The Brother at Bosworth
The mist came down thick over the field outside Leicester. It clung to the ground like something alive, swallowing the world knee by knee. I rode with three other men. We were a Lancaster patrol, small enough to be overlooked, large enough to die unnoticed. The ground was soft. Mud had been the true enemy of this war long before either side drew a sword. The horses sank to their fetlocks with...
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