The trumpets had sounded, and courageous knights had answered their call, prepared to stand their trial by sword. The tournament crowd had swollen; all able bodied stood upon benches circled round the arena. Even the infirm lay in the shade of Chancery to watch the noblest of weapons put to test. The cheering reached deafening levels as squires brought forth bundles of wooden swords. In ranks five deep, the knights stood preparatory for their name call.

James looked to the seats of honor and nodded to the good priest Tobias. The Scotsmen exchanged nervous glance. It was well known that the English were terrors with gladius and sword. Tobias made small sign, a blessing upon his kinsman.

A herald, festooned in ribbons and hard cloth, opened parchment in the center of the lawn and the crowd grew quiet. The first of the lists had been drawn by lot and now the names could be called.

“Hark the lists!” The herald’s shout was loud and commanding, “Eight pairs shall level off in marked squares! With wooden sword you canna draw blood! Victory is insured when one drops his sword! The first disarmed in the opening rounds shall forfeit all further trial. Five shall thus be forfeited. Five more shall be chosen based on ranking for dismissal at end of this day’s final contest.

Rumbling could be heard amongst the knights. This was unwelcome news. Many had hoped points won in the archery trial would hold them steady through to the joust. Halpert himself felt unease at this news. He hoped dearly that he would be partnered with one of the youths, still weak of limb and unsure of pommel’s balance.

The Herald repeated the rules of Chivalry before stating the prize, “Three victors shall be chosen for laurels. Each along with the three victors from this morn shall join the great Master of the Knights Hospitaller for High Meal in the Chancery.” The crowd swelled in noise as clapping and cheers drowned out further words.

Gingerly, Halpert’s steel-covered fingers drew bay leaves from the sporran at his belt. He lifted the favor to his lips for kiss as he scanned the crowd in hopes of catching her eye. She had promised to watch a round of combat ere returning to her herb stall. Tasting fennel, James looked down in disgust to see Aethelinda’s posy. Away from him he threw the bouquet to be trod upon by other armored heels. Frantic, he searched his pouch for the bay leaves that had fallen from her hand. A sigh of relief escaped him as he plucked a limp bay from the bottom of the sporran. With a kiss and a smile, he set the lucky charm upon his tongue.

“….Balsall’s champion, who shall meet in square with Sir James Halpert, Warborough’s champion.” Startled by the herald’s call of his name, James pushed through the ranks to choose his weapon from the trestles. All the swords looked equal well-made except one that was water-warped. He balanced three in hand before choosing a fourth.

A squire led him to the fifth square, close near to Chancery and full distance from the corral of awaiting combatants. James smiled in pleasure. With hope and luck, the eyes of the throng would be upon other skirmishers.

The smile quickly disappeared as he watched the knight who approached. Twas none other than the sergeant of his morning displeasure. The Lauds Sergeant himself, Todd Packer.

“Har! Har! They have allowed women amongst the ranks, I see,” Todd Packer shouted so loud and vulgarly that all eyes turned their way.

The Scottish knight examined the flat of his sword for knots or hairlines. He kept his eyes steady and his tongue silent.

Todd Packer was not one to leave a joke so fast, “Tell me, girly, how will it feel to lay at my feet with my sword at your neck?”

Halpert whispered, “The only successful means you’ve found to bed a woman, I warrant.”

His whisper had been heard. The pot-bellied knight crowed, “Ha! A woman lies atop Packer nightly. I am a prize that all wish to attain.”  Several score of the crowd whistled and shouted at these bold words and many a lady blushed.

James looked with dismay at the offended women with their averted eyes and reddened cheeks. “Och, aye,” he said in thick accent, “You are plump enough to make good stew for any who hunger, but the price sounds too dear to warrant the meal.”

More would have been said, as the crowd cheered on the insults, but the herald’s trumpet had sounded and the battles began. The Lauds Sergeant was livid at the quick wordplay of the foreign knight. Sir Packer’s sword, well-trained in the veteran’s hands, went directly for the Scotsman’s heart.

With the Warborough shield, James was able to still the blow but the shock of the fat man’s strength knocked Halpert back three paces. Cheers went up for the local hero upon this first strong attack.

Halpert caught breath and circled his opponent. Todd Packer had no desire for such dallying. He brought sword down to crash upon the crown of Halpert’s head. James ducked neath the Sergeant’s arm and jabbed his sword at the Packer’s exposed underplating.

In fury, the fat knight bellowed and wrenched away from his precarious position. When he turned back to battle, the Scottish knight stood stock still as if in contemplation. The Sergeant took advantage of the moment and brought sword roughly round to hit Halpert across his undefended belly. With his bastard sword, he would have eviscerated, but with tournament wood there was only the clanging and ringing of oak upon metal.

As Todd Packer’s sword arm swung across the Scottish knight’s breastplate, James’ own sword followed. Even while the Laud Sergeant grunted in pleasure at his good strike, Halpert’s sword smashed the back of Packer’s gauntlet, snapping bone and breaking wrist. With a cry of surprise, the wooden sword fell from the fat man’s limp hand.

