There were soldiers everywhere, strolling through the meadow, moving in groups of three or four. I counted at least fifty on the fairground alone, and I had seen more in the city itself. Their presence made me uncomfortable though, in truth, I should have had little to fear.
Towards dusk I made my way back to the tavern. Mace had booked a room for us on the upper floor and I mounted the stairs, thinking only of sleep. The moonlit room was small, with three pallet beds set against the inner walls. A rough-hewn table and two chairs completed the furniture, and there was a single, tiny window with open shutters. The room smelt musky and damp, but I did not care. The two larger beds had been claimed by Mace and Wulf, their longbows laid upon the single blankets. I moved to the third and stretched out, not even bothering to remove my boots.
Sleep came swiftly, but I awoke when Mace and the hunchback returned after midnight, drunk and laughing. Mace tripped and fell upon me as he tried to remove his boots. Wulf made a gallant effort to fall upon his own bed, but missed and sank to the floor, where he curled up happily and slept.
‘Not… a… bad night,’ said Jarek Mace, with a lopsided grin. ‘I like this place.’
‘There is blood on your hand,’ I told him, sitting up.
‘It’s not mine,’ he answered cheerfully. With great dignity he pushed himself to his feet, swayed, then staggered to his bed.
‘Wake me early,’ he called. The first cull of the archers is before noon.’
‘You’ll be in no fit state to take part,’ I warned him.
‘I could beat most of them in the state I’m in now,’ he replied. For a little while there was silence; then he spoke again. ‘Have you heard? The Morningstar is really a Highland noble, of the Old blood. He is Rabain reborn, come to free the north.’ A cloud passed before the moon and we were plunged into darkness. I lay back, thinking about what he had said.
‘The legend is growing,’ I said at last.
He did not reply, but I knew he heard me.
True to his word Jarek Mace awoke bright of eye and in high good humour. I, who had consumed no alcohol, had a splitting headache and could have stayed in bed until well past noon, while Wulf awoke with a curse and remained silent and sullen for most of the morning.
We walked to the meadow, where I watched Jarek register for the tournament. An elderly clerk lifted a quill pen, dabbed it into a clay pot of ink and glanced up at the bowman.
‘Name?’ he asked.
‘Garik of Pottersham,’ answered Mace easily.
‘Next?’Wulf of Pottersham.’
The clerk scribbled the names on the scroll and we moved on. The wrestling had begun and we waited by the rope boundary for Piercollo to make his entrance. He won his first bout easily, and Jarek and I decided to wager two silver pennies on the Tuscanian’s next contest.
Wulf declined to bet. ‘All he has is strength,’ muttered the hunchback. He was proved wrong twice more, and Jarek and I earned ten silver pennies each. But the last fight had been tough for Piercollo, his opponent almost managing to use the Tuscanian’s great weight against him. Jarek did not agree and wagered the ten pennies on the final contest. It was over swiftly. Piercollo was matched against a man of almost equal size, and the two giants circled each other warily. This opponent was an older man, wily and skilful. Piercollo rushed in like an angry bear and the man sidestepped, grabbed the Tuscanian’s outstretched arm and spun him from his feet. Piercollo rose swiftly. Too swiftly, as Wulf pointed out, for he was still groggy from the fall. The older wrestler threw himself at the Tuscanian, hammering his forearm into Piercollo’s face, while at the same time hooking his foot around our friend’s ankle. Piercollo fell like a toppled tree. Mace cursed roundly when the Tuscanian failed to rise before the count of ten.
Then the first names were called for the archery cull. There were more than a hundred bowmen, and the first targets were set at around thirty paces. Mace and Wulf scored gold and were told to return in half an hour for the second round.
By now the workmen had almost completed the Knights’ Platform, and bench seats were being lifted on to it. I strolled across, past the piled wood of a huge bonfire, to where a dozen servants carrying cushions were arguing with one another as to which of their knights were to have the best seats. It was a common enough scene. Those knights sitting closest to the Manor Lord were seen, by the populace, to be favourites. No one wished to be placed at the end of the bench. But it would be unseemly for knights to be seen squabbling over such matters and therefore cushion-carrying servants were sent with orders to obtain for their masters places near the Manor Lord. I sat down with other interested — and knowing — fairgoers to watch. The arguments became more fierce until finally a young man in yellow livery struck an older man wearing a blue tunic. The older man staggered, then struck back. Within seconds the cushions had been hurled aside and the servants were whacking out at one another, kicking and punching.
The crowd cheered them on and at last, with the fighting over, the cushions were placed. The boy in the yellow livery looked more than downcast as he tossed his cushion to the end of the bench. When his master saw his place, he would likely be in for a worse beating than the one he had already taken.
At that moment three soldiers approached, striding to the platform and climbing the wooden steps. The leader — a lean, fierce-looking individual with a jagged scar from his right brow to his chin — was carrying a satin cushion of rich scarlet. Casually he pushed aside the cushions already there, creating a gap at the centre of the first bench. No one said a word, and not one of the servants moved as the man dropped the scarlet cushion into the gap -
’Who are they?’ I asked a man standing beside me.
‘Count Azrek s men. He must be coming to the Fair.’
‘The news made my heart hammer. I don’t know why, for Azrek would not know me and I had no reason then to fear him. Still I backed away as if the Count’s arrival was imminent, my eyes scanning the crowd. None of the nobles would attend until well into the afternoon and the Knights’ Tourney. And yet I could not control my fear. I sought out Jarek Mace and told him what I had heard, but he seemed unconcerned.
‘What difference can it make?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. But the unease remained.
On impulse I returned to the tavern and gathered my harp, stopping only to pay the tavern-keeper for our lodgings. ‘Will you want the room tonight?’ he asked.
‘Probably.’
‘You’re not thinking of leaving today?’
‘We may. Not sure. My friends… are traveling men. Don’t like towns, you know.’
‘You’ll miss the Burning.’
‘Tragic, I know, but still…’
I stepped out into the open and drew a deep breath, fighting for calm.
Back at the fair Wulf and Mace had progressed through to the last sixteen of the bowmen, and were thus guaranteed at least a penny for their efforts. When I found them they were discussing the merits of the other archers.
Piercollo joined us. ‘Not enough for a ship,’ he said, opening his huge hand and showing us the four silver coins he had won.
‘You did well,’ I told him. Mace said nothing to the big man and I knew he blamed him for the loss on his bet.
The archery tourney continued and Wulf reached the last four, but was eliminated by a tall forester wearing a black eye-patch. This infuriated the hunchback.
‘Everyone knows a good bowman needs two eyes to judge distance. How does he do it?’ he complained. But he was four pennies richer and his mood had improved.
The final was set just before the Knight’s Tourney. Mace and Eye-patch were matched against each other.
Legend has it that Jarek Mace won by splitting his opponent’s shaft from fifty paces. He didn’t; he lost. They loosed some twenty shafts, then the string of Jarek’s bow snapped, his arrow falling some ten paces forward. That should have disqualified him, but Eye-patch opened the pouch at his side and removed a spare string which he handed to Mace. Swiftly Jarek restrung his bow, but his next arrow was two fingers’ width outside the gold and Eye-patch won the tourney with a splendid shot that struck dead centre.