The field that was now hosting Sir Kortigern Hatch and Sir Pikard the Lucky. Sir Hatch was a large knight and young, but he acted as the Order’s standard bearer, eschewing the questing life for the humble, yet honorable duty. By contrast, Sir Pikard was getting long in years and might have served as one of the Knights Sergeant had he not stubbornly refused to leave the Errantry life behind. The fight lasted longer than the first, but Sir Pikard’s title did not prove true and he was forced to yield when his tourney sword snapped in two.

Pocket looked again in the direction of the other fights and scowled when he saw the pale boy who had attacked him sitting atop a man’s shoulders. The boy’s face was full of wonder and awe, a broad smile on his face as he watched some glorious duel from his high vantage; a duel hidden from Pocket’s view by distance and a teeming mass of legs and backsides.

Rumors began circulating through the crowd that Bronze Wattle had just defeated Banyon Deaf Crower in the opposite field and the White Noble was made to yield by one of the squires! Pocket listened with growing apprehension. He was missing it! All the best fights were happening without him! He lived with the knights, he knew of them and their deeds. These unwashed humans were just here for the sport with no notion of what they were witnessing. It was unfair! Pocket thought about pushing his way out of this crowd and finding a way to get close to the other field where the true feats of the day were being performed. But what if he could not get through? What if the people barred his way or accused him of picking pockets as they had done before? He would lose his only spot and not see anything at all and the day would be ruined.

A hearty cheer mixed with laughter went up from the people around him and Pocket turned back to his chosen tourney ground. A smile broke his face. Maybe this was not such a bad place to be after all.