Hodge Watches the Squires Fight Before the King's Own House

I am bid record what I saw at the great tourney held, so I am told, upon the very lawn of the realm's high lord — a white manor so grand it must be the seat of the king himself, though no herald would name the king to me, and I did not think it my place to ask a groom of such standing. I went as I am sent, with my board and my stub of charcoal, to set down the truth of the contest, though God knows I understood perhaps one part in ten of what my eyes beheld.

The field of combat was no field at all but a round pit, fenced about with wire like a hog-yard, and into this pit stepped two champions — one called Topuria, the other's name I did not catch amid the roaring, though I am told he came second and left the poorer for it. I had thought, by the crowd's noise and the great glowing tapestry hung above us all a-flicker with numbers and faces too large to be Christian, that I had come upon the finest game of ninepins ever bowled in this or any age, for the two men did circle and grapple exactly as bowlers circle the lane before the cast, weighing the throw. And when at the last Topuria did strike his rival down, I set it in my book plain as day: a perfect strike, all pins felled at once, the match won by three clean touchdowns and a check-mate besides, for I have long since given up keeping the games separate in my head, there being simply too many of them and none troubling to explain themselves to a serf.

The man in black — for there is always a man in black, in every contest I am sent to watch, be it played on ice, on grass, or in a wire hog-pit — carried no shepherd's whistle this time but only his two flat hands, which he brought down upon the dirt like a miller testing his flour, and at this signal alone the whole assembly did erupt as though the harvest itself had come in early and without blight. I confess I do not know what the hands upon the dirt signified. I set it down anyway, for it is not my office to understand, only to watch and write, and a serf who waited for understanding before he wrote would starve before Michaelmas.

Afterward there came a second man, retired from such combats himself by the look and talk of him, one Gaethje, who stood before the great tapestry and spoke at some length on how the victor's manner of fighting had been, in his words, very easy to predict — that this Topuria showed his hand plainly to any opponent with the wit to read it, thrust for thrust, same as old Wat the smith always swings his hammer the selfsame way and so no prentice of his is ever caught unawares by the blow. I found this the most sensible thing said all evening, and I confess I listened to Master Gaethje's accounting with greater care than I gave the contest proper, for here at last was a man speaking in terms a farmer might follow — of habit, and pattern, and the reading of a fellow's craft before he shows it to you. I do wonder if the young champion Topuria has a reeve of his own to scold him for telegraphing his blows so, as my own reeve scolds me for always mowing the near field before the far one, so that any thief with eyes might know which way to come at my turnips.

But I will own, and own honestly, that the contest itself held my attention less than the little wheeled stall set up hard by the fence, whereat a man in a paper hat did sell tubes of hot minced meat wrapped in soft bread, for a sum of coin that would have bought my whole village its bread for a fortnight. I watched this vendor a full quarter-hour and set down every particular of his craft — the tongs he used, the manner of his wrapping, the strange yellow sauce he dispensed from a jar shaped like the very meat it accompanied — for it seemed to me the more honest labor of the evening, a man plying a trade before my eyes that I could actually comprehend, unlike the pit-fighting, which I am assured was the whole reason we had gathered but which passed, for me, in a blur of grappling and the ninepin-strike I have already set down as gospel.

There was also a beast present, though I saw it only the once — a great painted ox, or perhaps a bear, walking upright on its hinder legs and waving its forelimbs at the children in the crowd, who shrieked with a joy I could not share, not knowing whether the creature was tame or whether some poor soul inside its hide was even now being crushed for our amusement. It did no threshing, no ploughing, no work of any honest kind that I could discern, only danced, and I set this down too, for a beast that dances instead of labors is a marvel worth recording even if I cannot account for it.

The tapestry above us continued its flickering throughout, showing now the fighters, now the vendor's meat-tubes, now faces of lords and ladies seated close by the pit who I am told are persons of great account in this age, though none were named to me and so I cannot set their names down truly, only that they smiled a great deal and were shown to us as if they too were part of the sport. I do not know why a contest of ninepins-and-grappling should require the watching of so many idle faces besides the two men doing the actual striking, but I have learned not to question what the great tapestry chooses to show me. It is not mine to edit, only to receive.

In the end Topuria stood victor, his arm raised by the man in black, and the crowd's roar was a thing I felt in my chest same as thunder before a summer storm, and I was glad for him, whoever he was to me, a stranger who had bowled his perfect strike before the lord's own house and won his checkmate fair. Master Gaethje's words stayed with me longest, though — that a man's craft, however fearsome, is worth little once another has learned to read it. There is a lesson there for reeves and champions both, and for serfs too, though I could not tell you plainly what it is.

The light is going now and I am called back, for the strip along the hedgerow wants weeding before dark comes down proper, and no manner of tapestry or dancing ox will see it done in my stead.

Yours in bafflement and duty, Hodge o' the Field