ait a minute, that can't be right. Maybe it would look like... You read the blazon your father wrote for you again and stare at the shield. Could it be... Gawking too long trying to figure out the right emblazon, you catch the attention of the guards. One of them grabs you, demanding to know who you are. You stammer out a name, and that you are a tradesman’s son – but none of the tradesmen at the faire will vouch for you. The guard is an old hand at spotting phonies, which you, at this moment, certainly are.
"Most probably an apprentice pickpocket," the guard decides. The guards at the tourney decide that, with your nice clothes (nicer than the peasants), you will make an excellent target for the rotten fruit drunks throw at the person imprisoned in the stocks. Just more good, clean fun at the Tourney. This is the kind of thing that would seem very funny in later years if it were not for your failure to get your father's message to the king's friends.