Dismissing the soldiers, he then gathered the red-cloaked stewards who would be patrolling the entrances. ‘Be good-natured if you find someone in the wrong enclosure,’ he told them. ‘Do not insult them, merely escort them to the correct area. Work always in pairs. If you suspect there is danger one man should fetch help while the other merely watches the likely offender. The most obvious reason for a clan man or woman to be in the wrong enclosure is that a child has wandered and they are seeking it. Assure them that the child will be sought and brought to them, and then escort them from the enclosure. You understand this?’
‘Why be polite to clan vermin?’ asked a tall, thin man standing at the back.
‘Your name?’
‘Jannie Clippets.’
‘You are no longer a steward, Jannie Clippets. Hand back your cloak to the feast marshall.’
‘I only asked a question,’ shouted the astonished man.
‘If I see you in a steward’s cloak this evening I shall have you flogged for impersonating an officer of the Moidart,’ Mulgrave told him. ‘Do the rest of you understand my instructions?’
Some of them muttered ‘Aye’, while others merely nodded.
Mulgrave strolled away. Guarding the Moidart was never easy, for the man was hated. At feast times it became nightmarish. Some eight thousand people would fill the Five Fields, moving between tents and stalls, shows and exhibitions. A killer would likely come dressed as a Varlish, in white wig and black cloth. Obtaining an entry disc was not difficult and the Moidart would be in full view of the crowd for much of the afternoon. One pistol ball, well aimed, and no amount of guards could prevent a murder. And there was likely to be other trouble.
Largely the clan folk did not trespass on the Varlish areas. The punishment was too severe – twenty lashes at a public flogging. The same was not true in reverse. Many Varlish townsfolk liked to wander the clan sections, watching the Boulder Hurl, the Rope War, and the fist-fighting tourney. Food and drink were cheaper, and this year there was the added complication of the fist tourney’s being an open event. It was foolishness, the thinking behind it obvious and crude. Bring up Varlish champions to hammer the clumsy clan farmers and cattle workers, thus displaying Varlish superiority in matters martial. No-one seemed to have considered the possibility that a clansman might prove just the opposite. The Moidart had said nothing about the plan, but Mulgrave sensed he was irritated by it. Cruel he might be, stupid he was not. He had made it clear to Mulgrave that he would not be present for the final bouts.
The feast was organized by the Eldacre Elders, a committee of wealthy town merchants, of whom the chairman was the Bishop of Eldacre. Their plan of events had been, as usual, posted and advertised without reference to the lord. The Moidart’s power was based on the twin pillars of tax and defence. He had no say over Sacrifice feasts, which came under the jurisdiction of the Church.
Mulgrave walked across the first of the fields to where the best of the fighting circles had been constructed on a raised wooden dais. Two channels led away from the circle, one to the clan area, one to the Varlish. At the circle itself the crowd would again be segregated, the Varlish area containing tiered bench seating, the clan folk being obliged to stand in the mud. Mulgrave sighed.
He saw two men approach the circle, and climb to the fighting area. Both were large, but his eyes were drawn to a powerful black-haired figure with a large, flat face and huge hands. Mulgrave recognized him. He was Chain Shada, a former soldier who had become wealthy through his fist-fighting skills. It surprised Mulgrave that a professional like Shada should have been interested in such a small event. He had once earned two hundred pounds fighting in Capital Park before a crowd of forty thousand. It was said he owned several properties in the capital, and two racing stables near Baracum. What would such a man be doing, travelling hundreds of miles for a thirty-chailling purse?