torments, there FitzReinfrid lay and charred; there Ponce of Caen, ill born, made a foul smoke as became him.’  Turning to go in again, the three were confronted with the Norman segregates.  Great work ensued by the light of the fire.  Gilles the elder was slain with an axe, and if with an axe, then Richard slew him, for he alone was so armed.  Gilles the younger was wounded in the thigh, but that was Roussillon’s work; his brother Bartholomew was killed by the same terrific hitter; Beziers lost a finger of his sword hand, and indeed the three barely got in with their lives.  The old King set up howling like a wolf in famine at this loss; what comforted him was that the fire had eaten up the southern door and disclosed the entry of the tower—­Jehane holding up a torch, and before her Gaston, Richard, and Bertram of Roussillon, their shields hiding their breasts.

‘Lords,’ said Richard, ‘we await your leisures.’  None cared to attack:  there was the fire to cross, and in that narrow entry three desperate blades.  What could the old King do?  He threatened hell and death, he cursed his son more dreadfully, and (you may take it) with far less reason, than Almighty God cursed Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the plain; but Richard made no answer, and when, quite beside himself, the old man leaped the fire and came hideously on to the swords, the points dropped at his son’s direction.  Almost crying, the King turned to his followers.  ’Taillefer, will you see me dishonoured?  Where is Ponthieu?  Where is Drago?’ So at last they all attacked together, coming on with their shields before them, in a phalanx.  This was a device that needs must fail; they could not drive a wedge where they could not get in the point.  The three defending shields were locked in the entry.  Two men fell at the first assault, and Richard’s terrible axe crashed into Perceforest’s skull and scattered his brains wide.  Red and breathless work as it was, it was not long adoing.  The King was dismayed at the killing of Perceforest, and dared risk no more lives at such long odds.  ‘Fire the other door, Drago,’ he said grimly.  ’We’ll have the place down upon them.’  The Normans were set to engage the three while others went to find fuel.

The Viscount of Beziers had had his hand dressed by Jehane, and was now able to take his turn.  It was by a ruse of his that Richard got away without a life lost.  With Jehane to help him, he got the horses trapped and housed.  ‘Now, Richard,’ he said, ’listen to my proposals.  I am going to open the north door and make away before they fire it.  I shall have half of them after me as I reckon; but whereas I shall have a good start on a fresh horse, I doubt not of escape.  Do you manage the rest:  there will be three of you.’

Richard approved.  ‘Go, Raimon,’ he said.  ’We will join you on the edge of the plain.’