“Well, you can’t be better, can you Clar?” Owen said. “There isn’t anything closer than the bull’s-eye. I tried it myself last year, but I gave it up after Papa told me I would never be able to hit the long side of the barn from six feet away. That was not a very encouraging thing coming from my own father, was it?”
“The thing was, though,” Devlin said, setting a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezing, “no one would come within a quarter of a mile of the barn while you were practicing, and the milk cows inside were lowing piteously as a result.”
Clarence cackled.
“Oh, you made that up, Dev,” his brother said indignantly. “For shame. He is fibbing, Clar.”
“Not very much,” Devlin said. “On the other hand, Owen, you only have to cast a line into the river to come up no more than five minutes later with a fish at least three feet long. Sometimes I wonder if you even stop to bait the line. I can fish patiently all day long and go home empty-handed at the end of it.”
“That’s a bit of a whopper too,” his brother said. “You need to watch that, Dev.”
The three of them were in the stable yard, waiting for the log-splitting contest to begin. Idris Rhys had come to join them. So had Ben. It was always the most popular of the contests, together with the archery. The yard was soon crowded with men, women, and children. There were four contestants, brawny men with huge chests and bulging muscles in their upper arms and calves. They were all stripped down to shirts, breeches, and boots. The rules forbade the removal of shirts if there were ladies present—as there always were—but rules were made to be bent. The men’s shirts were open at the neck and almost all the way to the waistbands of their breeches. The sleeves were rolled up as far above their elbows as the girth of their arms would allow.
Cameron Holland, the blacksmith’s son, had been placed in the first pairing. The winner of each would go another round later to determine the overall winner.
Devlin had seen Gwyneth as soon as he arrived. She was amid a group of young people, both male and female, and still appearedto be enjoying herself. She moved away just before the contest started, however, and came to join her brother. Owen and Clarence darted away to join a crowd of other boys.
“Are you cheering for Cameron?” Gwyneth asked Idris.
“Of course,” he said. “I always cheer for friends. And winners.”
“Just look at those logs,” she said, squeezing in between her brother and Devlin. “They look impossible to chop through.”
“Not for Cam,” Devlin said. “He is as strong as an ox. So are the other three, by the look of them. I would not like to bet on a winner.”
He wondered if she had left her group and crossed the stable yard to join her brother—or him. She was certainly not avoiding him. She might have chosen to stand on Idris’s other side but had not. He felt suddenly happy again. Nicholas was with a group of young men some distance away. He seemed to be enjoying himself too. He did not look heartsick.
The earl gave the signal to start when the first two contestants were ready, standing before their respective logs, feet apart, axes in hand. “Away you go, men,” he said, and shot a pistol into the air.
A cheer greeted the sound and was succeeded by prolonged shouting and cheering and yelled encouragement as the two men attacked the logs with their axes. Cameron’s split apart a mere second before his rival’s. There was a renewed roar from his supporters and groans from his rival’s. Gwyneth, beside Devlin, was actually jumping up and down with unladylike excitement and clapping. She glanced sideways at Devlin, her cheeks flushed again, her eyes sparkling. His father, on the far side of the area roped off for the contestants, was laughing too and cheering, one hand resting lightly upon the shoulder of Mrs. Shaw.
Devlin was annoyed at the twinge of renewed uneasiness he felt. His father was never a man to keep himself apart from others.He had always been a hand shaker, often a handwringer.He was a hugger, a cheek kisser, a shoulder squeezer. It was part of his appeal, perhaps, that he was never the distant aristocrat, holding himself physically aloof from all who were inferior to him in rank. Instead he was the friend and supporter of all. Devlin had never heard even a whisper of a complaint that his father’s touches were unwelcome or inappropriate. He looked around for his mother, but she had not come for the log splitting. And by the time Devlin looked back, a mere few seconds later, Mrs. Shaw was standing alone in the same place, and his father, beaming happily, was shaking the hand of Oscar Holland, the blacksmith, no doubt congratulating him on his son’s qualifying for the final round.
The second pair were less evenly matched than the first. One of them, an enormous giant from a neighboring village, cut through his log as though it had no harder a consistency than butter, while the other man labored mightily over his, though, to his credit, he did not give up until he had chopped through it.
“Not fair,” he said, panting and grinning as he shook the hand of the giant. “Yours was made of soft wood while mine was made of iron.”
“Well, man,” the giant said, grinning back. “You have to know who to bribe.”
The final bout was scheduled for an hour hence.
“Is it disloyal to confess that I do not hold out much hope for Cam?” Idris asked of no one in particular. “I am quite prepared to eat humble pie if hedoeswin, but who the devilisthat brute? I have never set eyes on him before. He has no neck. Did any of you notice? It is all shoulder muscle with a little bullet head on top.”
“I would not let him hear you talk about him that way if I were you, Idris,” Ben said. “I think it would be unwise to pick a quarrel with that particular man.”
“Perhaps he is a gentle giant,” Gwyneth said. “Someone over there told me he is a blacksmith, new to this part of the country.”
“I am off to find a tree to sit under for the next hour,” Idris said. “With a glass of ale. Did you put in a special order for this heat today, Dev?”
“Ben is in charge of organizing the weather,” Devlin said. “Blame him if you do not like it. A cool drink does sound like a good idea, though. I’ll come with you. Gwyneth, come for some lemonade?”
He did not expect her to agree. But a man could hope.
“Yes, please. That would be very welcome,” she said, and when he offered his arm she slid her hand through it, as she had earlier, and he thought he must be the most fortunate man alive. Almost every single man between the ages of eighteen and thirty had been seeking her out today—except Nick—and she had spent some time with a number of them, though never with one exclusively for very long. Now here she was with him for a second time—and with her brother too, of course. Even through the sleeves of his coat and shirt he could feel the warmth and softness of her hand. He could smell her perfume, or the soap she used. It was a faint scent but very enticing. He had noticed it earlier too.
“Are you coming, Ben?” he asked.
“I’ll stay and make sure everything is properly set up for the final,” his brother said.
