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Once more on his horse, he slowly rode out of the little village of Inwardleigh and turned his horse’s head to the west. The day was bright and clear, the wind had died to a gentle breeze, and even the mare seemed to feel the excitement and joy of their renewed life. It was almost as if there was an empathy between them, as if she could feel his happiness, or perhaps it was because she had suffered too, and she could now feel the same release that safety and comfort had given him.

The road led them up a steep incline at first, taking them up to a plateau which was almost devoid of trees. The sun behind cast their shadow, a joint black streamer before them.

Gradually, he felt his eyes beginning to get heavy as he rode. The lurching of his mount began to cast its narcotic effect, and he felt his eyelids became heavy as he looked ahead at the road dwindling into the distance. It was no good trying to concentrate, his only thoughts were of the comfort of a full belly, his only feelings of the pleasant warmth of the sun at his back and how the lumbering of his beast seemed so soporific.

Every now and again the mare would jolt and cause his eyes to snap open and his head to rise erect with the sudden shock, but then the casual rolling movement would take over again and he would feel his head nodding and falling until his chin was on his chest and his eyes closed, the calming rhythm soothing him with its hypnotic balm.

It had been like this, he recalled, on the ride up to Bannockburn. They had all been tired after their long journeys, all riding half asleep for days, with little to think of or worry about, just the continual rolling movement of the horse underneath as they all planned what to do after the battle that they were about to win. After all, what could the Scots do? They were hardly in any position to harm the massed forces of England, the soldiers that had won over Wales, that had warred against the French, that had beaten the Scots before so conclusively. What could they do?

But win they had. The army of King Edward was exhausted when it arrived on the road from Falkirk to Stirling. Almost twenty thousand strong, it outnumbered the Scots by two to one, and when their enemy began advance towards them, Rodney could remember his lord’s master, the Earl of Gloucester, arriving and calling them forward: “On, men! On!”

A smile rose to his lips at the memory. Ah, but how they had ridden! It was like the sea rushing on, like a landslide, a glorious, inexorable torrent of humanity and horseflesh, pounding the ground to a mire in the magnificent rush to meet the enemy.

But the smile faded and died, even as his friends and the earl had died on the field.

The Scots were ready for them. The charge with the huge war horses foundered on their spears. They hid behind a vast number of holes dug to trip the horses, safe inside the oblong enclosures they had made by surrounding themselves with their shields. There was nothing they could do to get to the jeering northerners, and at last they had to fall back before a charge by the Scottish cavalry.

Even then they might have been able to survive if the cry had not gone up. Someone saw men running towards the Scottish lines and thought they must be reinforcements. The retreat became a rout, the knights and squires trying to escape as quickly as they could, before the Scots could get to them, and that was why they had been caught in the marsh by the Bannock. As they struggled in the thick mud and waters of the river, the Scottish archers had soon realised their opportunity.

Trapped by the ground, there was little the cavalry could do. They tried to escape, watching with horror as their friends fell, trying to see a way clear to avoid the certain death that followed behind, desperately attempting to make their horses clear the misery of the death that threatened, but few succeeded.

Rodney was one of the few. Together with his lord, he had managed to make his way to the other bank of the river, where they had turned to stare at the other side. It was a scene from Hell, with the Scottish foot soldiers darting in and out among the cavalry, stabbing at the horses’ bellies to make them rear and lose their riders, hacking and thrusting at the bodies on the ground, grouping around any knight who tried to make a stand and pushing him over with their long weapons, then running up to give the coup de grace when he was on the ground and defenceless.

Rodney had returned to the camp quiet and shocked. So few had survived, so few had managed to get away from that mob.

It was still all so clear, even the red of the blood in the stream as the Scots threw in the decapitated body of Alfred, his young squire, and the way that it slowly wandered down between the banks letting the carmine stain spread. The cries and the laughter, the way that the bloody knives rose and fell, dripping with the blood, the lives, of the men killed.

“Good morning, sir. And where are you going?”

His head snapped up and to his horror he realised that he had ridden straight into the middle of these people without even seeing them. Had he been sleeping? At the least, his eyes must have been shut.

And then he saw the drawn knives and swords, and saw the wide, staring grins as the men measured him, assessing his value as a prize.

Chapter Fifteen

They were back at Sandford before midday, and as soon as they arrived Simon and Hugh ran indoors to fetch provisions. Margaret stood outside and held their horses for a moment, but soon she accepted the offer of one of Baldwin’s men and gratefully threw the reins over to him before following the men inside.

She was weary from the night before and their quick return ride, and her tiredness served to enhance her feelings of concern. It was not only worry for her husband -she knew that he would have the protection of the men in the posse and should be safe. No, it was the fear of what effect the trail bastons would have on the area. She had heard from others how the small bands of outlaws had devastated areas farther north, how they had robbed travellers, how they had killed and raped, attacking anybody who was unwary, whether on the road or at home. Often, when the trail bastons arrived, the rule of the law would fail. The constant attacks and the threat of more to follow forced decent, law-abiding men to stay at home. The murders stopped merchants and farmers from travelling, and others, too poor to be able to pay a ransom, were regularly killed while wealthier merchants were often captured and held hostage.

She walked through the door to the hall and sat at her chair in front of the fire. She could hear the muffled shouts and thumping as her husband and Hugh grabbed food and water, and then, making her turn swiftly to the door, she heard a small sob. There at the door was Edith, her face wrinkled and ancient in her grief and stained with tears. Margaret quickly rose and went to her, gathered her up, and carried her to the chair, gentling her and murmuring softly. Sitting, she rocked her child, her own eyes watering in sympathy at her daughter’s distress.

“Daddy’s going away again, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’ll not be away for long, Edith. There’s no need to worry,” said Margaret, blinking against her tears.

“But he might be hurt!” cried Edith. “I don’t want him to go!” She subsided into sobs, and Margaret, suddenly overcome with a renewed sharp fear, as if her daughter’s terror reminded her of the dangers, could think of nothing to say, feeling smothered by her own dread. What could she say? That he would be safe, that he would not be gone for long? Margaret was too aware of the risks to be able to lie effectively while trapped in her own fear. They sat together in silence, the girl shaking with her anxious tears while Margaret stared at the fire.

Soon Simon arrived and stood in the doorway to bid his wife farewell. He was holding a bag in each hand and was once more wearing his sword. As he looked in, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he had interrupted his wife and daughter in a secret discussion, for he knew that he was the cause of Edith’s weeping, and there was nothing he could do to cheer her up. He quietly put the bags down and walked over, to stand over them as they sat, and when his daughter looked up, her eyes huge in their despair, he felt the breath catch in his chest, and knelt and encircled them both with his arms.