“Break the chains,” roared Bolle again, and somehow those strong hands did it; indeed, the only hurt that Cicely took that day was from their hacking at these chains.  They were loose.  Cicely snatched the child from the yeoman, who was glad enough to be rid of it, having other work to do, for now the Abbot’s men-at-arms were coming on.

“Ring the women round,” roared Bolle, “and strike home for Foterell, strike home for Harflete!  Ah, priest’s dog, in the King’s name—­this!” and the axe sank up to the haft into the breast of the captain who had told Cicely that she would be warm enough that day without her cloak.

Then there began a great fight.  The party of Foterell, of whom there may have been a score, captained by Bolle, made a circle round the three green oak stakes, within which stood Cicely and Emlyn and old Bridget, still tied to her post, for no one had thought or found time to cut her loose.  These were attacked by the Abbot’s guard, thirty or more of them, urged on by Maldon himself, who was maddened by the rescue of his victims and full of fear lest Cicely’s words should be fulfilled and she herself set down henceforth, not as a witch, but as a prophetess favoured by God.

On came the soldiers and were beaten back.  Thrice they came on and thrice they were beaten back with loss, for Bolle’s axe was terrible to face and, now that they had found a leader and their courage, the yeoman lads who stood with him were sturdy fighters.  Also tumult broke out among the hundreds who watched, some of them taking one side and some the other, so that they fell upon each other with sticks and stones and fists, even the women joining in the fray, biting and tearing like bagged cats.  The scene was hideous and the sounds those of a sacked city, for many were hurt and all gave tongue, while shrill and clear above this hateful music rose the yells of Bridget, who had awakened from her faint and imagined all was over and that she fathomed hell.

Thrice the attackers were rolled back, but of those who defended a third were down, and now the Abbot took another counsel.

“Bring bows,” he cried, “and shoot them, for they have none!” and men ran off to do his bidding.

Then it was that Emlyn’s wit came to their aid, for when Bolle shook his red head and gasped out that he feared they were lost, since how could they fight against arrows, she answered—­

“If so, why stand here to be spitted, fool?  Come, let us cut our way through ere the shafts begin to fly, and take refuge among the trees or in the Nunnery.”

“Women’s counsel is good sometimes,” said Bolle.  “Form up, Foterells, and march.”

“Nay,” broke in Cicely, “loose Bridget first, lest they should burn her after all; I’ll not stir else.”