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By Root 2634 0

way (for the Shepherdess) down a short queue of ravening seducers. One of those waiting was Henry, on his favoured agile, small horse, now lathered with sweat. Wodman was another, along with Leithie Preston, whose wife had once been married to Tam Cochrane’s brother. There were one or two friendly masons, clearly designing a happy bash at their fellows. There were some hammermen, including Will Tor of Tor, whose forebear had been a Royal Mint warden. Coiners had been popular contestants in tourneys for as far back as the time of the King’s father. It seemed appropriate now, on an occasion to celebrate money. And, lastly, there was the odd bailie from the Knights of St John, who had a lot of property to defend, and liked to keep their reflexes supple. The Lord Precentor’s bastard was one of them. That is, one of the Lord Precentor’s bastards was one of them.

The trumpets blew, the Cochranes pranced forward, blunted swords in the air, and the contest began.

By this time, a lot of drink had gone round, and the spectators were boisterous. Beside Nicholas, the old man held aloof but Simpson engaged with his neighbours in a stream of light witticisms, invariably critical. His remoter neighbours responded, but Nicholas failed to contribute, although he appreciated the old man’s occasional grunt of explosive disgust. Under other circumstances, he might even have goaded St Pol into making some comment, but the standard of fighting was not high enough to interest an expert: the disgust, he well knew, was against Simpson. He wondered how good the old man had really been. Simon, his son, had once been a professional jouster. None of them fell off their horses.

The Cochranes, used to rough sport, were doing remarkably well. Tam had seen off two bailies, and Dob got rid of a liner and accidentally cut the face of a very small flesher on a big horse that got excited at the blood on the sand and lashed out at a sheep. The sheep lay on its back, complaining, until the Shepherdess strode forward and, lifting it in both muscular arms, handed it to a young page, who dropped it. Meanwhile Dob had felled the flesher who lay winded while his horse galloped away and the next contestant moved up.

Willie Roger, arriving like a spent bolt behind Nicholas, said, ‘They’re drunk.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Nicholas. Beside him, Simpson turned round. The old man grunted. Nicholas added, ‘I liked the last piece. They were all in tune, nearly.’

‘Not the singers,’ Roger said. His hat had come off and his grey hair lay about his long face like frayed rope.

Nicholas stared at the field. There was a roar. Leithie Preston had just felled Dob Cochrane. The big burgess lay on the ground, with his man running up, and an apothecary. Everybody else looked sober, including the three contestants still left in the queue. The youth in the middle was Henry. Nicholas said, ‘They don’t look drunk to me. Maybe dead.’ Cochrane stirred and was dragged off. Not dead, but out of the contest. Leithie stood aside, grinning, and Willie Tor moved up to fight the remaining Defender, eyeing the Shepherdess. The Tors had their domain close to Tayside, and the laird of Tor had never had the pleasure of Lang Bessie’s acquaintance. He waited, sword in hand, as Tam Cochrane rode forward, and Jordan de St Pol unexpectedly spoke. ‘There is someone who can fight.’

This was true. At the side of the field, Leithie Preston’s joy had clearly moderated as he took thought. If Tam Cochrane was bested, Leithie would have to fight Tor for the Shepherdess.

Willie Roger said, repetitively, ‘The riders aren’t drunk. It’s the pigs.’

Nicholas, his mouth a little open, was watching the contest. He said, ‘You’re making it up. It’s an old story. I’ve heard it. I don’t want to hear it twice. Christ!’ Beside him, Jordan grunted again. For the second time, Cochrane had been hit by a powerful blow to the chest. For the second time, he rocked in the saddle. Roger looked across, irritably. He said, ‘Tam isn’t going to last very long. And then, I’m telling you—’

He was stopped by a roar louder than all