Time After Time

A small group of the rebels attacked a man. They knocked him to the floor and kicked him, as he curled in a ball to protect himself. The man’s children stood nearby weeping.

“We’ve got to stop this,” pleaded Pete.

“How? They’d do the same to us.”

“But we can’t stand here and let this happen.”

“We can’t help him. People do terrible things all the time, even in the twentieth century. Read a newspaper any day. If we get ourselves killed you’ll never find Sophie or return home.”

“You’ve got to stop using Sophie as an excuse.”

Pete tried to push past Tom to get to the attackers. Tom threw his arms around Pete, and pulled him in the opposite direction. Pete pushed Tom away and swung his fist hitting his friend on the nose. Blood gushed down Tom’s face.

Tom held his hand over his face, trying to control the bleeding.

“Let’s sneak off tonight. We may not be able to stop any of this, but we don’t have to ally ourselves with them.”

Pete stared into the distance. Sir Henry appeared, rounding up the rebels.

“This looks like trouble.”

Rumours flew around the encampment. Edmund de Neville, the Deputy Sheriff of Lancashire, had hundreds of men to the north and heading for straight for them. Before Banastre had a chance to organise his men, the Deputy Sheriff’s forces appeared.

“We need to go now before it’s too late,” whispered Pete.

They slipped through the gathering crowd, but a hand fell on Tom’s shoulder. It was William. He led them both across the field, and handed each a crossbow.

Tom’s mum had dragged him to archery lessons the year before she died. He did not care for it at the time, but after her death, he had continued. Now, he gave Pete a quick lesson.

“Sorry Pete, I should have listened to you earlier.”

The Sheriff’s men were organised and well-equipped. The rebels were greater in number, but had only a handful of horses, and improvised weapons.

The rebel crossbowmen fired, and a hail of arrows rained on them in return. Tom ran but Pete was not with him. Turning he saw see his friend frozen. One of the Earl’s knights had broken through and was riding towards Pete swinging a sword.

In seconds, it was over.

Tom lifted his bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver slung over his back. The chill October air bit at his fingers as he aimed, steadied and fired. The arrow hit the man in the shoulder; he screamed and toppled from his horse. As he fell, his head hit a rock, and he fell silent. The horse bolted. Tom stared in horror. He dropped his crossbow and walked to the body lying lifeless on the floor. Blood seeped from under the helmet.

A hand slapped Tom on the back. Sir William laughed, bent over and pulled off the corpse’s helmet.

Tom fell to his knees, and threw up his breakfast.

“Norley!” William shouted.

Tom was aware of cheering.

Pete crouched by Tom his hand on his friends shoulder.

“You saved my life.”

Sir William rushed away. By now, the rebel crossbow men had driven off their rivals. The mounted knights were crashing into each other. The battle continued until a second group of rebel knights charged the enemy’s flank. The rebels routed The Sheriff’s men.

Tom was shivering and wheezing. Pete pulled a blanket from their bags, and threw it over his friend. Around them, the rebels were celebrating, and tending to their injured comrades. The exhausted rebels celebrated their historic victory.

In the next few seconds, chaos erupted. A much larger body of Neville’s knights appeared from nowhere. The rebels panicked and ran for their lives. Pete pulled Tom to his feet and dragged him to the horses. Tom was in no fit state to ride, so they led their horses to the forest. Tom still had not spoken; he stumbled on, eyes blank.

They walked for an hour, the sounds of the battle growing distant.

“We need to ride,” said Pete. “If we don’t they’ll catch us.”

Tom stared at his friend.

“I killed a man.”

“He would have killed me.”

“I had to stop him.”

Horses charged through the undergrowth. It was too late to hide.