No Dark Place

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The line of knights parted silently as the boy led his bloodstained horse through their ranks, back toward the camp area where the wounded were being attended. The Battle of the Standard was over and won, but the Sheriff of Lincoln had fallen, and it was his body that was laid across the sweaty back of the huge black warhorse the boy was leading through the humid mist of a hot August day.

Men rushed forward to help as soon as the boy entered the encampment, but his face stopped them in their tracks, and it was he alone who reached up for the body of the larger, heavier man laying prone across the high-pomelled leather saddle.

He lifted the dead weight in his arms and stood there for a moment, holding it as if it were a sleeping child.

The black horse blew loudly, breaking the eerie silence of the surrounding men.

Then, “Is he dead, lad?” a voice asked gently.

“Aye,” said the boy. He looked at the man who had spoken. “Take down the flag, Bernard, and spread it on the ground.”

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