Sparrows

Part 2

"Haddie! Haddie, soldiers!"

The crashing ferns and Tom's frightened voice startle me out of my morbid notions. He almost falls into my lap, his small face streaked with tears and snot. My wits are dulled by the weariness of hunger. Blinking, I rub my eyes hoping to clear my thoughts as well as sight.

Distant sounds of men and horses have me on guard. Shouts, coarse laughter, guttural barks, mounts snorting in impatience, the clank of harnesses.

I grab Tom's hand tightly scrambling to my feet, pull him close, a finger to my lips. "Stay by me, say nothing, be as a mouse." Lest my skirt catch the bushes giving us away, I haul up it up, tie it at my waist.

Soldiers are always to be feared, and these are soldiers.

Creeping forward slowly we reach the trees that screen the broad cart track before the open smithy. We can see only the backsides of the horses, can hear no words, merely gruff voices. Again, I caution Tom to silence, finger to my lips. He is a good boy. We are accomplices against his father's rages, he knows well when to be quiet.

We dart between the trees, bracken hiding us till we are close enough to see four men, all soundly armed.

Then screams, a man's screams.

"Sweet Mother...please, no." I hear my own terrified whisper.

We are close by home now, the howls of pain and fear cut me.

'Tis Hew. The soldiers are making sport with him, as they would do with Tom and me if they found us.

I beg the Holy Mother and all her saints to let the babe sleep on, in my heart I know the noise should have set him crying.

But he is silent.

From behind the shield of broad oaks and undergrowth, I steal a look. Four...no, five horses, all goodly beasts, strong, sleek, better fed than we.

The men wear colours I do not know. They were not men of our liege lord, nor are they the Kings men. The blue and gold of their arms means nothing to me.

Soldiery of the Empress then, of her hire?

I cannot see Hew, but he screams no more. The soldiers are joking, slapping each other on the back. A tall, thin faced man steps from the forge, he dusts off his hands. Clothes of good quality, hair fair, high at the pate and longer than the Norman fashion. He wears his sword belt across his chest, from shoulder to hip, in an odd fashion.

He calls orders and the men follow him to their mounts.

Their captain then?

Reaching for the bridle of the finest mount, he pauses. A bundle of rags lies at his feet; he nudges it with his boot, sniffs, then kicks it aside.

My child's small legs fall free...lifeless.

I feel my belly ripped open, my hearts sinews mangle. I lurched forward, but Tom throws his small body at my middle, knocking me back behind the tree, his small hand at my mouth.

"They'll kill us!"

I freeze at the desperate certainty in his voice.

The captain turns our way, screwing his eyes as if he had heard...but sees

nothing, turns back and mounts up. "Burn it!" he shouts.

One of the men lights the thatch roof from the smouldering forge pit.

Our cottage, our home...is afire.

In a moment it is over. They are gone and but for the crackle of burning thatch, there is silence.