We are so proud of Freja’s entry for BBC Radio 2’s Writing Competition that we wanted to share it with our whole community.
The Battle of Edgehill: The Terror
It was the frigid night of the Battle of Edgehill. The battle had lasted for sixteen tedious hours, and the puritan Earl of Essex’s troops were nearing our camp as rapid as lightning. I had been maimed by a Roundhead; shot in the leg with a musket, to be definite. My clothes had been stained for evermore by the heinous blood that had trickled like a river of rubies down my leg throughout the battle. I was peering out of the slit in the tent when, instantaneously, a figure appeared; it was ghostly, almost pellucid. Quivers slid down my spine as the ghost swivelled his head – he was watching me. His muted, murderous eyes glared right through my soul like a hawk; he was holding a sword with illegible writing inscribed on his blade. The font was cursive and medieval-looking, but I still couldn’t read it. Without thought, I bellowed as tumultuously as I could. A puff of black smog atomised from the blood-seeped soil… the ghost had dissipated.
I guess I must’ve collapsed. I woke up dumfounded and oracular, with no memory of the figure until the shrills of the battle attained my ears; with doubt, I heeded at the noxious scenes. Soldiers and Generals screeched from ear to ear as they lay wounded. It was disaster, the Cavaliers fought fiercely; but so did the Parliamentarians. With decrepitude, I rested my head on the spare boots I had found beforehand and waited for the next morning.
I awoke. Finally, no clangour could be heard from the battlefield and all the prevailing men were in the tent. The sun was rising; the hazy light beamed onto my face and many others’ as I tacitly rose to the level of the slit. Weapons, blood and armour were scattered carelessly across the grass that was once thriving with wildlife.
In agony, I heaved myself up. Despite my leg allotting me with never-ending pain, I desired to explore the long-drawn-out battlefield. I achingly limped to the tent exit and looked out onto the field. Every sound; the gale rattling the hung-up swords, the soughs of the wind and the gentle splashes of the horses’ water was silenced by the sorrow that had ambled in my head. Sorrow is the colour drained from life, and at this moment life unearthed as black and white. Unanticipatedly, an inquisitive and husky voice croaked behind me.
“What do you think you are doing? You are injured; anyone who chooses to walk out in the open with an untreated wound is insane. Stay here, you’re just asking for trouble.” he raucously justified.
“Well, clearly I’m a madman then.” I replied vaingloriously. I stepped out onto the field and gaped in awe; it was mammoth! Substantial oak trees hung over the marshy and aqueous surface as the Roundhead camp stood desolated and conquered in the far afield distance. I felt illustrious. We had done it – we saved Britain.
By Freja, age eleven.