“It is,” Sir Corc nodded. “Moragh told me I would find you here.”

Pocket breathed a little easier and finally had the courage to look up. Sir Corc was unarmored, dressed in a long, grey woolen tunic, belted at the waist.

“Would you like an apple cake?” Pocket asked him.

Sir Corc approached and leaned against the low wall, shaking his head. “I would not take that which you fought so hard to keep.”

“I don’t mind sharing with you,” Pocket said. “And I offered to those boys, but they…” He broke off. He did not know what to say about them.

“They are cowards,” Sir Corc said flatly.

“They were not afraid of me,” Pocket said sadly. “They ran because you were here. I was scared of them even before they tried to take the cakes.”

“You were generous and courteous. And stood your ground, five to one. That is bravery worthy of a knight.”

Pocket could not keep the smile from his face. “Who will you fight in the tourney today? One of the squires who won the melee is very skilled, but you could best him. Do you think you will fight Bronze Wattle or the Dread Cockerel? Do you need help with your armor? I know how it all goes on. I studied the suits in the old armory. When is your first fight?”

Sir Corc looked off towards the tourney field, his comb moving slightly in the cold wind. “I will not be entering,” he said at last.

Pocket gaped at him. That could not be right. Why would he not want to fight? Surely he was not afraid! Even if there were no songs sung about him or tales told of his deeds, he was courageous and skilled and true.

“You must,” Pocket managed feebly. “I will cheer for you. It is the sword of Coalspur, surely…”

Sir Corc shook his head. “I do not need a tourney to tell me I am not worthy of that blade. Come, I shall escort you back to the combat grounds.”