After his master dies, a peasant squire, fueled by his desire for food and glory, creates a new identity for himself as a knight.
– Your name lady, I still need to hear it.
– Sir hunter, you persist.
– Or perhaps angels have no names, only beautiful faces.
– And you are?
– Well, I am, um.
– You've forgotten, or your name is Sir Um?
– Ulrich von Lichtenstein from Gelderland.
– Well, I'd forget as well, what a mouthful. Your armor, sir.
– What about it?
– How stylish of you to joust in an antique. You'll start a new fashion if you win. My grandfather will be able to wear his in public again, and a shield, how quaint. Some of these poor country knights, little better then peasants.
— I don't understand women.
— Nor do I. But they understand us. Well, maybe not you.
It is strange to think, I haven't seen you since a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face. The pieces of my broken heart are so small that they could be passed through the eye of a needle. I miss you like the sun misses the flower; like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Instead of beauty to direct its light to, the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has banished me to. I next compete in the city of Paris, I will find it empty and in the winter if you are not there. Hope guides me, that is what gets me through the day and especially the night. The hope that after you're gone from my sight, it will not be the last time that I look upon you. With love and with all my heart, forever your faithful knight Ulrich.
Letter to Jocelyn.
I come for confession. And the glass... a riot of color in a dreary, grey world.