James McQueen Written age 13
MARGARET'S SORROW The arrows flew through the cold, grey sky with a malevolent swoosh. They seemed to hover in the air for some time before they plummeted downwards, showering the foot soldiers of the Scottish army. A large number of men fell like rag dolls, arrows sticking out from their heads, their arms and their stomachs. The remaining men screamed with anger at the English archers who had killed their brothers and friends. Then the second volley flew into the Scots and yet again men fell. Elsewhere on the field the Scottish light cavalry had charged the English infantry line. Unfortunately the horses, panic stricken by the chink of armour and shrieks of men brought down by arrows and spears, had no intention of obeying their riders and went wild. One man was thrown from his horse with such force that his spine cracked on impact with the ground and his head split open. The roars from both sides were fiercer than the fiercest bear and louder than the loudest lion. Although half of the men that had left their homes to join the bloody fray were scattered dead around the battlefield, the remainder of the men continued to charge at each other. Shields were shattered. Swords were broken. Blood was spilt. Suddenly a cry arose from the front line. "The battle is over, we are victorious! Long live England!"
Margaret Griegson was riding along the narrow dirt path through the thick, brown, autumn forest with such urgency that she didn't notice her hair had come out and was flailing behind her. Even if she did it was unlikely that she'd care as her mind was on something quite different. A frightened look was etched over her pretty, young face. She urged the horse on with as much calm as she could muster because that was the first thing her father had told her on the farm when he taught her how to ride. "If you are calm then so the animal will be." She came to a ford in the middle of a river in the forest. Margaret coaxed the horse across and then continued to gallop through the autumn trees. As she was riding she noticed that the trees were thinning out. "We're nearly there," she whispered to her horse. Suddenly an awful stench smacked Margaret across the face. She could smell smoke, blood and perspiration. It made her feel like the bottom of her stomach was actually recoiling. Margaret reached the end of the forest and a sight was unveiled to match the stench. The field, which had once been rich and green was dead and burnt. Bodies covered up the wet, sludgy ground. Margaret slid off the side of her horse. She lost her footing, stumbled and slipped in the mud. Her eyes fell on the corpse of man. Her attention was caught first by a colourful bangle just above his pale, bare feet. Then she stared at his dirty legs. He was still wearing chain mail which was blood soaked. An arrow was buried deep in his chest. The arrow had a long shaft, perhaps about the length of Margaret's arm, and its feathers were red as though they had been dipped in red wax. Margaret paused, studying the arrow for a few seconds before she looked at the man's face. It was white and lifeless. Brown stubble surrounded his mouth, which formed a crumpled version of the letter 'O'. His nose was also squint, with a frozen stream of blood coming from his nostril. Then she looked at his eyes. They were empty and glazed over, vacant and misty. Yet they felt as though they were staring right at her! Margaret stood up, feeling as though she had received a punch in the stomach, and she retched violently. It was an unusual thing for Margaret to feel sick. The last time she had felt that way was when she was six years old. Though she lived on a farm, they were poor and her only childhood pet had been a small dog she had found in the corner of the damp shed in which any unused farm tools were kept. One day she couldn't find the dog anywhere. It was winter, and the season had hit the family very hard as they had little food. Margaret was horrified to find her dinner that day was her small friend. She can still remember how she had cried. That had been the last time she had ever felt so sick. Trying to steady herself she continued through the battlefield. All about her, men and boys cried out unashamedly for their mothers and their wives. Bodies were sprawled all over the ground. Margaret scanned the dead field with her mournful eyes. "Ge..t.t.mar...hel...here...grrgh." This groaning came from a body behind Margaret. She tried to ignore it, with tears rolling down her cheeks, thinking it no more than the noises of a dying man. Then she heard it again. "Marg.....et...mar..Margaret!" At the precise moment her name reached Margaret's ears she knew it was him. In amongst a heap of bodies Margaret saw her young husband, Arthur. His legs were twisted at seemingly impossible angles. One hand was over his heart, the other was nowhere to be seen. A bloody, messy stump was there at the end of his armour-clad arm. Huge clouds of steam were billowing out of his mouth at a frighteningly quick speed. An arrow was embedded in his heaving torso. Margaret threw herself down on his body, sobbing uncontrollably and began stroking his matted hair. Suddenly his body began to shake. He let out a gurgle and a throaty cough. Some blood trickled out of his mouth and down his chin. His breathing began to slow. It was in her comforting arms, where Arthur closed his eyes for the last time. He had been taken from her. But just before his heart stopped beating he whispered a name, "Elizabeth." The name rang in Margaret's ear. Who was Elizabeth? Her hands shook. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks. Arthur's body rolled off her knee onto the ground. As he fell a chain slid through the fingers of the dead man's hand. On the end of the chain was the letter 'E'. Margaret grabbed it. Her head was aching. The words swirled around her head. "Who was Elizabeth? Who was Elizabeth?" Her heart throbbed and then snapped, as she was stabbed by memories of times when her husband's thoughts seemed elsewhere. Had his thoughts been on Elizabeth rather than her? Was he truly hers? All that Margaret had felt in the last three hours was nothing compared to her sadness and her sorrow now. She let the chain fall from her hand. It landed where its owner would remain, amongst the dead.
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