Cedric's son to Athelstane. Wilfred had taken quite a fancy to her. When ordered to cease and desist, the son had rebelled against the father. Cedric was already displeased with his son. The old man did not approve of Wilfred spending time at court, learning the Norman art of fighting and picking up various Norman ways. When Wilfred began to court the woman Cedric intended to marry off to Athelstane and under his own roof, yet, it had been the straw that broke the Saxon's back. In a fit of temper, Cedric had disinherited his son, banishing him from his house and vowing never to speak his name again. Thanks to Ivanhoe's incontinence, Lucas now had an angry father and a pining sweetheart to contend with. As far as he was concerned, he didn't care if he never met up with Cedric and Rowena could pine away to her heart's content. He had enough to worry about. Still, if he ran into them, it could present a weighty problem.
Lucas attempted to consult his programmed memory on the subject of Poignard, but it was of little help. They must have questioned Ivanhoe concerning his squire and how he came by his services, but Wilfred evidently thought so little of the man who served him that all Lucas knew was that Hooker was supposed to be a fallen Norman of some sort whose services he had won in a passage at arms. Wilfred evidently thought as much about Poignard as he did about his saddle, which meant that he hardly thought of him at all. It wasn't really surprising. Property was only property, after all. Still, Lucas might have expected at least some sensitivity from the man toward his squire, but it seemed that Ivanhoe was not the most sensitive of men.
When he had been snatched by the Temporal Corps, Ivanhoe had been on his way to Yorkshire to purchase a horse and a suit of armor for the tournament at Ashby-de-la-Zouche. To this end, the gallant knight had waylaid a Norman monk, bashing his head in with a quarterstaff and relieving him of his purse. Having been issued his horse and armor, Lucas felt that the best thing for him to do would be to proceed on to the tournament as Ivanhoe had planned and to see what would develop. All the local nobility would be there, since the festivities were being hosted by Prince John himself in an effort to entertain the populace. Lucas recalled that the Romans had done much the same sort of thing. If you kept taxing the pants off the people, they were bound to get a bit annoyed, so it helped to take their minds off their troubles every now and then by putting on a show. The Romans had their circuses, the Normans had their jousts. Plus ca change, plus c'est la mime chose.
They held a council in the morning to outline their plans. So far as either of them knew, Ivanhoe and the outlawed Baron of Locksley had never met, although they would know each other's names. Therefore, they had no need to get their stories straight. They decided to arrange a meeting later and the tournament seemed ideal for that purpose. They agreed to meet at Ashby and went their separate ways with no little reluctance. The journey could have been longer for his liking, but Lucas eventually found himself approaching Ashby, where the crowd was already gathering in anticipation of the tournament. Lucas put on his gear and donned his helmet, instructing Hooker to put on his hooded robe. He was not quite ready yet to meet anyone who knew Wilfred of Ivanhoe.
The galleries were all set up, as were the lists, which were nothing more than several fences running parallel to each other, forming tracks down which knights would hurtle toward each other from opposite ends, colliding as they passed. The battleground was in a small valley with the stands erected on a rise, a little hill that would afford the spectators an unobstructed view of the proceedings. On either side of the small valley, pavilions had been erected: tents with pennants flying from their peaks, the colors identifying the knights who occupied them. Some of these pavilions matched the colors of their pennants, revealing which of the knights were among the more well-to- do. As was the custom, one side of the field had been assigned to the hosts-or the home team as Lucas thought of them-the other to the challengers or visitors. Lucas had the purse which Wilfred had obtained by mugging some poor priest, so he gave it to Hooker and sent him off with instructions to secure a pavilion for themselves. 'Make sure it's one of the cheaper ones,' he said. 'It's still early in the game and it wouldn't hurt to economize.' When Hooker returned, he told him that they had a pavilion at the far end of the valley, out of the way of the center of activity, but close enough to enable them to observe the goings-on from within its shelter.
'Good enough, squire Poignard,' said Lucas. 'Let's go. Oh, and pick up a couple of those chickens that vendor's cooking over there. No point to jousting on an empty stomach.'
