He heard some barked commands in a guttural language that was not Occitanian, and it struck him that he was too exposed on the road—someone could easily strike him down from behind. No sooner had the thought occurred to him than he turned and saw an enemy knight creeping up on him with a dagger. The man jumped when Ransom charged at him, and in moments, he’d disarmed the fellow with the dagger and made the knight flee.
The rushing noise of the waterfall in his ears increased. He seemed attuned to everything around him. He blocked thrusts that should have skewered him and used every part of his weapon to defend himself.
Then Sir William was there, on his feet, sword at the ready. His eyes looked fierce, and his mouth was set in an angry line. “Back to back!” he said. “Hold them off!”
The two knights stood in the middle of the road and struck down everyone who came close. Ransom felt his blood singing in his veins, pushing strength and vitality through him. Two knights attacked him at once, charging over the field of dead men. There were too many obstacles for horses now, so the enemy knights had dismounted and joined the violence on foot. Ransom glanced down the road to see if any knights had broken past the failing barrier to pursue the queen. None. He could still see her galloping away in the distance. But there was no time to get help from the castle. This skirmish would be over long before she arrived there.
Ransom felt a blow against his arm, but his hauberk saved his limb from being cut off. He kicked one opponent in the stomach, then blocked the other’s overhead swing by bringing his own blade up and using both hands to hold it as he would a staff. Ransom returned the blow and struck the enemy on the helm with the pommel, which stunned the man enough that Ransom could kick him down before the next assailant arrived.
The knights continued to surge against them, roaring with frustration. Ransom didn’t see any of Lord Rakestraw’s other men on their feet, although he saw several lying still on the ground, their eyes open in death. He blocked, countered, and repulsed—swing after swing, blow after blow. Anyone who came near him was driven back.
Then a cry of pain sounded from behind him. Whipping around, he saw Sir William drop to one knee, his face blanched with pain as he gripped his chest with one hand. Ransom saw red and would have attacked the man who’d stabbed his friend, but William acted first—driving his blade into his enemy’s armor. Then, in the space of a breath, two more knights converged and struck William down, leaving Ransom alone against the onslaught.
He knew he was about to die, but he was determined to fight on. He roared in outrage and slammed into the two men who’d killed Sir William and drove both of them back. Sensing another attack from behind, he spun around and deflected a blade aimed at his back. His instincts had protected him thus far, but it could not go on forever. The knights would close around him soon.
Then he remembered the hedge. Ransom blocked another blow and rushed to the hedge. He put his back to it, knowing it would enable him to focus only on the knights in front of him. Three came at him at once. The odds were impossible, but his sword arm seemed to move of its own will. He parried and countered with such precision that two of the three staggered back, grimacing from wounds.
There was one knight still astride a horse, and he barked at the others. He was the one in command of the group. He pointed at Ransom, shouting, and several more knights came at him, only to be repelled again. There was no weariness, no hint of pain. He knew he’d been struck several times, but he didn’t feel the blows.
After knocking back his foes for the third time, Ransom stepped back toward the hedge, keeping his rear guarded. He didn’t know why he was still standing. Two dozen enemy knights surrounded him. They looked amazed at his strength, his skill at arms, but they continued to press in on him, emboldened by their commander.
Ransom fought against swords, daggers, and even a wicked-looking battle axe. Yet he defended himself from each assault with cunning and skill. He was surprised that he wasn’t gasping for breath. In the training yards at Averanche or the tournament grounds at Chessy, he’d fought in all manner of combinations, but never had he been so outnumbered. Still the waters rushed in his ears, inside him.
He held his place at the hedge, countering every opponent. Even the wounded returned for more, wave after wave, trying to overwhelm him. But they couldn’t. He felt like a rock being pummeled by the surf. Yet the rock held firm.
“Yield!” shouted the man on horseback, speaking in Occitanian.
“Never!” Ransom shouted back, blocking again, kicking another man down.