I can never forget it. The perfection of that day. That ride. The surprise, so sweet, on their faces. The cries of my Paris as it watched my clamoring path ring down through the infidel. Such grace for steel and muscle. Of all my days that is the clearest now. Why should that be? Time is strange for me now.

I had ridden out from the city the night before under the cover of a storm. Turpin tried to stop me, said I was a fool (they always said that, but my tatics often bought the day), said my uncle, Charlemagne, would teach me for disobedience. As the rainwater ran down my back I brushed him off and galloped away. Astolpho met me outside the Gate of Infants and we rode, side by side, into the darkness.

Moving through their lines was ridiculously easy. They slept like pigs, bloated on that damn orange stew they eat with their hands.

We camped, ate and prayed.

Heavenly Father, grant me victory over the heathen invaders, over their leader, and over their vile and corrupted god. Grant me victory that I might do glory to thy cause and thy name.

Astolpho told me a joke: What's the difference between an Arab woman and a cistern?... You can eat a cistern if you have to!

Before dawn we oiled our swords, tightened our saddles and prayed again. As the sun split the clouds we prepared for our sortie.

I do not know what this Saracen knight's quarrel was with me. The insults! I will at least do him the courtesy of thinking chivalrously of him. Which is more than he ever gave to me. I had won the sword fairly. His father died bravely. There was no dishonour. Why all this? Why lay siege to an innocent town? There was the sword, yes. It was unequaled. Yet the sword was my spoil by right. I will never understand the minds of these men. So... foreign. Note, if you will, I still call him "Knight". I do him that courtesy at least.

Astolpho tied a ribbon on to his lance. A favour from a lady... I don't know which... he has so many, too many, that little Englishman... He wastes his energies. I prayed one final time and we began our charge.

The heathen were all in the midst of their morning toilet. Their... prayer washing (woodoo, they call it) when we fell on them. I only attacked those who were armed but still they dropped by the dozens. I can't tell how many we killed. I topped a rise to see a group of them, on horseback, charging toward us. I plunged Clou into one man's gut and pulled the lance from another, unhorsing him, as Astolpho fell upon the rest. He killed two more as I finished the last of the group.

Slowly, we waded through them. They were around us like locusts. How God shone on us that day (Look... the sky so blue... a blue to crack your eyes... What glorious sign!): the heathen ringed us like the armies of Pharoah yet we were David before the giant.

Soon the walls of the city were lined with people, all yelling and cheering us in our effort. Trumpets began to play from the ramparts. As we approached the gate, they flung garlands on us from above. Still the enemy came - though with less and less vigor. My uncle appeared, much to the delight of the onlookers, and saluted. Turpin doused us with holy water. Still they fell. Astolpho shattered his lance. I yelled for the gate to be opened. More of them died.

Then suddenly - he was there. Mandricardo. My goal. This humiliation was to be his. I lunged at him, a long arcing swing to the head which unhorsed him. The wind went out of him when he fell. I was down and on top of him before he knew he had lost his horse! How unmanly.

Had it been another battle, another day, I would have allowed him at least the show of a true fight. But not this one, not after his words. I knocked the blade from his hand (Clou was thrumming and moaning like a colt), pulled his helmet off and jerked him to his feet.

Then was the sweetest of moments. It was as if the whole world had stopped on its axis. All noise abated. The din and clang of the field slowed. The musicians on the ramparts were still. I watched a fat courtier, mouth full of meat, stifle a laugh and motion to a companion.

I held him there, not a breath between us, as the sounds of the world died away. Finally, in an unrivaled silence, as the eyes of a thousand - Christian and Infidel - looked on, focusing, boring into the moment, pouring the expectation and heat and joy of death into the space between us: I slapped him. With my bare palm. As a mother might strike a child who has done what he should not. I slapped him, dropped him to the grass, turned and strode the final yards through the gate and into my beloved Paris, as garlands fell around me.