He sat astride the great war-horse, in the early morning, looking across the field toward the mist-obscured heights where the enemy waited. The chain-mail coif and hauberk weighed heavy on him; and there was another weight within him: a sense of a thing undone, a duty forgotten, of something valuable betrayed.
"The mist clears, my lord," Trumpington spoke at his side. "Will you attack?"
He looked up at the sun, burning through the mist. He thought of the green vales of home, and the sense grew in him that death waited here on this obscure field.
"No. I'll not unsheathe Balingore this day," he said at last.
"My lord—is all well with you?" There was concern in the young squire's voice.
He nodded curtly. Then he turned and rode back through the silent, staring ranks of his panoplied host.