For Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt. Another bit inspired by the WIP I’m afraid.
The leader, sergeant or whatever of the Welsh bowmen peers through the leaves at the sky then looks at Art. He yawns theatrically.
“When did you say this army was passing by here? This week, was it?”
“He’ll be here.”
The yawn becomes a stretch. “It’s just that if I sit here much longer I’ll be so old I’ll have forgotten how to string a bow.” The breatnach grins insolently.
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