The burning heat of the Mediterranean sun beat down upon Sir Michael as he surveyed the battlefield before him. Corpses of Christian knights and men-at-arms mingled among those of the enemy, which were strewn across the desert. Michael knew he was lucky not to be among them, as his own hard, warrior's body was dripping in sweat and blood from the many wounds he had sustained in vicious hand-to-hand fighting. He prayed none were too deep to be mortal, but was wracked with pain nonetheless. As he turned away from the grizzly sight, he knew the cause was lost and the only thing left to him of true value was his loving wife and family so far away at home in his beloved land of England.
The journey across the sea to France was rough and the days of travel through Burgundy and Gascony slow and fraught with risk. One night, Sir Michael woke on hearing his horse whiny to see the glint of a knife across the campfire. A bandit immediately rushed upon him, but Michael never slept in wild country without his unsheathed sword laid beside him under the blanket, so the thief lost his hand in a sweeping flash of a well-honed blade. At last he arrived at Calais and paid a fisherman to ferry him across to the white cliffs and green and pleasant rolling hills of his homeland beyond.
