The summer sun blazed down upon the small medieval town at the edge of the woodland, its late afternoon rays casting long shadows from the tops of the houses on the hillside.

Stood close together and full of business and noise, the residences ranged from the well-kept and tall to the smaller, more run-down buildings on the very outskirts of the town. These were the ones which bordered the fields – and one of the smallest ones of all, a plan white and black cottage that was on a slight slant and had a large hole in the thatched roof, was perhaps the noisiest of all.

From within it came the mournful sound of a baby crying, children shouting, then the loud booming voice of a woman, “Get out of the house, you lazy scum!”

At once, she emerged from the doorway and the boy she was dragging was thrown heavily to the floor – in an instant he scrambled to his feet, backing away, wincing at the fresh grazes that had re-opened across his knees, fresh wounds to replace old scars.

“Sweep that yard clear!” she barked, taking a threatening step forward and causing the boy to take a hasty one back, “Sweep it clean o’ straw and fetch new from’t barn! I won’t ‘ave you slackin’ on the job!”

“Yes, yes Alice,” he mumbled, wiping a trace of blood from his lips, bowing his head so that he wouldn’t have to meet her eye. “I’m goin’ now. You don’t ‘ave to keep an eye on me no longer.”

“If I didn’t,” she snapped viciously, turning on one large, flat foot to march back to the house, “There’d never be work done in this ‘ouse. Useless wretch.”

The boy turned his back on her, biting his lip hard between his teeth, determined not to answer back as he bent to gather the muddy hay.

“Useless! The ‘ole bleedin’ lot o’ yer, save per’aps James, the only one with at least ‘alf a set o’ wits…”
He began to gather the straw from the earth with his bare hands, for the woman had not thought to give him a broom, still determined not to give any kind of reply. It had been like this ever since she’d taken their family in, but at least she’d accepted his brothers and sisters. If only he were so lucky.

“I blame me sister, lovely as she was, so marryin’ such a drunken bugger wi’ not a penny to ‘is name. Lazy sleaze she was an’ all…”
The boy rounded on her, his face blazing red beneath his black hair matted with sweat to his forehead, his whole body trembling as his teeth bared in a snarl.

“Don’ you insult my mother!” he roared, his dark blue eyes burning as though alive with fire, “She’s a damn sight better than an old hag like you!”
She stopped, her whole form trembling as she rounded upon him, then stopped, opening her mouth wide and bellowing into the house,
“Harry! Come and sort out this little wretch’s priorities!”

The boy tensed and stood frozen at the very back of the yard, still breathing low and fast, his eyes now fixed upon the doorway. From within came the sound of a flagon being slammed onto wood and the heavy thunder of feet approaching the front of the house.
From inside, the man stormed out to stand beside his wife, his hands on his hips as he glared down at the boy now trembling not with anger but with fear at the very edge of the street.

“What’s the boy been doing this time?” he demanded, his tone deep and full of a horrible kind of threat. The woman narrowed her eyes at the child at the end of her yard and said, “He’s been givin’ me cheek. Cheek about ‘is useless mother.”

“SHE WAS NOT USELESS!” the boy screeched, unable to stop himself, flinging down the small armful of straw he’d collected back onto the earth. “I HATE YOU, I HATE THE BOTH OF YOU, I WON’T LIVE HERE A MOMENT LONGER!”

The man called Harry’s eyes darkened. For a split second, he simply stood, his eyes burning into the boy as though he was some sort of prey. Their eyes met, fierce blue for angry grey and then, the man leapt forwards and lunged out a hand as the boy dived sideways, vaulting the fence, running away up the dirt track and out towards the fields.

His breath came in short, sharp gasps as he ran, leaving the house distant and far behind him. Only paces away, the man raced after, yelling commands the child wouldn’t heed, the pair of them passing house after run-down house, families working in their yards looking up in astonishment at the two running by.

Although he was very thin, his ribs visible through his skin and his face pale and tired, the child obviously had stamina for his thirteen years of age. His messy black hair had fallen down over one eye as he sped up the road, then turned out onto the track leading up to the fields, full of their crops growing in readiness for next year’s harvest. It was how every medieval town worked – the dependence on the good harvest, the regular flow of family life, the many times people would still be without food or money to pay the rent, but mostly, they got by.

[i]Mostly,[/i] the boy thought resentfully as he kept his pace alongside the crops, [i]But do all families work their children as hard as they do me?[/i]

By now, a stitch was tearing like a blade into his side and he had to slow down, gasping as the world in front of him swayed and dipped in and out of focus.

Steadying himself he looked around, seeing in the far distance the houses by the fields, but no sign of his pursuer.

Breathing a sigh of relief he laid down upon the baking earth, closing his eyes and letting out a long, rattling sigh, feeling the sweat running down his forehead and into his hair. The sound of singing filled his ears, from some beautiful yet unknown source and the warm sun beat down on his face as though she was smiling.

His rest lasted for seconds before the light shining down on him was blotted out.

He opened his eyes to see everything in shadow, not having the time or energy to move as a hand lunged downwards and seized him around the throat, pulling him to his feet.

Gasping, he looked into the burning eyes of his captor and struggled, trying to get away. A foot connected hard with his shin and a fist with his stomach and he crumpled, falling to the floor as he was released from around the neck.

In a rush of adrenaline, he leapt to his feet, despite the fact he was badly winded, and rounded on his attacker, lashing out at him to strike his arm. The man moved with almost lightning speed, grabbing the boy’s wrist and twisting it, then throwing him aside into the crop as he yelled out in pain.

