In The Fens
Mar. 8th, 2004 10:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
poliphiloThere were six of us in a line, breaking up the claggy soil with hoes. My hands were red with the cold and swollen. There were deep cracks in the skin round my finger joints.
To our left a hedge of pollard willows; to the right, on its embankment, the road into Ely.
The sound the troopers made as they cantered past was like the jangle of a blacksmith's shop. The officer wore a sash over his breastplate, but he was too far for me to tell the colour. It didn't matter. Whoever he was, I knew his coming meant trouble for our people.
To our left a hedge of pollard willows; to the right, on its embankment, the road into Ely.
The sound the troopers made as they cantered past was like the jangle of a blacksmith's shop. The officer wore a sash over his breastplate, but he was too far for me to tell the colour. It didn't matter. Whoever he was, I knew his coming meant trouble for our people.
