Philomena deftly intertwined leaves to make a handsome bay leaf crown worthy of any victor. Her fingers worked mindlessly for her thoughts were upon the shouts and jeers of the distant crowd. From her wooden booth, she could just see snatchs of movement beyond the gaily painted stalls. She well knew that a great cheer would never be heard for her Roy, lest of all for a foreign Scotsman. Irregardless of such reasoning, her heart raced madly when the distant crowd grew boldly loud.

As daughter of the lord, it was her duty to watch the contents of the stall, and more particular, keep watch upon the lazy blacksmith. When the clash of metal upon metal stilled, she would glance o'er to insure Kenric was still at his labors, stoking the fire or shining steel with leather strop. Sullen, Kenric may be, but with each tine he straightened, each shoe he cured, those were hard won pennies in the thin purse of Warborough.

Stanley, her good and true servant, filled forge with constant oak. No battle would tempt this man from such a sure farthing. With a woodsman’s forethought, he had chopped a goodly amount of birch to start the fires burning hot and now the heat was near stifling. Excellent neighbors for those who apply hot mustard and ladle healing soups.

A great shout came from distant arena and Kenric looked hungrily up towards the ruckus. Two copper of his were bet already and he none the wiser how the chosen man did aim. With hand raised to beseech a moment's rest, he turned to plead with his hard mistress.  Startled he was to see Philomena’s wistful look, her crown of leaves left forgotten upon the stall’s wide counter.

A smile crossed Kenric’s brutish lips. He stood to realize 25 copper from Darryl of Coventry if the eldest Beasley and Roy of Nuneaton did not wed. Prior day, Kenric had watched with pleasure her constant companion as they traversed from Warborough to Balsall. He had stuck close to the bastard Roy and kept him from seeing his sweetheart's flirtatious ways. Kenric's joy grew greater when, drawing poker from forge, he spied the selfsame Scottish knight approaching from yonder market street.

No custom they had seen upon these roads since the horns blew to open the Balsall Tournament. For this reason alone, Philomena looked no longer towards the empty village, all were at the arena. She was thus much surprised by the Scotsman’s bold greeting, “Hail, Philomena of Warborough!”

The girl jumped in surprise, scattering bay leaves to the ground. She turned to see the son of Halberd at her booth’s back. Clutching her throat to control unsteady pulse, she begged forgiveness, “Pardon, sir. With the clanging of the blacksmith, I heard not your approach.” 

The Scottish knight came round her booth to lean upon the smooth counter. He spoke with good humor, “Apologize not. My dear Ma oft said I walked with fairy feet. Even armor clad, I am a stealthy guard.” 

Philomena smiled and looked down upon her hands shyly, “How goest the…” 

“Och, well. Fair well. I did better than hoped, but less than desired,” James gently ran his armored fingers through the pile of bay leaves upon the counter plank. 

She laughed, “Oh, did you not hit center mark thrice? Tis right hard. But how stand you? Do you make the cut?” 

“Fear not, I made center mark thrice. Twas my desire to have a friend there to cheer me. Why stand you here all alone?” As he spoke, the Scotsman removed his gauntlets that he might aid Philomena in collecting the errant leaves that lay scattered. In quiet, they collected leaves neither noticing Kenric’s sudden decision for quiet activity. Just now he polished horseshoes that they might gleam upon the dirt.

Philomena broke silence, “Should you not be in the lists?” 

“Nae,” he leaned once more upon the ledge. “I have finished well. I have no worry for my rank. I spoke with the Herald's Squire, a good fellow. The call for the swords will be after the Sext. Two score knights still wait their showing at bow.” 

Philomena raised eye, she liked not his hubris. In warning tone, she admonished, “Two score knights! They might be eagle-eyed and drop your rank.”  

James laughed at her haughtiness, “I am fierce competition for them then for I eat eagle for snack and each does quake in terror at my bootstep.” 

“Pfff” was all the girl replied before once again taking up bay leaves to wrap a lordly crown. 

“It pleases me to see you make my winner’s laurel,” he winked as she looked up at his words. 

Philomena set down the bay leaves abruptly, “Shouldst you not be practicing with thine sword to prepare for this day’s event?” 

With obliging hand, he drew out his sword and laid it down upon the plank betwixt them. “Tis a fearsome thing,” he sagely nodded. 

She sniffed, “Ooooh, aye. Ever so. I hear tell it has killed many a dog and earthworm.” 

The Scottish knight's laugh was contagious and even the eavesdropping Stanley smiled. James pointed at her in mock accusation, “You forget the monsters of the night that lay hid neath my niece’s croft!” 

