It seemed wise, as a beginning, to attend a small Tournament. A quaint agrarian celebration, as it turns out. I had some trepidation in holding the field at first. But it seemed an expectation, and too early in my estimation to break out of the mold. I was gratified no end at how simple it was. Orthodox sword and shield technique seemed all that was necessary for most opponents. Many seemed prepared to lose before even lifting a sword. It was quite amusing in some ways. The man who wears the Crown is no more than that when taking the field. But now I see how useful that presence can be under certain circumstances. I very nearly laughed out loud at the occasional request from some for "permission to attempt to strike" the Royal Person. I shall have to foster this more actively. There were a few, however, who seemed un-perturbed by the Station of their opponent. These shall bear further observation.

The King's Champion, one Sir Angus Gordon, seems a doughty man of arms. Scots-Irish by the name, though he showed remarkable restraint when it came to strong drink. Without the traditional weakness of his people I shall have to seek out some other vice by which to exercise control if necessary. Although, his loyalty to the Crown is certainly steadfast. Makes me recall a mastiff I had as a boy. Pity the animal snapped at me that once.