Free The Turtle Run by Marie Evelyn

motorbike pulling up alongside her. Joe raised his visor and gave a big grin.
    She didn’t know whether to laugh or express astonishment his bike had got him this far. Now she thought about it, he had left much earlier than usual this morning; she had assumed he had a busy day at work planned. ‘You haven’t thrown a sickie, have you?’
    Joe made a face. ‘No, I haven’t. I do get days off, you know, and I thought you’d like to see the actual locations as well as just visit the Centre.’
    â€˜I’m rather touched, to be honest,’ she said. ‘Actually, it’s really nice to see you.’
    He shrugged off her affection. ‘Come on. Let’s go to the battlefield and then you can tell me why pillock son doesn’t want you to write the book.’
    â€˜You know where it is?’
    â€˜Yup, I went by on my way here. I’ve even borrowed a fine hat for you to wear.’ He opened the bike’s top box and took out a helmet. Becky hesitated. She was nervous of bikes and could never have made the journey here as a pillion passenger, but she didn’t want to be churlish. She put on the helmet, secured her rucksack on her back and held on to her little brother.
    The journey took about half an hour during which Becky only occasionally opened her eyes. She kept them open when she realised Joe had slowed down and they were passing a church. A bit further on he pulled up in a space on a quiet main road and they got off.
    â€˜It’s a fairly short walk,’ said Joe and Becky followed him, impressed (and surprised) that he was so organised.
    â€˜I’ve read up on it a bit,’ he said, casually, once they were some way along the path. ‘Monmouth didn’t want to fight in the end, as he knew he would lose, but one of his commanders persuaded him he had no choice. So he decided to launch a surprise night attack on the Royalist troops camped at Westonzoyland. He led five thousand men – most hadn’t even had any training – and horseback cavalry for miles in the rain – in pitch black and in silence. I mean: respect.’
    Becky laughed. ‘Sounds impossible. Surely with horses you’d hear them.’
    â€˜Monmouth had the horses’ hooves bound with cloth to muffle their steps,’ said Joe. ‘Can you imagine that? Seeing thousands of men and horses marching through the fields with no noise?’
    â€˜No,’ said Becky. ‘Spooky.’
    â€˜Apparently some people still see them today, especially on the anniversary of the battle. This is it.’
    The battleground looked like a peaceful meadow to Becky. She gazed at the sunlit field but couldn’t conjure up the image of a pitched battle here in the dark.
    Joe was looking at a map and turning round at various angles, as if trying to orient himself. ‘Right. Got it,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard of the rhines?’
    Becky shook her head. Her book on The Stuarts did not contain many details about the battle itself.
    â€˜The drainage ditches. An ancient means of trying to control flooding that were key to the outcome.’
    For the next twenty minutes Joe pointed out where the respective armies would have probably stood, where the rhine Monmouth failed to cross would have lain three hundred years before and where Monmouth’s commander, Lord Grey, had ‘ballsed up’ so that instead of crossing the rhine and attacking the Royalist army, he had led his cavalry straight back into his own side.
    Becky listened to Joe with amazement and pride. He seemed to have suddenly discovered history, albeit a rather morbid brand. He had certainly devoured facts about artillery, describing the different fire power of the trained soldiers and the badly equipped Monmouth rebels, who bravely yelled at the Royal Army to cross the rhine and fight like men instead of firing over the water at them. He was rather over-fascinated by the idea of men being