Philomena’s face softened and with careful finger she ran nail along the length of the sword. “Tis well-cast, no pocks or fissures.” 

James looked upon her distrustfully, “Mmm, just a sword, lass. If you wish to see a fine made, handle my steady pole.” He took up the sword once again, “How comes a lord’s needle-working daughter to know the secrets of sword-casting?” 

She licked her lips in embarrassment and shyly admitted, “Gainst my will, tis true. My betrothed is enamored of the sport and talks endlessly. To improve my…” She paused, unsure, “My father gave me lessons that I might prove more…” She could not glance at the knight as she spoke. She liked not how grasping her family looked in this light. 

Grimly, he replied, “Tis waste. Empty your head of it. Tis a plague for a maiden to have such knowledge.” 

Philomena looked up in teasing surprise, “Oh, no, good sir. Tis helpful. Imagine if by spell or syrup, I became a boy! Aye, a boy, who squires a Scottish knight on quest to kill a dragon!” 

James saw she jested and so played the fool to make her laugh, “Och, you have me there. For I remember tell of such a tale. T’were a most famous story and perchance I shall tell you some day…” 

“Ock! Perchance? Perchance?” Philomena hid her laughing behind her hands, “Are you now Englishman with your ‘perchance’? Ock, Ock!” 

Ruefully, the Scottish knight looked up to the billowy clouds for clever retort against her rebuke of his magpie tongue, “Och, you sound like a choking crow with your ocks and ocks. If you be Scotch, you need more…” 

James was startled out of speech by a new voice. A deep baritone did speak, “Be I Scotch? Damn me, if I be not!”

Philomena and James spun to see a most magnificent knight standing proudly before the blacksmith. The knight was dressed in verily armor beauteous. The silver and gold breastplate was embossed with a snaky medusa of a most homely aspect. Upon his greaves, dragons held aloft the rubies of his kneecaps. The helm he carried was topped with not one, not two, but six plumes of cornflower blue. His belt housed three scabbards for he boasted tuck, dirk, and arming sword for protection. Jewels shone upon pommels, guards, and medallions. 

Philomena grabbed James’ hand in wonder and gave him look of prodding insistence. Closing his fingers round his newly-won prize, he accepted her commission and turned to the man who had so rudely intruded upon their conversation, “Sir, perchance you be of the Highlands?” He bit lip to hide his smile as Philomena’s light laughter reached his ear. 

“Teats true! Ha ha! Do you see the jest? Teats, aye? Ha ha! Indeed, I am of the Great Royal House of Scotland as you see from my….” The stranger looked about himself in dismay, “My shield, my shield, has any seen my shield?” He began to pat himself as if it may have attached itself to him leech-like. 

Kenric held aloft the stranger’s over-worked tower shield to display the crude Scottish Gryphon in rampant form. The bedecked knight cried, “Ah yes! 5 gold piece to affix my newly purchased medallion. Token of the Knights Hospitallar!”

He turned with confident air back to the son of Halberd, “I am Michael Scot and ahoy! I see you wear the skirts of the Scottish! Very festive! I would wear mine but I misplaced them in one of my London palaces. And who’s the girl with the pretty tittes?” 

James stepped forward to place himself before the strange man and thus hide the defenseless Philomena. Angrily, he spoke, “You speak not like any man I’ve known Highland borne.” 

“Ah, right. Ha ha! Clever!” The knight Scot bowed slightly in the direction of James. “Well hit! Ha ha! I see thou are as good with thine bow as thee are with thy… strike me!” He pushed his way through the thin air to look upon the bowls lining Philomena’s counter, “Do you sell magic potions? I have need of…” here he whispered, “I have a ferocious cut and fear I canna fight if it tis not cured in time.” Michael held out his hand and removed glove that Philomena might see his wound. 

Philomena bent near and with bemused voice answered, “I see no cut, nor wound, nor any…”

She was stopped midspeech by the rude knight, “Tis there, as plain as the nose upon my face!” Hereupon Michael did try to look upon his own nose, with no good result. 

“This patch of red?” James pointed to the heel of Michael’s thumb. 

Michael winced though naught but air had touched it, “Ooooh, careful! Tis a seething wound and the slightest touch is agony!” 

James looked upon the man as if demented, “I touched it not. Look, tis only where you gripped sword’s pommel.”  

“That’s how it begins!” Michael moaned as he grasped aching hand to the medusa's face, “First the rash, then the profusion of blood, and finally…. death.” He looked upon his death-dealing hand aggrievedly. 

Philomena laughed, “Ock! I have just the balm for such a wound. Tis made of a very rare herb which only a child of five seasons may pick on a ruby half-moon’s night. For 5 gold, I shall apply the plaster.”