So the battle was a draw. True, Uther held the field when it was all over, but it could not be called a victory. The Saxon numbers had been greatly underestimated, and the absence of several prominent figures greatly weakened Uther's forces. Only Sir Amig's heroics prevented a route.
You are in Sarum doing some last-minute shopping before returning to your manor. With the return of the army, the city is crowded and the merchants are all doing a brisk business. You are almost shoulder to shoulder with people moving through the narrow streets. The noise drowns out conversation, but through the din you hear someone call your name. "Sir Rodric of Fault!"
Turning, you see an old man with thin graying hair. His teeth are rotten, and he has one milky white eye. He has no shoes on his feet, only bloody rags bound around the stumps of frozen toes - an old injury by the look of it. There is a wicked scar running from his forehead to his jaw, and he walks with a pronounced limp on crooked legs. Ordinarily, this is someone you would give a couple of pennies to and move on without another thought.
"Sir Rodric, mercy Sir Rodric! I knew your father, m'lord and I have news of him!"
Suger, at your side without rest since you returned to the camp, sets his jaw and makes to run the beggar off as he should. That is when you notice that the beggar's tattered coat has something on the left breast, almost too faded to be seen. It resembles vaguely your family coat of arms.
