‘You don’t look so tough,’ said a voice. Chain glanced to his right and saw a burly highlander, wearing a ragged kilt and a long cloak. The man was holding a jug, and was swaying slightly.
‘Looks can be deceiving,’ said Chain mildly. Two stewards moved in swiftly, grabbing the man. Chain realized they had been following him. ‘Let him go. Now!’ he said. ‘We were having a conversation.’
‘Sir, we are instructed—’
‘Leave him, and go about your business. I do not need an escort.’ The men stood for a moment, then released the highlander. ‘Now, I thank you for your concern, boys, but leave me be.’
The two stewards seemed uncertain, but they left and returned to the Varlish field.
The drunken highlander swore at Chain. ‘Always need back-up, don’t you?’
‘Certainly seems that way,’ Chain told him. The fighter moved on. Another bout was under way in one of the mud circles. He paused to watch. A huge, one-eyed man was fighting. His opponent was younger, with good shoulders and a long reach. The two circled for a few moments, then the young man moved in swiftly, feinting with a left, then throwing a right. It was a good move. The one-eyed man swayed away and delivered a chopping left that exploded against the younger man’s jaw. The lad’s legs gave way and he pitched to the ground.
‘Grymauch! Grymauch!’ chanted the crowd. The one-eyed man raised his arms and bowed to them. Then he saw Chain.
‘Would you like a little lesson, Varlish!’ he called.
‘Perhaps later. That was a good blow.’
‘The . . . Pannone . . . Hammer,’ said the man. Chain noted the hesitation. So did the crowd, and they laughed.
‘You need to look to your comrade,’ said Chain. ‘I fear he is drowning in the mud.’
The fighter glanced down, then dropped to his knees, rolling the unconscious man to his back. It was true. His mouth and nostrils were caked with mud. The one-eyed man wiped it away, and the stricken fighter suddenly gasped for breath.
Chain walked on, stopping by a stall selling trinkets. They were cheap, mostly of copper or bronze, but one or two shone with silver. As he was looking at the jewellery a man came alongside him. He saw that it was Mulgrave.
‘Are you enjoying yourself, sir?’ asked the white-haired young officer.
‘I like to see the sun shine. Are you escorting me now?’
‘It would be … unfortunate to suffer an incident on a feast day. There is a good deal of strong drink available everywhere and a riot could ensue if a drunken highlander were to attack the Varlish champion.’
‘Let us walk awhile,’ said Chain.
‘It will be my pleasure – especially if we walk back to the Varlish fields.’
‘As you say, captain.’ The two men crossed the field and went through the entry channel. They paused by a small wood at the northern tip of the Varlish field. ‘What is going on here?’
‘In what way?’
‘This absurd need to crush the highlanders’ spirit.’
Mulgrave sighed. ‘You are asking the wrong man to justify it. However, I will try to explain it. It is – you will hear – a historical problem. You are from the far south. You have no idea of the festering hatreds in these mountains. Old men still remember the rebellions, the clans sweeping down upon townsfolk and farmers, the savagery and the bloodshed. The clans do not forget the days -not so distant – when soldiers raided their settlements, killing their wives and children. The fear among our own people is that, if pride is allowed to seep back into clan mentality, they will rise again. That is why the Moidart is angry about the tournament. Is Gorain going to win it?’
‘He should,’ said Chain.
‘He’d better,’ said Mulgrave. ‘The Moidart does not suffer disappointment lightly.’
‘I would guess that.’
The sun shone brightly for much of the afternoon. Gaise Macon, riding the palomino, won the first of the equestrian events, the Twelve Jumps. His victory was received with great acclaim from the citizens, though Gaise himself seemed less than ecstatic. Captain Mulgrave won the sabre event, lopping eleven ‘heads’. Gaise finished fourth in this contest, and seemed far more pleased than with his own victory.