A squire called stop and the Herald announced, “Sir Todd Packer falls, Sir James Halpert of Warborough takes first round.”

James stood near the Chancery with the other victors from his round. They were all engrossed in the combatants now on the field, sizing up future opponents.

The Scottish knight had black heart and black eyes, but not for the battling knights upon the field. Indeed, he was most upset at a conversation nearby. A woman’s voice could be heard,“I was ever so worried! When he drew up his sword, I thought it would be the final blow!”

And then came the odious, gloating voice, “Huh! I had him the minute he walked in the ring. I could see there was bruising on his shoulder last night and so first I hit him hard upon that spot and then…”

“Oh!” The girl’s voice registered disgust and James could not help but glance to see Philomena’s reaction to her betrothed’s admitted evil act. He saw she looked away from Roy, shamed by his words. She only repeated, “Oh!” but in his heart, James knew what she truly said, ‘You are a great beast and I hate you and I despise you and I wouldn’t marry you if you owned all the shires in England!’ How the blackness in his heart melted at her simple ‘Oh!’

Roy continued on, unawares, describing his crowning victory and how he'd won several bets placed upon the outcome. James stared fixedly at the ribbon tied to the pixane at Roy of Nuneaton’s neck. It was a pale red ribbon and yesternoon it had wend itself round Philomena’s waist. The taste of bay upon James’ tongue could not hide the hint of bile that had risen in his throat.

“I must return to my wares,” Pam pleaded as Roy began to describe the time he slew his Uncle’s thane with the very same move. “God’s luck upon your hand,” she spoke quickly to forestall him. With half-curtsy, she moved away towards the market square. Roy with self-satisfied smile returned to watching the tournament so that he might call out advice and ridicule the less fortunate.

James saw possible opportunity and circled the Chancery that he might come, by chance, upon the girl. He swung sword as if practicing, and thus, innocent of intent.

“Why! Sir Halpert!” Philomena’s hand had moved to her breast in surprise.

“Why, Lady Philomena!” Smiling, he looked briefly towards the tournament ground before saying in slight accusing voice, “Why are you not in the stands? Do you not wish to encourage your betrothed?”

With guilty look, she clasped her hands together, “Oh, he…” The girl stepped closer. “Sometimes I don’t understand… Roy isn’t….”

The Scottish knight stopped breathing. He saw his hand move of its own accord. No power of his controlled it. His steel-encased fingertips lightly touched her face, gliding down her cheek. “I know…. He does not deserve…” He watched as her eyes widened and her lips parted. His head bent, hers lifted….      

When the Knight James Halpert, Champion of Warborough, was called for the second trials, a squire was sent to locate him. There was jeering around the arena for he had kept the crowd waiting, a grievous sin.

His opponent sneered as James entered. With condemning finger, he pointed at the shield upon the Scottish knight’s strong right arm. The young Knight Templar questioned, “Be you a knight of Warborough?”

“Aye,” Halpert said calmly. His mind was elsewhere.

The young knight openly mocked, “Warborough is not famed for their fencing schools.”

Halpert smiled, “Nor is Balsall.”

Their fight was in earnest and lasted three-quarters an hour after all others had been decided. The two fighters were well-matched. The Knight Templar, though young and green in the way of blood, was well trained and well suited to the sword. The Scottish Knight, upon the other hand, was in love.

Love won to the groans and moans of the crowd. They had wished the young Knight Templar to defend the honor of Balsall. The Herald’s next words upset the crowd, “Sir John Brookstone falls, Sir James Halpert of Warborough takes second round.” Scattered boos echoed across the arena but were quickly drowned out by the cheering of the Warborough faction.

The third bout of the afternoon brought forth a dangerous opponent for the wearied Scotsman. His wooden sword was heavy and sweat still stained his brow from the last bout. He had no desire to meet this new menace.

His challenger was a German knight sent as envoy from the Emperor to the King of England’s court. The German envoy had learned upon reaching Maidenhead that the English King was rumored to be visiting the Welsh territories and so, single-minded in purpose, the German knight had come hither in hopes of interception.

His pursuit had thus far been in vain, but he had done his Emperor one service. All counties hereabout walked in fear of this man’s martial skill. He knew arts most strange. Indeed, there were those that said he was a black mage straight from Satan’s court, given a death-dealing sword in exchange for his very soul.

Count Dwide von Schrude wore all black to terrify his enemies. He never smiled, for a smile showed weakness. His Satan-spawned sword was made of Toledo steel and legend said it could not lose in battle.

Halpert, having heard such rumors as they sped through the barracks, was very glad a wooden sword hung awkwardly in the Count’s hand. “Nice sword,” the Scottish knight said conversationally.

“Thanks…” the Count looked down to admire the silver polish of his Toledo…  Von Schrude’s head jerked up in shock. “This is a baby’s sword!” He waved the wooden sword clumsily in front of Halpert’s face.

James shrugged, “Suits you.”

The Count let out a sound not unlike a child spitting up porridge, “Dolt! Do you know who I am?”

