Everyone in Edinburgh was up early. As dawn dyed the eastern sky in layers of rose and gold, the gates were thrown open. People swarmed in both directions. The usual crowd tromped into the burgh, pushing barrows of cabbages, kale, leeks, and fennel. Some carried baskets of eggs or fresh fish. There was laughing and joking. When a barrow got stuck, several men hurried over to help. Even more, people streamed east toward the fair held at Holyrood park, the expanse of meadows and gardens near Holyrood Abbey. There was a frantic gaiety, the relief palpable, for there had been no death from the great pestilence in all of Scotland since December. The plague was over, the Lenten fast done, and now we would return to normal life.
Merchants strode through the crowd to the booths they had erected there, such merchants who still lived. I had spoken to one from Falkirk the night before at Holyrood Abbey, two others who had come from as far away as Perth, and one from a ship docked from Flanders.
To celebrate the end of the sickness, Sir Robert Stewart and the Lord of Douglas had a one-day jousting tournament. I hoped we were not celebrating too soon. People chattered about who would be the winners and on whom they would wager. The name of William, Earl of Ross, had entered. No one in Scotland had seen them joust, but both had ridden in tourneys in France and Flanders.
The early April morning carried a pleasant nip as I shouldered my way through the early bustle. I wondered how one put together so large a fair and was glad it was not my responsibility. I could enjoy it and was sure the enjoyment would be profitable. Losers in the tourney would have the choice of forfeiting their armor, weapons, and horse or ransoming them. Either way, the profit from winning at tourneys could raise a landless knight like me from penury, and I had every intention of winning.
Much of Holyrood Park was covered by stalls and booths. The land belonged to the abbey, and its lay servants had been busy collecting fees to erect them for the last day or two. Most were flimsy things with wide boards on trestle legs below a canvas awning, some striped in red, blue, and green. The booths of wealthy merchants were as substantial as a small cot, with a withy wall and roof and a shutter to lower as a counter. Peddlers had paid a few pence for the privilege of spreading a blanket anywhere not already taken.
I meandered that way, and business was in full swing. An excited buzz of chatter and gossip, shouts of haggling over prices, and a few already stumbling from an excess of ale, though the Stewart had men-at-arms patrolling between the booths. I caught the oniony, meaty scent of sausages being cooked from further down the row. My ears rang from the cacophony of tradesmen touting fine cloth from Flanders, currants from the Baltic, and squirrel’s fur for at home. Bakers’ boys plodded up and down with trays of buns and small honey cakes.
One merchant shouted that he had the finest daggers from the Rhine, but when I stopped to look them over, the quality was not that good. Besides, I only had a few merks in my scrip. Buying anything would have to wait.
The gaiety of the crowd was infectious. At one point, I stood aside and clapped as a cart with a sword swallower and some acrobats doing handstands trundled. As I watched, the crowd cheered, and a few threw coins onto the cart. Laughing, I dug out a half-penny and tossed that to them. When it had passed, I followed a crowd until we reached a cleared space where a man with a generously padded belly wearing a monk’s robe was selling his soul to a red-paint-smeared horned devil. After the cackling devil pranced behind a screen painted with flames, the monk encountered a woman with a padded bosom and stubble under her paint, sitting nearby and proceeded to seduce her with much panting and pretend thrusting. A peasant appeared, berating and beating him, until the Virgin Mary, in a blue robe and blond false-hair, appeared to free the monk from the peasant’s abuse and the devil’s coils.
Chuckling since I had never seen a play like it before, I turned away to head for the jousting field, pushing my way through buyers bargaining for better prices, stray dogs underfoot, and far too many ragged urchins begging for coins.
I strolled to where a rope marked a rectangle a hundred yards long, all spread with straw. Men crowded near it, making wagers with waiting gamblers. At the other side were crude wooden stands, four levels of planks nailed to stout posts. Onlookers were clambering into place, brightly clad, many of them women. At each end were two tents to serve as a shelter for the contestants. Flags flew from poles and multicolored pennants rippled in the wind, brightening the whole affair.
Yesterday I had checked the state of the field, riding Gràsmhor up and down to get the feel of the sod and trying out my lance. Now I only had to wait my turn for my first match. We would compete under the commonly accepted rules of the tourney, blunted weapons only and no striking at the head. Otherwise, a man did whatever he must to win.
I shoved my way into one of the arming tents, hoping Gil and Nigell, who would act as my squires, had my armor and weapons ready. Outside, a trumpet blared, and the herald shouted someone’s name. There were the thuds of galloping hooves and an enormous cheer from the onlookers.
Gil held up my gambeson for me to don. “Sounds like a good crowd.”
I grunted my agreement as I thrust my arms into the heavy garment.
“I dinnae ken the name you drew,” Gil said. “One of the de la Hays. Never heard anything anent him.”
Frowning, I paused with my cuirass in my hand. “I ken some de la Hays, but I dinnae think any of them joust.”
