After we bloodied our hands at Acre with three thousand hostages, I knew I would never go home. Not even the intricate links of chain mail could save the hope lost on the plains of Jaffa – where gathering wood became rabbit fear, and anger at the anger of Saracens exacting revenge for our dishonor. My life wasn’t supposed to end like this: in the dust, my secret dripping into the sand. At this very moment, somewhere in Normandy, my dew-drenched feet shine upon glorious green grass.