins of the horse, the other two pounded the enemy into dazed submission. One of them wrested his sword from an unresisting hand and, with a swift downward stroke, dispatched the Ffreinc with it.