SAXTON

SAXTON

The trees roots pressed cruelly into my thighs but at least I'd escaped
the ocean of mud that surrounded me. The last three days of torrential
rain had obliterated the stream that should have been here. All that
remained was a morass that stretched as far into the trees as I could
see. In my weakened, exhausted, state I knew that I wouldn't stand any
chance of crossing it to safety. That stream had represented the border
of the battlefield two days ago and beyond it lay the promise of home.
If only I could gain some semblance of strength. What I needed was
sleep. I knew though that the moment I allowed myself to drift off
would be the time of my death. The pitchfork, whose reassuring weight
rested across my knees, would be used against me and it would be my own
blood that sated the tines already stained a deep brown. With the
musketeers reduced to using their weapons as clubs through lack of ball
I had walked through the heart of the fighting almost unopposed. Of the
twenty thousand men who had arrived at theses fields I was numbered
among the few hundred of survivors and wanted it to remain that way. I
could not dare to sleep yet I also knew that soon, against my will, I
would. I had to stand and somehow find my way across the swamp. Using
the tree to take my weight I winced as I placed my hand into a tangle
of Dog Rose that grew to one side and slumped back against the roots. I
didn't have the energy even to rise. I lay exhausted and looked with
anger at the thorns in my hand and started to weep with frustration. No
choices were left me. I would have to lay here and rest. Then I looked
at the rose again.
Ripping open my leather jerkin and rough wool shirt I exposed my chest
and midriff. Headless of the damage I was doing myself I grabbed
handfuls of the tough stalks and thorns and thrust them next to my skin
and under my armpits. The soft white petals fell onto my mud stained
thighs and waist resting like snowflakes on a fresh ploughed field.
Maybe if I sat upright as I slept the sight of my pitchfork would keep
marauders away and if I should fall over, with luck, the thorns would
awaken me. With trepidation I leant against the hard bole and
slept.
The cries woke me&;#8230; Looking up the slope before me I could see
a figure stumbling to its knees and then rising again under a hail of
sticks and clods of earth. Behind him came a motley collection of women
who were responsible for the crude missiles. I recognised the eyes
behind the mud and blood that coated his features. Standing before me,
pleading with wordless lips, he sank slowly up to his thighs in the
clinging mud. Folding from the waist, the once proud Martyn of
Lancaster, my lord, collapsed forward into the mire. Still half awake
and with mounting horror I watched as from the limbs of the willow
spread above me the figure of a youth, no, a boy of no more than ten,
swung with a practised motion down and astride the heaving back of my
master. Raising his head to look at me he smiled as he moved one foot
forward onto the back of Martyns neck and, transferring his slight
bulk, pressed my lords face deeper into the sodden ground. Looking at
the petals that adorned my tunic he laughed and called to me where I
sat rooted on the mound.
"You sleep Sire! There'll be no more men of the Red Rose hounding you
this day."