Note: These blogs are written in character and will give you readers a glimpse into the mind of Sir Sebastian Fox. The first several entries will be short back-story tales to bring you up to date in Fox's life and show how his relationships have developed in Lincolnshire.

The tournament and Lysander’s goal ended up a complete debacle.

Despite my best effort, Sir Ian Stewart managed to best me; his broad shield finding a way to stop my daggers at every turn. Sir Lysander lost to the young Lord Clarke.

After having me remove Clarke from the competition with a hard sap to the back of his head, Lysander positioned himself to advance by default. But I glimpsed something in Lysander’s eyes as he directed me to where he had hid my payment; Lysander meant to betray me.

Moving carefully to where he had told me my prize would await, I saw three of his mercenaries trying to hide in an attempted ambush around a small wooden chest. Lysander should learn to leave these guerilla tactics to the experts, as it was easy for me to assassinate his men one by one.

Unfortunately, for Lysander, the chest was empty.

It was then I returned to the faire grounds, roused the still unconscious Clarke, and told him what I had uncovered about Sir Lysander: the black knight was responsible for Clarke’s father’s death.

Certainly not a complete truth to be sure, for Lysander would not have spilled the blood himself, but it was enough to arouse the ire in the young lord.

Returning to the tournament field, Clark and I looked upon Sir Stewart down and at the mercy of Lysander. Lord Clarke offered a word of engagement to save Stewart, and in an instant I knew Lysander and mine’s arrangement was fully at a close. 

I hit Lysander from behind as Clarke offered a distraction. Lysander flew into a rage, and a flurry of blades began to sing as attack after attack for deflected or blocked, by all parties. Soon, Stewart came to my aid as Clarke offered his appeal to the Queen. Still time slowed to a crawl and I was sure Lysander would have my head should my defenses falter for but a moment.

Stewart brought the mighty enraged Lysander down, and as the black knight slowly returned to his feet, he yelled a curse on Lincolnshire, Clarke and I, before storming from the faire. 

Never the less, I had survived, and strangely enough, Lord Clarke seemed to look upon me with favour, for during the fray, my lack of noble blood was revealed, and I certainly faced death at the hangman’s rope.

But Lord Clarke spared me, spoke for me, and I am to serve as a Man-at-Arms under his lordship. 

And as I ride to my new home, I know I have much bigger destiny to achieve. And maybe, I can achieve my selfish goals at the tip of a sword, rather than with a knife in the back.

“Are you alright Fox?” 

Clarke’s question pulls me from my thoughts. Oh yes, things are going much better than anticipated. Now to play the part of the dutiful servant for bit.

“Aye, m’lord. I just wish you to teach me to be a true knight.”

The papers look real enough; Sir Lysander's forgery artist certainly knew what he was doing. Folding the stack of parchment back upon itself, I hastily place it into my doublet. Lysander's delivery boy looks as if he is about to speak, but I quickly silence him, tossing a small pouch of coin in his direction.

I pain in letting the money go, but no sense in letting a possible lucrative business connection go sour so quickly. This boy should have had the other half of my payment, but he insists his master wishes to deliver it in person.

Exchanging money in the middle of the tournament faire is risky at best. This Sir Lysander maybe stupid, or he may just be that confident in his ability to flaunt his power in Lincolnshire, even in front of the young lord, Alexander Clarke and the Queen herself. I shall see which tomorrow.

Papers claiming my line of nobility. Entry into a tournament of knights. Armour fitting of an Errant Knight. Lysander so far has provided everything, except my payment. I am not pleased. I've not survived so far from the Emerald Isle and my family being so reckless.

But to cross blades with Sir Ian Stewart, the son of an Earl to the North, legally in a tournament for the right to help teach and protect the child Prince. That will make this small concession almost a pleasure to bear.

"Go now, and forget my face."

The boy turns to leave, and I think how to protect myself I should end his life here and now. My hand wanders to the hilt of my punch dagger suspended behind my back.

But how would Lysander respond to the loss of one of his own pages?

Seeing as he has hired me to remove Sir Stewart from the tournament by any means necessary, I don't think he'll mind the loss.

My hand silently pulls the blade from its sheath.

"Boy! One more thing..."