Morningstar by David Gemmell Page B

warned him.
    “I could beat most of them in the state I’m in now,” he replied. For a little while there was silence; then he spoke again. “Have you heard? The Morningstar is really a Highland noble of the old blood. He is Rabain reborn, come to free the north.”
    A cloud passed before the moon, and we were plunged into darkness. I lay back, thinking about what he had said.
    “The legend is growing,” I said at last.
    He did not reply, but I knew he had heard me.
    True to his word, Jarek Mace awoke bright of eye and in high good humor. I, who had consumed no alcohol, had a splitting headache and could have stayed in bed until well past noon, while Wulf awoke with a curse and remained silent and sullen for most of the morning.
    We walked to the meadow, where I watched Jarek register for the tournament. An elderly clerk lifted a quill pen, dabbed it into a clay pot of ink, and glanced up at the bowman.
    “Name?” he asked.
    “Garik of Pottersham,” answered Mace easily.
    “Next?”
    “Wulf of Pottersham.”
    The clerk scribbled the names on the scroll, and we moved on. The wrestling had begun, and we waited by the rope boundary for Piercollo to make his entrance. He won his first bout easily, and Jarek and I decided to wager two silver pennies on the Tuscanian’s next contest.
    Wulf declined to bet. “All he has is strength,” muttered the hunchback. He was proved wrong twice more, and Jarek and I earned ten silver pennies each. But the last fight had been tough for Piercollo, his opponent almost managing to use the Tuscanian’s great weight against him. Jarek did not agree and wagered the ten pennies on the final contest. It was over swiftly. Piercollo was matched against a man of almost equal size, and the two giants circled each other warily. This opponent was an older man, wily and skillful. Piercollo rushed in like an angry bear, and the man sidestepped, grabbed the Tuscanian’s outstretched arm, and spun him from his feet. Piercollo rose swiftly. Too swiftly, as Wulf pointed out, for he was still groggy from the fall. The older wrestler threw himself at the Tuscanian, hammering his forearm into Piercollo’s face while at the same time hooking his foot around our friend’s ankle. Piercollo fell like a toppled tree. Mace cursed roundly when the Tuscanian failed to rise before the count of ten.
    Then the first names were called for the archery cull. There were more than a hundred bowmen, and the first targets were set at around thirty paces. Mace and Wulf scored gold and were told to return in half an hour for the second round.
    By now the workmen had almost completed the knights’ platform, and bench seats were being lifted onto it. I strolled across, past the piled wood of a huge bonfire, to where a dozen servants carrying cushions were arguing with one another as to which of their knights were to have the best seats. It was a common enough scene. Those knights sitting closest to the manor lord were seen by the populace to be favorites. No one wished to be placed at the end of the bench. But it would be unseemly for knights to be seen squabbling over such matters, and therefore cushion-carrying servants were sent with orders to obtain for their masters places near the manor lord. I sat down with other interested—and knowing—fairgoers to watch. The arguments became more fierce until finally a young man in yellow liverystruck an older man wearing a blue tunic. The older man staggered, then struck back. Within seconds, the cushions had been hurled aside and the servants were whacking out at one another, kicking and punching.
    The crowd cheered them on, and at last, with the fighting over, the cushions were placed. The boy in the yellow livery looked more than downcast as he tossed his cushion to the end of the bench. When his master saw his place, he would probably be in for a worse beating than the one he had already taken.
    At that moment three soldiers approached, striding to the platform and