Nigell knelt, fastening the clasps of the cuirass to the back piece. “I made the wager for you. And I done a wager for me too.” He looked up at me. “So please win.”
I laughed. “Och, I mean to.” I pulled on my mail coif, and Gil helped me into the pixane that protected my neck.
Gil shoved my bascinet onto my head. I grimaced. I had removed the visor so I would be better able to see, but it still would be boiling hot in the heat of the sun.
Nigell pulled my surcoat over my head while Gil helped me on with sabaton, gold spurs, and gauntlets. Gil looked up and down. “Done except for your sword and shield.” He belted the leather belt around my hips and handed me my shield painted with the Douglas stars and royal heart but surrounded by a narrow checky band that denoted a bastard.
Shifting my body and hefting my shield, everything felt right.
I strode out of the tent where my charger stood, watching people with interest and flicking its ears as they strolled past. Talk and shouts and laughter combined into a hum of noise. I handed Nigell my shield and flung myself into the high-backed saddle. My mount had leather armor to protect its head and neck and a leather croupier to protect its hindquarters from flying shards or accidental strikes. It was the best I could afford.
A younger man, acting as the second judge, came up and asked, “All set?”
When I nodded, he vanished around the corner. Nigell handed up the blunted lance and shield. I walked my horse to the front of the benches. My eyebrows went up when I saw the number of spectators. There was no more room left on the benches. On the second row of planks below an awning sat Sir Robert Stewart, Guardian of the Realm, and his wife, Lady Elizabeth Mure. I looked at her curiously since it was said theirs was a love match. She was plump and laughing. She had a friendly face. Beside her was the Lord of Douglas, looking glum. I suspected he felt it would humiliate him to joust when he was not yet knighted. Lady Agnes Randolph was there with a young girl who looked like her. She and her husband, Patrick of Dunbar, had no children that I had heard, so perhaps it was a niece. Despite the church taking a dim view of jousting, several priests were in the crowd. Burgesses and their wives in fine but simpler garb filled the rest of the benches. Standing along the ropes setting off the jousting area were more spectators where gamblers were still accepting wagers.
My heart pounded. I had never jousted with so many watching.
Patrick of Dunbar was acting as senior judge. He gave a signal, and the trumpeter blared with his horn.
I cantered along the viewing stand as my opponent approached from the other direction to the accompaniment of shouts and whistles. Our squires stood anxiously near the recet tents. We met the younger judge, who I suspected would do most of the work, in the middle, de la Hay’s courser jibbing and snorting as his rider tried to quiet him. De la Hay looked like a young man as far as I could see through the small opening of his bascinet.
The judge called out our names to the herald. The man checked a scroll and shouted them aloud to the crowd. Then the judge waved us away.
After trotting to the far end of the field, lance held upright, I turned my mount. De la Hay jerked on his reins and finally settled his mount. A long blast on the trumpet sounded. I dropped my lance to the horizon and clapped my heels to my gray’s flanks. He plunged to a gallop. I pulled my shield across my chest.
De la Hay raced toward me, his lance steady and his shield squarely placed in front of his chest. At the last second, I slanted mine. My blunted lance landed square in the center of his shield. He tipped backward as his lance scraped across my shield.
By the time I wheeled my mount, de la Hay was hanging onto his cantle and reins, both feet bumping along the ground. He let go, falling flat and rolling over, apparently unhurt. His horse trotted to the far end of the field and stopped.
I pulled up and waited to see what he would do. He could either yield or pull another weapon to fight on. As Dunbar and his assistant trotted to get a closer look, he pushed himself to one knee to accept his defeat.
The cheers were mixed with some whistles and jeers for de la Hay not having given a better show, but I swung from the saddle and offered him my hand. He grasped it, and I pulled him to his feet, taking his sword when he offered it.
“Better luck next time,” I said.
He growled in disgust. “I need more practice.”
The trumpet blared again, and the herald shouted my name as the victor. Nigell trotted up, leading the horse I had just won. It was not impressive, but its sale would still bring decent silver. Gil gathered Gràsmhor’s reins, and we all went back to the recet. I would have some time before meeting the next man I had drawn, either Sir William, Earl of Ross, or Sir John Drummond of Stobhall. Who it would be depended on their match. I hoped it was Ross. His sneers at my bastardy when we were children no longer hurt, but I would still enjoy seeing him in the dirt.
I sent Nigell off with a few coins to bring us ale and three meat pies that we munched, standing near the gamblers and watching the matches. The afternoon passed with a bout called every quarter hour or so. Two men were carried on boards off the field. A couple limped off, and one broke his arm in a fall.
