“The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne," wrote Chaucer. But you'd trained hard with that crossbow, and let any man in bolting distance try to claim you hadn't mastered it. You never wanted to go to war, but the crops were failing, you'd just lost your seventeenth child to medium-pox, and dark portents swirled on the horizon like curdled goat's milk. Also, the actual goat's milk was curdling.
In that tent, you'd communed with angels, and the righteous fury of all the heavens coursed through every fibre of your being. You'd likely die today, you knew. But you'd die knowing you did all you could to put this fair kingdom to rights. You step outside, breathe deep the morning air, and immediately eat a point blank pump-action shotgun to the torso. Then you lose both your legs to the tank shell. Then someone runs over your corpse with a dirtbike. Bloody typical.