Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter Sixteen: Lower Lists

The Lad with Two Swords strolled through the noisy camp at the foot of the rock, looking for a fight. It was common practice at such tournament camps that there was a competition for entry to the main tournament, and Balin planned on winning it that night.

Though Brian of the Isles had always been wary of sending his boys to the big tourneys, the twins had attended – and won – smaller tourneys in Northumbria, and elsewhere in the north. On one occasion Balin had beaten both Sir Perin Mountelbiard and Sir Tor in the early rounds, only to face his own brother in the joust for tournament honours. In the end, King Elfrith had made his decision based on fighting style, as the boys were too evenly matched, and their joust looked like going on deep into the night. Elfrith’s criterion of style had not been to Balin’s advantage: Balan had had been declared the victor because of certain pretty but useless flourishes he made with his sword. Balin had held back because he didn’t want to seriously hurt his brother, whose fine technique was no match for Balin in full berserker rage. But Balin still felt Elfrith’s decision had been an injustice; even after what had happened to his brother the sense that he had been badly done-by in that tourney lingered. He was ashamed of that feeling. He remembered how happy Balan had been to win, and how graciously he’d given Balin half his winnings. Balin suspected that he wouldn’t have done the same if he had won. Balan had always been the more courteous in victory, and the more forgiving when Balin rubbed defeats in his face.  

The camp was full of smoke. Gangs of apprentices and squires roamed around in search of a drink, a fight, or pretty servant-girls to chat up. Balin followed his ears to the tournament-ring, though he could equally have followed his nose, so strong were the smells of hot meat pies and spilled ale emitted by the gathering. There were cheers and claps from the men and women surrounding the arena, which was nothing more than a fenced ring around a ground churned into mud by the competitors’ feet. The crowd were three or four deep all around the ring’s circumference, and in some places they were twice as high as a man: several girls were riding the shoulders of strong fellows. Drums were beating, cow bells sounding, there were roars of acclamation and groans of imagined pain as one or other of the competitors in the middle received a particularly nasty blow.

Several horses were tied up outside the fence. There was no riding in the lower lists, which were fought on foot, with weapons decided upon by the crowd. The horses were part of the prize. Each competitor wagered the best piece they had, whether it was a weapon, a shield, their horse, harness or an item of armour. The champion of the list could then pick whatever items from the pile he wanted. Sometimes the pickings were poor, but at a big tournament like King Pellam’s a good fighter could make himself rich by selling his winnings if he chose not to enter the main tournament the next day. That was the other part of the prize: the winner of the lower lists was knighted, and given to chance to joust in front of the king in the main tournament, using the horse and equipment they had won the previous night.

Balin forced his way through the crowd, looking for the place where he could buy his entry to the competition. The people were enjoying the fight in progress, and Balin had to part the men and women with his hands to squeeze through. It was not unlike swimming through very thick treacle. He caught a few snatches of the ongoing fight, which was between a heavily muscled giant with a ragged beard, and a slim fellow who looked vaguely familiar. The crowd had assigned the contestants flails as their weapons for this bout. Balin glimpsed their two chains becoming tangled, and the bearded giant lashing out a punch at his opponent’s face.

‘I want Beaumains to win,’ said a curly-haired servant-girl to her companion. ‘He’s as handsome as Sir Lancelot, if you ask me. Go on, Beaumains! Kill him!’

‘Don’t be stupid, Petal,’ said her companion. ‘What would Sir Beaumains be doing fighting down here?’

‘Practising for tomorrow.’