Nature was in so many ways the antithesis to war. A field of wildflowers was chaos disguised as order, while a battlefield of smoke was order disguised as chaos; highly organised soldiers sent marching to their doom. Far preferable was the bird of prey who stalked unsuspecting fieldmice with eyes of fiercest orange.

Baron Crossridge squinted into the white sunlight and watched the bird soar. He wore heavy boots and a falconry glove, and felt at peace as he walked out into the woodland clearing, which was still damp with yesterday's rain. He raised his hand to his mouth and gave a long, low whistle — above, the marsh harrier turned about and swept groundwards, something clutched in her talons.