James woke to the ugly growl of a fearsome sergeant, “Awake, ya scabs! Awake, ya foreleign sluts!”

In harmony with the grumbling men about him, the Scottish knight shuddered when his feet first touched the cold slate floor. He wondered what dim fool had built this chilly excuse of a barracks in a forest full-wide of warm oak. In his mind’s eye, he could see some scheming Master of the Order positing that a chilly floor upon dawn’s break would lead to chaste bodies and cleansed souls. James, son of Halpert, chuckled for his first desire had been to curl up within his sheets…

The shivering knight felt a sting and then whack against his shoulders ere words reached his ears, “Out, out, you foreign fairy, no wool gathering here, no poppy picking!”

James fought urge to stand and face his new nemesis, the Vigil Sergeant of Lauds. The pudgy, slapadash soldier was quick with stick and used it at every opportunity, acceptable or not.

Already the Sergeant had forgot him for now the fat man pounced upon a lazy young squire still enblanketed. The grotesque Sergeant grabbed the youth in bear-hold and ripped him from bed.

“Best to dress ere he notices you again,” a kindly, bush-bearded knight spoke from cot opposite.

James nodded in thanks as he donned leggings and doublet. He looked the length of the room, sixty-odd boys and men ranged the room filling every spare bed. The room was near on a weaponry. The Vigil Sergeant had nerve unlimited to challenge capable men with a rough-hewn stick when swords, halberds, pikes were within a man’s reach.

As if his thoughts were overheard, the Sergeant yelled out at men still a-bed, “Who dares to flaunt Lauds Sergeant? Who dares to flaunt Todd Packer?”

At these words, the Scottish knight fair laughed, for what sad wench upon birthing this fat lump had thought such name fitting? With little heed, Halpert called out, “Och, you are a wily fox, indeed, and pack a poor man’s wallop.”

Those not in vicinity of the Vigil Sergeant’s stick laughed at the jest which led the blustering man to laying blows about him thick and fast. With bruises and curses, the knights scattered before his onslaught.

Once quit of the insufferable Packer’s sphere, James returned to the Temple's Priory to meet his holy friend, Tobias, as agreed they yesternight. The stench of the stables hung heavy in the office. This pleased the two men greatly. If stink could keep away eager ears and gossiping tongues, then may there always be stink.

Tobias knelt before the cross, deep in solemn prayer lest stranger pass and look within. He looked not upon his well-armed friend as he queried in the sing-song voice of prayer, “Didst though enter the lists?”

James gave pause, remembering the vows and oaths sworn, “Aye. I am now these three days run under the rule of the Order of Knights Templar. I am sworn to be obedient to their rules, chaste, and pious before God.”

The Prior of Inchmahome closed eyes and followed the third of the nine stances of prayer as extolled by the good Saint Dominic. With his prized rosary tightly clutched in hand, he spoke again, “Did Roy of Nuneaton also give oath?”

The Scottish knight shifted uneasily, he liked not the way this conversation did tend, “Och, aye.” In a heated rush, he told his doubts, “But to these Englishmen, I think these words mean little. For one of their very knights, Ryan of Ireland, has proven he disregards such sacred vows.”

At this revelation, his companion’s tonsured head merely nodded, “Aye, I have heard they take the vows of Poverty, yet…fine horseflesh, master-worked armor, bejeweled weapons…”

The Scottish knight sighed. He wished he were back amongst his Scotch troops, wearing common kilt and preparing for battle, true to vows that ensured victory and honor. “They make great noise about this tournament, the prize is vast.”

The holy man sneered, “What good is such a prize for a man who has accepted poverty as his lot? The prize we seek is greater.” Both crossed themselves upon these words. In Aberfoyle, every life and every hearth depended upon the winning of this contest.

“How stand you amongst the…” Tobias asked timidly. He knew it was God’s will that James win this tournament but human weakness made him question his Lord’s decree.

The knight looked away in shame, “I have not the skill with bow that these men have. Sword is their strength and I shall be hard-pressed, but if the blessed Lord aids…. I am a match for any man in polearm.”

These were worrisome words for his friend, “The English are famed for their use of the longbow and those unwieldy….” Tobias could not recall the name of the large sword they used. They were seen little in his land and considered passing strange.

“Aye,” James agreed nervously. Echoes resounded from the shuffling of his feet as steel hit marble, “I hear tell there is another from the Highlands, I have seen him not. And there be some from foreign lands. By God’s good grace, I will fight them in the first rounds and, thus, trounce handily. If so, my final opponent may be wearied from battle with more capable men…”

“Let us pray for God’s intercession,” Tobias aided James in kneeling that they might pray in Dominic’s fourth stance. With left hand pressed to heart, each raised right hand to the heavens and begged for guidance.

As his knees began to protest his armor’s weight, the Scottish knight spoke aloud the prayer to St. Michael, patron of warriors, “Crux sacra est mihi…”

Inauspicious was the raising of the Balsall flag to mark the tournament’s open. The dye had run in the making and thus the white field of the Temple’s flag bled a ruby red cross. Spirits were revived as the Priests laid the arrows upon the arena’s blocks, and the crowd did cheer in anticipation.

