He shook the ruined shield from his arm and let it drop to the track, pulled the folded letter from his breastplate between two fingers, crumpled it tightly in his fist, then tossed it into the barley. It was a pathetic letter anyway. I should be ashamed of myself.

Then he turned, head hanging, and trudged back towards the bridge.

One Union soldier, for some reason, had chased far down the track after Scale’s fleeing troops. A big man wearing heavy armour and with a sword in his hand. He didn’t look particularly triumphant as he stared up the road, standing oddly alone in that open field. He looked almost as defeated as Calder felt. After a while he turned and plodded back towards the bridge. Back towards the trenches Scale’s men had dug the previous night, and where the Union were now taking up positions.

Not all dramas on the battlefield spring from glorious action. Some slink from everyone just sitting there, doing nothing. Tenways had sent no help. Calder hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even got as far as making his mind up not to move. He’d just stood, staring at nothing through his eyeglass, in a frozen agony of indecision, and then suddenly all of Scale’s men who still could were running, and the Union had carried the bridge.

Thankfully, it looked as if they were satisfied for now. Probably they didn’t want to risk pushing further with the light fading. They could push further tomorrow, after all, and everyone knew it. They had a good foothold on the north bank of the river, and no shortage of men in spite of the price Scale had made them pay. It looked as if the price Scale had paid had been heavier yet.

The last of his defeated Carls were still hobbling back, clambering over the wall to lie scattered in the crops behind, dirt and blood-smeared, broken and exhausted. Calder stopped a man with a hand on his shoulder.

‘Where’s Scale?’

‘Dead!’ he screamed, shaking him off. ‘Dead! Why didn’t you come, you bastards? Why didn’t you help us?’

‘Union men over the stream there,’ Pale-as-Snow was explaining as he led him away, but Calder hardly heard. He stood at the gate, staring across the darkening fields towards the bridge.

He’d loved his brother. For being on his side when everyone else was against him. Because nothing’s more important than family.

He’d hated his brother. For being too stupid. For being too strong. For being in his way. Because nothing’s more important than power.

And now his brother was dead. Calder had let him die. Just by doing nothing. Was that the same as killing a man?

All he could think about was how it might make his life more difficult. All the extra tasks he’d have to do, the responsibilities he didn’t feel ready for. He was the heir, now, to all his father’s priceless legacy of feuds, hatred and bad blood. He felt annoyance rather than grief, and puzzled he didn’t feel more. Everyone was looking at him. Watching him, to see what he’d do. To judge what kind of man he was. He was embarrassed, almost, that this was all his brother’s death made him feel. Not guilty, not sad, just cold. And then angry.