He kept himself well away from the Mumbler’s notice over the following two days, so that he had a good chance of going to the tourney without some useless chore getting in the way. In truth, Pocket knew he would not have missed the tourney for anything and would simply have neglected any assigned task. Whatever punishment the Mumbler cooked up would be worth suffering to see the knights compete for Coalspur’s sword. During his years at the castle, Pocket had watched the squires train for endless hours, drilling in quarterstaff, sword, spear and mace. But a true combat between knights, sworn and spurred, was something he never dreamed would happen. Unlike the funeral, the tourney was open to all whose duties did not prevent them from attending. Pocket was out of the castle and down the mile or more to the field not long after the sun came up on the appointed day.

And now he waited.

He might have dozed on his rock, but it was too cold for sleep, so he sat and tried not to look at his bag of cakes. An eternity passed before the squires came marching down from the castle, all fifty of them, not a one passing up the chance to win glory for himself. Pocket stood when he caught sight of them on the road from the Roost. He took up a place right behind the rope and it was not long before a sizable crowd of humans from the neighboring villages packed in behind him and all around. He was jostled and pressed, but held firm to his spot, clutching the rope with both hands, the scratchy fibers rubbing against his chin.

The squires split into two equal groups and gathered on opposite sides of the field. Most bore mace and shield, but a fair number carried only their iron tipped quarterstaffs. The heads of the maces were smooth and round, covered in leather with neither flanges nor spikes, but they looked heavy and stout enough to drop an ox if swung with enough force. The squires wore their traditional skullcaps and quilted jerkins over hauberks of studded leather. Over this light protection each group wore colored surcoats, one side wore black, the other green. The two groups milled around, some joking at one another, others stood silent and focused. Pocket wondered if any of them were afraid. He would be. But knights, even would-be knights, were not small, like he was.

They were bold, courageous and trained at arms, eager to win their spurs and Coalspur’s sword. Pocket could never win that sword, but he was here and would see who did. He smiled and looked about to see if anyone shared his enthusiasm, but no one met his eye.