Archery was the least of the knight’s arsenal. It was considered the coward’s way to kill a man, be he pawn or minion. It was acknowledged in theory, if not in practice, that the longbow be used only in battles of overwhelming odds. Whittling down a flood of enemy before the more noble hand-to-hand combat was acceptable, if not gallant. To kill an equal with bow was akin to knifing as they slept, a villain’s strategy and not keeping with the way of the Lord.

Next to parade across the arena’s packed earth came the Master of the Knights Hospitallar. It was great honor that he stood on these grounds. He had traveled long distance from Hertfordshire and carried with him the Bow given to the Knights by Queen Matilda herself in long off time. Its great age made it near impossible to draw, but all who touched it were said to be lucky in the way of archery.

As each knight entered the lists, first they did touch of Queen Matilde’s Bow and then they took up the yew selected for them by the Keeper of the Lists.

James waited his place watching these first challengers when he spied Aethelinda standing near the list’s corral. He made way through the crowd of hopeful combatants, thus losing his spot, and asked her eagerly, “You bring me news?”

She smiled coyly at his eagerness and pressed forth a small bundle of herbs. “I have brought you a tussy mussy to wish you luck this day.”

Around him, he heard sniggers and realized that bored knights awaiting their turns openly watched this ‘tryst’. He looked down at her long, bronzed fingers clasping the spray of ivy, vervain, and other greenery. The Scottish knight fought an urge to sneeze at the competing scents, “I thank you. Where sit you and your retinue?”

Aethelinda ignored the question as she pressed the greenery into his hands. Her excitement could not be diluted by his cold thanks. He looked most noble in his armor and she saw he carried the shield of the Beasleys as promised her father. With high spirits, she spoke in her most refined voice, “A corpsage for courage!”

His face plainly spoke that he thought her daft. She worried she had misused the word. With red face, she explained, “Corpsage. ’Tis from a French song I learned it well last Eastertide in Coventry. It means a tussy mussy for your chest.” With hungry eyes, she looked upon his chest, “For your body…corpus-age.”

“Ah,” he said simply as he continued to hold the corpsage limply in his hand, “These French dress fair strange.” She held her tongue for over his greaves he wore his patterned kilt.

Aethelinda pressed on further, “Each leaf means a different thing, as you know?”

In consternation, he lifted up the leaves that already lay crushed in his steel gauntlet.  She tried not to appear distressed as she told him the meanings, “There is vervain which gives you vigour and long life. This herb here,” She pointed at some limp parsley, “’tis wilted, but still, means ‘victory’.” She pointed to another leaf of what looked like fennel, “I found these this morn; it means ‘Worthy of Praise’…”

James scratched his beard, “Worthy of Praise? How can that be? Fennel means that not in heraldry. There must be a story to explain as your sister Philomena’s story of her name and the nightingale.”

Aethelinda looked aggrieved, and in the looking, reminded him of his Pam’s low-cast face when he told the tale of James the Reever. Relenting he spoke, “I thank you though. Luck need be with me this day, for there are many a fine warrior amongst this crew.”

At these words, the dark-haired girl leaned over the barricade to kiss him full round his lips. The son of Halberd felt blush as he endured the jeers and taunts of his armored audience.

“For luck,” she sang before fetchingly whisking up her skirts and, near skipping, ran pellmell to the benches. As the men about him whistled and called out words of praise, he followed her with his eyes to see whereon she might join her friends. With great displeasure he discovered the bench she shared was filled with all her Warborough companions save Philomena.

Disgruntled, he thrust her bouquet into his sporran and turned to push his way back towards the lead of the pen’s gate.

His anger had not died by the time of his turn. He touched Queen Matlide’s Bow quickly for she was no queen of his. He wished instead he could touch his fair Philomena’s bow lips. As he took up the yew, he regretted those thoughts as they were not thoughts of the chaste. He asked pardon of the men about him and spoke words of prayer before taking up green-fletched arrow. The crowd grew restless at his slow pace and shouted words of mockery regarding his dress and manner.

He smiled for the taunts reminded him of the battlefields of Dunbar. Once again the English mocked and, once again the Scots would prevail. This he knew. Taking up foreign arrow, he drew back and shot true.

With second arrow, he imagined twere pixie’s arrow and the target be the eldest Beasley daughter’s heart. He let fly and it sheared well. No more was heard from the crowd.

Choosing third arrow, he imagined it were the Fairy Queene’s arrow which would pierce the loutish Roy’s heart that he might forget any love he might have for his betrothed. With nimble fingers, James let fly this last arrow and it struck true and fast.

The Scottish knight stood in stunned amaze and thought ‘Would that the prize were Philomena’s hand and Roy of Nuneaton’s head!’

In the festooned Priests’ stands, the visiting Scottish prior lifted eyes skyward to praise God for this miracle. He alone knew that round Aberfoyle, James, son of Halpert, was famed a poor shot. None need know that the boy’s squint whilst sighting a dozen yard had ignobly removed him as apprentice from the Hunter’s Guild. If prophecy rang true, Tobias wouldst repair this insult and request the knight be made honorary Master of the Hunt.

James ignored praise and well-meets as he removed himself from the contest grounds. He thought not on the Hunter’s Guild, Aberfoyle, or even on the prophecy that so tightly bound him. The Scottish knight’s thoughts were upon his next conquest. The unsharpened swords lay in bundles near the charter house and he had in mind to buy salve for soothing tightened muscles. He wondered who kept watch at Warborough’s herb stall…