It had rained for days, the dirt track roads were washing away beneath a grey sky, without doubt it was one of the worst summers any of them had ever known, they’d killed their King and now god had turned the world upside down, each and every Parliamentarian soldier in the Lord-General Cromwell’s army was shattered, exhausted, cold and wet. And still they marched. What had begun as a glorious invasion of the rebellious Scottish lowlands had turned into a disaster, at every opportunity the Scots had ambushed the beleaguered English, shots fired from copses of tree’s, ridges and mist shrouded vales had caused only a small amount of damage to the bodies of the English soldiers, but their minds were savaged, always frightful of the Scot in the mist or the moving tree which could be another attack…