Chessy wasn’t fortified at all, but it was built alongside a great forested preserve called the Bois de Meridienne. The woods were part of the tournament grounds, and it was illegal to hunt there, Ransom had heard, without the express permission of the king. One of the contests the knights underwent in Chessy was hunting, and the Bois de Meridienne provided the game.
As he walked down the road, following carts and travelers on their way to Pree, he saw pavilions set up on either side. He heard the clatter of weapons and saw mounted knights with lances facing off behind a fence. Wooden stands, empty now save a few spectators, overlooked the area where the knights challenged each other. More fences separated the large yard into different sections.
The charging knights shattered their lances against each other’s shields, but neither were unhorsed. A smile came to Ransom’s face as he watched them ride back, fetching fresh ash lances from the young boys supporting them. He saw another match happening simultaneously, a man with a bastard sword going against a knight with a battle axe. The two smashed into each other, both heavily armored, and sought to disarm the other.
There were literally hundreds of knights assembled there, and Ransom felt like he was coming home. He didn’t recognize any of the standards flapping in the breeze above the pavilions. They couldn’t all be Occitanian, could they?
As he rode farther into the town, he saw a few wooden stables, but most of the structures were large tents, from which came the sound of blacksmiths hammering away and delicious scents from cooking tents. Hawkers of different ages and sexes wandered back and forth, offering their wares.
A young lass with long golden hair approached Ransom. “Would you like a confection, brave sir? From the finest penuche maker in Pree! One bite, brave sir! You will want more!”
Ransom saw the little brown square she teased him with and reached into his purse to grab a coin.
“No, brave knight! This is for free. You will want more, I assure you. Visit the tent of Master Croque!” She gave it to him and then hurried away to hand out more.
Ransom, still gripping the lead rope, looked at the morsel in his hand. It was the size of one of the gaming dice used by the soldiers. He plopped it into his mouth and stopped in his tracks as the delicious morsel began to dissolve, unleashing the most wonderful flavor he’d ever tasted. He’d never had anything like it before.
As he chewed, he stared at the knights passing to and fro. Most of them were his elders. Some were younger, mostly pages scurrying about, running errands for their masters. He listened for the tongue of his native land, but everyone around him spoke Occitanian. His training in Averanche had made him familiar with it, however, and he could make out words and phrases. He saw a pair of Brugian knights, recognizing the style of their armor, which temporarily dampened his mood, but even they spoke in Occitanian. Seeing the armor, the weapons, hearing the snort of horses, the rowdy banter, he couldn’t help but grin as he wandered through the crowd, soaking it in, enjoying the flavor of the penuche still dancing with magic on his tongue.
Through the chaos of noise, he heard the clank of a hammer and anvil. For some reason, it stood out to him amidst the cacophony. Yes, he needed a blacksmith to repair his armor and sharpen his sword, although he’d given it a few swipes with his whetstone already.
Ransom led the palfrey through the crowd, trying to find the source of the noise. As he drew closer, he felt the familiar rippling sensation he’d previously only experienced during a fight. The feeling didn’t come from him, though. It was radiating outward from a tent.
Ransom was confused by this, but the sensation excited him. Searching for the source, he eventually caught sight of a tent with an open circle at the top of the poles. The tent was sooty and charred in places, and smoke billowed from the opening at its peak. Ransom approached it, sensing the rush of water, the sound reminding him vividly of the noise of the waterfall outside Kingfountain.
He reached the front of the tent, where there was a display of horseshoes, a dagger, and a single gauntlet. Each was made out of a smoky metal that looked like polished silver reflecting a cloud. He’d never seen its like. His fingers lowered to the metal, and a loud hissing noise startled him. It took him a moment to realize the blacksmith inside was quenching a piece. Steam drifted from the flap of the tent.
Ransom reached to open the flap, but someone else opened it first. A short, wiry man emerged. At first Ransom thought it was a boy, but the grizzled whiskers and threads of gray in his hair belied that first impression. The man had eyes that were either green or blue, or maybe a mix. He had a hammer in his hand, and his expression was stern as he looked up at Ransom.