11
The sky threatened to smother him, for there was no air in the gray fog.
It didn’t matter if it were night or day; he knew where he was. The rain was pouring down, and the dismal pall that surrounded him was thick and black with smoke from the heavy guns the English had used to pound their ranks to tattered heaps of broken bone and bleeding flesh.
He could taste his own blood in his mouth, the burning heat on his face.
Gavin tried to raise his head out of the mud. The smoke from the cannons enshrouded him, blinding him, but he knew he was back at Flodden Field, lying in the muck with the dying and the dead. Around him, a river of blood was pushing down the hillside, gathering up souls in its relentless current. Closing his eyes, he laid his head back down and waited for the flood to
