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.
Jarek Mace swung away without a word of congratulation and collected his two gold coins; then, with a face like thunder, he strode to where we waited at the edge of the crowd.
‘Shorter string,’ he snapped. ‘Different tension. He should have allowed me a practice shot. Bastard!’He needn’t have allowed you anything,’ I pointed out. But Mace was not to be mollified. He was never a good loser.
We purchased meat-pies and sat in the shade some thirty paces from the Knight’s Platform. Crowds were now filling the meadow and we saw the nobles arriving and taking their places on the dais.
That is Azrek,’ muttered Piercollo.
I looked up and saw a tall young man, with straight black hair and a long, curved nose. He wore a simple tunic and leggings of black satin, edged with silver thread, and a black shirt which glistened like the finest silk. My blood felt cold and I looked away.