“We did well to take yer in!” he bellowed, baring down over the sobbing and shaking boy clutching his wrist, “You throw it back at us day in, day out and I won’t ‘ave none of it!”

The child bit his lip, determined to stop his crying, and looked up into the hard, cold eyes.
“That means you’ll have some of it,” he said, very, very quietly, still holding his wrist tightly to his chest.

The grey eyes turned a darker, more menacing shade.

The man bent down and lifted the boy up by the collar again, pulling him to his feet as the two once again met eye to eye.

“What did you say to me?” the man growled, his voice very soft, then suddenly roaring, “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME, SCUM?!”

Did he dare?
What harm would it really do?

“If you won’t ‘ave none of it,” the boy muttered, “It surely must mean you’ll ‘ave [i]some[/i] of it.”
“ENOUGH! An’ you won’t live ‘ere, eh? It may come as no surprise we don’t want yer!”

With a snarl of rage the man threw the child into the crops, so hard that the boy’s entire body flipped and then crashed into the ground, leaving him in a heap amongst the tall, feathery wheat. Then, the man turned and walked away, wiping his hands on his jacket, not looking back to see what damage he’d done, not caring.

Moments passed in silence, apart from the soft birdsong and occasional murmur of distant cattle.

Then, the wheat stems on the opposite side of the path moved aside, and from within it stepped out a second boy, this one older, taller, stronger, muscled and of a healthy weight, a look of concern etched upon his paling face. He dashed to the other boy’s side and sat down next to him, crossing his legs and lifting the motionless body up into his arms.

“Ben,” he hissed, putting a hand to the injured boy’s damp, clammy forehead, “Benjamin, wake up. Please. Wake up, for me.”
“And for me, and for me, and for me!”

The high-pitched cry came out from where the older boy had just come as a young, beautiful child with long and wavy blonde hair dashed across the path and crashed down beside the other two.

“James, ‘s he dead? Don’ let ‘im be dead, please, please don’ let ‘im…”
The girl’s eyes watered as she curled up at James’s side, putting her tiny fingers onto Benjamin’s forehead, looking at him in an almost avid fashion. She was very young, only five at the least, but seemed much more grown up for her age as she knelt there at the boys’ sides.

“Ben please,” James begged, lifting the boy higher into his arms, “Wake up. WAKE UP!”
Tears welled in his eyes as he shook the injured boy furiously, but the girl tugged gently at his shirt sleeve and looked at him imploringly with her deep blue eyes.
“Calm down James,” she said softly, “That… That useless man canna kill our brother. ‘E’s much too good for ‘at.”

Then, she kissed Benjamin on the forehead, gazing nervously at him as she watched, waiting to see whether it had made any effect.
With a soft moan, the boy opened his eyes and tried to put out a hand to his sister, but cried out in pain and immediately started to cry.

James held him awkwardly, almost as though he was afraid the blood from his brother’s wounds and his streaming tears would dirty his spotless clothes, but the girl fearlessly put out both arms and pulled him close, kissing his cheek and singing words under her breath, hopelessly out of tune but still a soothing sound.

“Alice-Hannah,” Benjamin mumbled, putting out his other arm to hug her back, “Alice-Hannah, what would I do without you?”
James looked slightly affronted but put both hands on his brother’s shoulders to keep him steady, for despite being hugged he was still swaying from side to side.

“You too James,” he said, sniffing repeatedly to try and stop his tears. James nodded, and carefully reached out a hand to touch his brother’s wrist. As soon as his fingers touched the swollen, bruised skin Benjamin howled, crying afresh as Alice-Hannah slapped her eldest brother’s hand away. In turn she took the injured wrist, but her touch was featherlight as she kept singing and pulled the wrist out carefully to get a closer look.

“Oh, ‘e’s got yer bad this time Ben,” she muttered, running a finger lightly along the back of her brother’s hand as he gave another quiet whimper, “Broken or sprained. You better ‘ope wiv’ all yer ‘eart it’s not a broken one. Won’t ever work right again if I’m right.”

James raised an eyebrow.
[i]Blimey, that kid’s knowledgable for five,[/i] he mumbled to himself, not looking at her as she went back to hugging Benjamin and letting him hide his face in her hair.

“Don’ wanna worry yer, Ben,” she said softly, “It’ll be alright. We’ll make it right, you and me. Right there James?”
“Ah… Er… Right, yes, right,” James said, shaking his head as he looked into his sister’s eyes. “We’ll make it good again. Promise.”
Alice-Hannah let Benjamin go and James put his hands under his arms, pulling his brother gently to his feet. The little girl coughed slightly, shaking her head as though trying to rid herself of something, then put a hand to her chest. Benjamin looked down at her, rubbing his eyes with his good hand, concerned.

“Hannah?” he asked, his voice stuffy as he called her by her old name, the one she’d had when times were good, “You’re alright?”

She nodded, beaming, though her eyes were watering as she looked up and let out a rather too-short breath.

“I’m good,” she said simply, grinning up at them both. “C’mon, the both o’ yer. Let’s get to someone’s house before we all get it.”

Together, the three of them walked away down the path, James supporting his brother Benjamin as he limped away, his bad wrist dangling at his waist, and little Alice-Hannah skipping alongside them, laughing.

And although the child had long since stopped singing, now, somebody else was carrying on the tune, a much more toned and beautiful voice, which rang out over the fields and forests for moments before the song came to an end.

Or, then again, it could have simply been the wind.