On Bosworth Field

A breeze stirs the August afternoon, the flags flap briefly upon their poles before they fall still. The sweltering silence stretches away in front of those gathered upon Bosworth field.

There are crowds, kept back safe behind the double roped barrier at the edge, but they barely seem there as the  long, hot minutes slide past.  The armour is heavy, the weight of it on your shoulders pushing you down into scrubby grass and nettles. Your helmet, held in place with a thick leather strap beneath your chin, bakes in the sun.

Sweat, wood smoke and the scent of food cooking drift around you, all smells they would have smelt. It is in this moment of all moments you know you have to remember them. The weight of history is upon you. Because once, so very long ago now, other people stood here. Fought here. Died here. This field ran with their blood. They were as you or I. It adds a layer to it all, a heaviness in its significance that is greater than the armour on your back. You hope the crowd gathered to watch understands, but you carry the fear they do not.

Yet you cannot dwell upon it. Time moves on for us all.

'Advance' comes the call down the line and you start to walk forward, the clank of armour about you and the tug of rough grass and weeds catching at your ankles. Behind you a drum beat starts. Heartbeat,footfall all to the same rhythm, all moving together as one. Then pipes somewhere away to your side begin. Joyful and bold, 'You march to victory' they sing.

You know the history, what you must portray, yet for a moment you can still believe.

A quarter of the distance is closed. Down the line the order to 'double' is given and you start to jog. It's harder to keep an even line, but still you try. The drum beat is rising faster, urging you on. Too fast now for the piper, and they fade and stop, but the mood is caught.

'Close' comes the final order. Pole arms are lowered ready for the attack. The first hiss of arrows take flight above your head, your comrades raining down on the enemy line. A moment later their archers respond in kind. You lower your head, protecting face and eyes from that lethal storm.

The drum beat stops, but your heart carries forward its rhythm. For a moment all is still. Then the two sides meet with sound of metal on wood and padded flesh. Now there is nothing but your place in the line now, nobody else matters but those who fight along side you. Alone you cannot win, together you cannot lose.

And in the end, when it is done, when the noise of the crowd comes back to you and your enemies are once more your friends, you take hope with you from that field.

You hope that those watching will take memories of today with them, that they will remember the history of the place, will remember those, who all those centuries ago, never got to go home to their friends and families.

You hope they see more than pageantry, but you fear that they do not.