“No.” The Scottish knight looked interested, “Who are you?”

Dwide was seriously taken aback, “I am Baron Dwide von Schrude, Count of Neider-Isenberg, and envoy from the Emperor!”

“Isenberg… Isenberg….Hmmm…. Never heard of it,” James waved blithely at some children in the stands.

Dwide’s face took on an apoplectic hue, “Never heard of it! Of course you’ve heard of it! Everyone’s heard of it! Surely you know pretenders to the throne are trying to foment rebellion among the people by renaming it Lower Isenberg! Everyone knows that!”

James looked intrigued, “Foment rebellion? Against you?”

“Yes! NO!” Dwide had not noticed the heralds sounding the trumpets for battle to commence, “Against the Emperor himself! I have told them that the Imperial Diet says in the black ink of the Emperor’s very own hand…” He followed this with a very quiet, “Well, in his scribe’s hand…” before he raised his voice again in righteous anger, “that it is known as Neider-Isenberg! If I had not been sent here on this important mission for the Emperor, I would be now slitting the throat of every villein who dared to speak the words ‘Lower Isenberg’!”

As the Count stormed and threatened, James casually knocked the wooden sword out of the German’s hand.

And now only six remained. The final battle of the day and the crowd, burnt from sun and hungry for even’ meal yelled for blood. Down to the arena came priests to bless the ground once more and give special blessings to sword and man.

Tobias came to James side and whispered, “This battle is o’er. Save strength for the morrow. The Red Knight fell to the strange Scotsman’s sword.”

“And how stands Roy of Nuneaton?” James searched the remaining combatants for Roy.

“He fell in his second battle, I forget to whom,” the priest held up his wooden cross that James might kiss.

As he did so, Halpert examined the stands for Roy or the Red Knight and failing to find, looked with distress towards the market. “Go you to Warborough’s stall and keep close watch upon the Beasley girl,” he ordered.

Tobias looked most unwilling, “Do you fear for her safety?”

James with mastering voice answered the question not, “Go, while heads are focused on the lists. Soon Vespers will be upon us and your absence noted.”

With solemn step and devout posture, the priest left the knight’s side.

The Herald of the Field marched out upon the grass.  He announced in a loud, resonant voice, “The six to contend stand forth. Knight of the Order, Robert Mounford of Balsall….” a great cheer arose as the recently returned hero from Jerusalem walked to his designated square.  “…Champion of Balsall and Knight of the Realm.” The Herald paused to let the shouts and clapping of his fellow Englishmen die down.

Finally, the crowd settled that the Herald might continue. “He shall meet in battle the Knight of the Order, Sir Alan Marcell of Berkshire, Champion of Bisham and Knight of the Realm.” The audience was visibly disappointed. They had wanted Robert Mounford to trounce one of the two foreigners who still sullied the lists.

Their prayers were answered in the Herald’s next breath, “Squires, mark. To the middle square. The Knight, James Halpert of…” The Herald could not make out the name Aberfoyle upon his parchment. “…of Scotland. Champion of Warborough.” The excited clapping of the small group neath the Warborough flag was noted and slight cheering was heard round the arena.

The Herald bowed in direction of Warborough’s flag before he continued, “He shall meet in battle the Knight, His Royal Highness, Michael Scott of Scotland. Champion of…. Scotland.”  There was a touch of disdain in the herald’s voice as he read out these words.

James rued that of all the knights he might challenge, it was to the deranged Michael Scott he must lose.

“Well, well! Well met,” the self-called Scotch Royal struck out hand to wish luck. “Now see you, the plaster has done wonders. I am in the final round!”

The smell of mustard and onions was strong and Halpert wondered if the other contestants had fallen due to strong hunger. “Well met,” Halpert nodded as Michael Scott made practice swings in the air with his bent sword.

“Watch close, young scallion,” Sir Michael ordered.

Halpert raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Scallion?”

The elder knight paused in mid-twirl, “Oook, as you say, I forget myself. Of course, newly steeped in fair Albion’s muck…Uhm. Homer. The Odes. As he did say, you are newly here, and unknowing of the language. Stick close, young knight. I will teach you the ways of… fair Albion.” Michael Scott’s arms opened wide to suggest all was available for the learning.

With tongue in cheek, Halpert murmured, “Thank you. I thought… Is not a scallion a type of onion?” James wondered if the odor of onion and mustard had anything to do with Scott’s misspeaking.

Sir Michael laughed uproariously, “You think of leeks. The best leeks in all of Christendom can be found not thirty leagues away. The town of Coventry reeks of leeks! Indeed a village nearby is called Leek-on-the-Wold and I didst take leak in their Wolds! Ha! Ha! HA!” With each ‘Ha!’ Michael swung his sword in wide arc nearly hitting the squire who kept watch.

James was pleased to hear the Herald’s trumpet. No further comment upon onions would be necessary.

His Royal Highness Michael Scott took battle position. “Good luck to us both, son, but more to me because I’m Royalty. Oh! Look! Your trousers have fallen! Oh my!” He began giggling madly which made his blows quite ineffectual.