The battle raged, moving across the field – this way and that.
The grail – that prize which meant so much, without it you could not win – had changed sides many, many times.
The muddy ground came up to meet his face with alarming speed. He was being driven, propelled by his companions into the fray – right into the teeth of the enemy.
But driven downwards, into the mud.
Back to the mud, although not the same as that author meant.
Wriggling and turning, he managed to get at an angle so that his face would not be underwater. Breathing was good.
The grail fell and rolled out, landing to his left.
He could do nothing.
He was on the bottom of a ruck, and the laws of rugby were clear.
No playing the ball on the ground.
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