The sun was nearly halfway down the afternoon sky when the bout between Ross and Drummond was called. Both had ridden in tourneys in France and Flanders, so I was eager to see what I would be matched against. Ross rode out on a destrier, a heavy mount that few in Scotland chose to ride. They were not well suited to our lands, but it would give him an enormous advantage in a tourney unless Drummond rode one as well. A courser was faster and nimbler, but the force of a destrier could unhorse a contestant before nimbleness could come into play.
But Drummond rode out on a courser, a fine-looking mount, a sleek gray so light it was almost white. I thought it a pity the man would likely lose it to Ross.
The herald called out their names, and at the shrill of the trumpet, they thundered at each other. In the first clash, Drummond tilted his shield so that he did not take the full force of the blow. They galloped past each other, turned, and wheeled. This time Ross hit his opponent’s shield with a resounding crunch. The impact pushed the man backward over his high cantle. Drummond kicked to free his feet from his stirrups and crashed flat on his back. At least he had kept from being dragged, but the landing was graceless and hard.
The onlookers leapt to their feet with a roar. Drummond did not move, and his squire pelted to his side, dragging off his knight’s helm as two servants lugged boards out. Drummond rolled onto his side, still alive. The herald declared William of Ross the victor.
Gil raised his eyebrows at me, and I shrugged. I would be hard-pressed to win against him. He knew what he was doing and had a fearsome mount. Somehow, I would have to take advantage of my mount’s agility. I turned and walked, frowning, into the recet. There was no need to watch the next bout. After a moment, I sent Nigell running as fast as he could go to my room for one of my blunt practice weapons.
William Ross, Earl of Ross, cantered out of the recet on the opposite side as I hung an extra weapon from my pommel. To shouts and some cheers, I met him at the center where Dunbar was standing. He nodded amiably to both of us and called to the herald, “Announce that William of Ross and Sir William Douglas will contest the last trial.
His voice beginning to croak after a day of shouting, he announced us to the crowd. Will bellowed, “You can do it, Archie!” The crowd was in an uproar. A few even jumped up and down. Colban was pushing his way through the crowd to join Will, but he was not cheering. I shrugged the thought off.
Dunbar waved us away. I wheeled about and trotted to the far end of the field. I eyed Ross, erect, cuirass gleaming in the sun, as we waited at opposite ends of the field. The younger judge raised his hand and dropped it. The trumpet shrieked.
I dropped my lance into position and kicked my horse hard. It lunged, straining to reach a gallop. I pulled my shield hard against my chest as I focused on his shield, holding mine straight. Such a tempting target. Let him think I would use no strategy.
His shield got larger. And larger. I shifted to the left at the last second and angled my shield. With a squeal, his lance scraped across my shield. Chips of wood flew as my lance shattered. Even angled, his hit was like being struck by a boulder. My back whacked hard against the high cantle of my saddle. It was a good thing I did not plan to do that again. But what I would do could not be riskier.
Shouts and screams went up from the stands. Most jumped to their feet.
Already I had thundered past him. At the end of the field, I wheeled my horse in a tight circle. Gil held up a fresh lance, but I waved it away. He looked at me like I was crazed.
I unloosed my blunt battle axe from my pommel. When we closed, we both held steady to pass each other on the right so we could use our weapons. Ross hunkered down behind his shield, his lance steady. As his lance would have hit my shield, I leaned to the side and swung my axe. It swept his lance aside, whacking off the end of his lance like a tree branch as I passed. He screamed a curse at me.
My courser skidded to a churning stop, clods of dirt flying, as I used knees and reins to turn. Ross was hauling on his reins, trying to do the same. His heavy destrier was slow, not as nimble as Gràsmhor. By the time he had turned, I reached him. I swung the flat of my axe at his chest.
Ross caught the blow on his shield, but it rocked him. I rode to the end of the field and turned. He jerked his sword free and aimed it like a lance above his shield. Behind him, his squire, holding an undamaged lance, shouted and waved it in frustration.
I grinned as I rode at him. The fool had lost his temper. I leaned in. His sword scrapped across my arm as I hooked his shoulder with the spike on the back of my axe. Caught like a fish on a line, my momentum yanked him from his saddle.
He landed with a metallic crash.
I lowered my axe and waited. Ross lay still, one arm outflung and his sword a yard away. His horse thundered to the end of the field. His squire threw down the unused lance and ran, arms pumping, to his master. Ross lifted himself on one arm as his squire knelt beside him.
I waited. It was up to him what came next. His squire took him his sword. He threw it on the ground in defeat.
The audiences burst into cheers as the two judges rushed onto the field. Scowling, Dunbar demanded to see my axe, but he nodded when he saw it was blunt.
Standing in my stirrups, I held my axe up in triumph. The crowd screamed even louder. I could not stop grinning.
I made obeisance to the judges before riding to the recet tent where Will and Colban awaited, their faces grim. Still grinning, I demanded what was the to-do to make them look like pallbearers.
Colban rubbed his hand down his face. “A body were found outwith Netherbow Port—patches on his skin black as night.”
My body went cold.