Lucas stood just inside the tent flap, munching on a drumstick and watching the opening ceremonies. Hooker had collared one of the local lads and for a small price, they had a play-by-play announcer. Or blow-by-blow, as the case may be, thought Lucas. Under the circumstances, it was not an unusual thing for a knight to do. It was a large tournament and there were competitors present from all over the country. It was entirely within reason that a stranger to the land, especially one who had come from far away, would not be familiar with all the colors and heraldic devices. Lucas sat down on a crude wooden cot inside the tent, in a position so that he could see outside, yet at the same time appear to be resting for the time when his turn came. Hooker stood just outside with the boy, a youngster of about twelve who seemed to know everyone concerned, just as a modern kid would know all the players in his favorite sport.
'Describe everything to me in detail,' Lucas told the lad. 'I wish to close my eyes and rest awhile.'
Then, while the boy stood outside and described what was happening in great detail, just as he was told, Lucas shifted his position so that he could see clearly everything the boy described. He could be forgiven for not recognizing all the colors, but it would look a little strange if he did not know any of them.
It was nearing midday and all things were in readiness to begin the tournament. It could have started hours ago, save for the fact that it was necessary to wait for the arrival of the nobility, who showed up in dribs and drabs, each delaying their arrival by a degree of lateness according to the positions they fancied themselves to hold in the social pecking order. Lord Bluenose couldn't possibly arrive at his seat before the Earl of High and Mighty. Finally, everyone was seated except for the prince and his retinue. They arrived with many fanfares from the trumpets, which sounded too much to Lucas like the braying of Hannibal's elephants. He was not, in the least concerned about the passage at arms. Having been charged by a bull elephant, Lucas felt that an armored knight on horseback seemed rather tame by comparison.
John rode in on a handsome charger, surrounded by his knights. Priest's young announcer called them off to him, identifying each by their colors and the devices on the shields carried by their squires. There was Maurice De Bracy, riding at the head of a group of his Free Companions, which translated as mercenaries. De Bracy was all decked out in gold, which Lucas thought appropriate, and his shield bore the emblem of a flaming sword. Riding on John's left hand was the warrior priest, the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert. He was dressed in the black and white colors of his order, his shield emblazoned with a stylized raven, wings outstretched, holding a skull in its claws. Beside him rode Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, a bullish looking knight whose appearance suited his name. He was in blue lacquered armor with a bull's head on his shield. Somewhat behind them, attired in brilliant blood red with a fleury cross upon his shield, was a knight the boy identified as Andre de la Croix. And in the vanguard was the prince himself.
John of Anjou was a dandy, dressed in the height of fashion, complete with a fur-trimmed short cloak and boots with turned up toes. His black beard was neatly trimmed and pointed and his hair hung down to his shoulders, curled at the end in a style that reminded Lucas of the way women wore their hair in the period following World War II. He flourished a small mace as he rode, a peculiar thing with a triangulated head that seemed more for show than for fighting. To top off the ensemble, John wore a velvet cap set at a rakish angle.
He took his small parade through the lists and around in front of the stands, preening before the crowd, which greeted him with some enthusiasm. Perhaps he was a tyrant, but he was the patron of the festival and the people seemed grateful for what small favors they could receive. Still, there were those in the gallery who were conspicuous by their refusal to applaud His Majesty. Richard still commanded some loyalty and, of course, the Saxons had little reason to love John. The prince seemed far less interested in them, however, than in their women. He took his time riding past the stands. He paused in front of the section where there had been the least applause and Lucas shifted his position slightly to see what had captured his attention. It turned out to be a pretty blonde.
'The prince gazes boldly on the fair Lady Rowena,' said the boy, somewhat testily, betraying his strong Saxon pride. 'This will ill please the noble Cedric.'
Lucas got up and moved closer to get a better view. So this was his supposed sweetheart and his father. So much for my revealing myself at this tournament, he thought. He had no desire for a family reunion. As he watched, John moved closer to Rowena and Cedric, evidently displeased at this attention or at something John had said, interposed himself between the sovereign and his ward. John said something to De Bracy and Lucas saw the knight stretch forth his lance, as if to give Cedric a sharp poke in the ribs. The burly Saxon's response was to whip out his sword and, with a quick chopping stroke, knock the point off De Bracy's lance.
