outside in the cold distance, George could hear the first horns blowing, rousing troops on both sides for the battle to come. hearer by, the sounds of flatulence, oaths and catarrh announced the rising of men, whores and horses, each with their own expectations of the day.
Truth be told, he felt more shivering than chivalrous. As a low ranking member of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, he had been obliged to make camp in a bog, damp cold and home to many biting things. But today being the day of the great battle, a young knight's role was
to prepare himself for holy combat.
The exact nature of his Lord's issue with yon bastard Runaldo the Bald was fuzzy still to him, but if he had learned one thing in ten and seven years, it was that "reason" had little to do with most of what might happen.
What he knew more surely was that his armour did not fit him well at all. That is to say, with his helmet on, he could see not a damn thing, and all he could hear was the sound of his own breath, and blood, pulsing in his veins...