The tourney fields were set up a good mile from the Roost. The rocky highlands of Albain were rarely cooperative when it came to expanses of flat ground and the Grand Master had asked leave of the Chief of the Dal Riata for the use of one of his larger grazing fields. The shaggy cattle were herded off, allowing the servants of the Order to set about the simple work of making the field ready for the contest. Colored pennants were hung from poles driven into the mud to denote the boundaries of the combat grounds, and a raised platform was constructed for the Grand Master and the Knights Sergeant so they might view the combats unobstructed. A separate, larger area was cordoned off with the same pennant poles for the squires’ melee. All in all, it was a drab affair; a damp field dotted with sad looking flags under an overcast sky, the Roost squatting gloomily atop its craggy perch in the distance.

Pocket was disappointed.

He had expected a grand festival of music and banners, amusing performers and sweets for sale. But the tourney it seemed was to be a dour event, unadorned and without fanfare. He walked around in the cold, moist air of the early morning and tried not to let the dreary surroundings dampen his excitement. What matter if there were no songs and banners? The knights would fight and that would be grand enough. As for sweets, Moragh had made him up a batch of apple cakes, fresh baked and well spiced. He carried them in a sack, desperately wanting to eat them, but holding off so that he would have them for the tourney. He had asked Moragh to come with him, but she balked at the prospect of a mile trip in the cold, only to have to walk the distance again on the return and uphill besides. So Pocket came down alone and paced about, bored.

The squires’ melee was still hours off and only a few servants were to be seen, making the final preparations to the fields by removing stones, shoveling cow droppings, spreading rushes and wood chips over the muddier patches in the grass and roping off the area designated for spectators. Pocket did not want to have his view blocked by the throng of mac Gabráin’s clan folk that were likely to attend the contest. Everyone would be taller, so Pocket stayed close by the tourney field, ready to claim a spot at the front, watching for when the crowds began to gather. He found a rock to sit on, up off the wet ground and settled in to wait, hoping it would not rain.