With his preparations made, he could wait no longer. The world held so many wrongs to right, injustices to mend and debts to pay. Every day he delayed, he thought, the world was the poorer.
It was a scorching day in July, before dawn had even broken. Telling no one of his plan, he put on his armor. He mounted Rocinante, put on his patched-together helmet, slid his shield onto his arm and took up his lance. Then, unseen by anyone, he rode out into the fields through the back gate of his yard.
He was overjoyed that it had all begun so easily. But no sooner is he out in the open than a terrible thought seizes him. He has never been dubbed a knight.