On he rode, acknowledging the cheering of his soldiers with smiles and
courtly bows, till at length he pulled rein just in front of the triple
line of archers, among whom were mingled some knights and men-at-arms,
for the order of battle was not yet fully set. Just then, on the plain
beneath, riding from out the shelter of some trees and, as they thought,
beyond the reach of arrows, appeared four splendid French knights, and
with them a few squires. There they halted, taking stock, it would seem,
of the disposition of the English army.
"Who are those that wear such fine feathers?" asked the King.
"One is the Lord of Bazeilles," answered a marshall. "I can see the monk
upon his crest, but the blazons of the others I cannot read. They spy
upon us, Sire; may we sally out and take them?"
"Nay," answered Edward, "their horses are fresher than ours; let them
go, for pray God we shall see them closer soon."
So the French knights, having stared their full, turned and rode away
slowly. But one of their squires did otherwise. Dismounting from his
horse, which he left with another squire to hold, he ran forward a
few paces to the crest of a little knoll. Thence he made gestures of
contempt and scorn toward the English army, as he did so shouting foul
words, of which a few floated to them in the stillness.
"Now," said Edward, "if I had an archer who could reach that varlet,
I'll swear that his name should not be forgotten in England.
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