“They stand in a circle,” Silas explained, creating one with an arc of his finger in front of him, “and try to slap each other with rags soaked in beer while they dance.”
“What?!” Dot and Claire both exclaimed in unison.
“The flonker,” Freddy said slowly and helpfully as he passed his kerchief up to Oliver to clean his cherry-stained hands, “tries to dodge the dwile. It’s all very fun and stupid. Sadly, like any good sport, ladies aren’t allowed to play.”
“Sadly indeed,” Tommy said with a bracing little sigh. “We can’t do the Morris dancing either.”
Claire did not ask.
“Are there any sports women can do?” Dot wondered, tilting her head. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Oh, yes,” Tommy said with a nod. “They put a nice dress on a pole and wrangle us up like sheep. When they open the gate, we all go on a violent tear to get it first. Many tears and maimings are had.”
“Oh,” said Dot. “Silas, do I need a new dress?”
“Hm,” Silas replied, frowning.
“Mama, look!” Oliver gasped suddenly, coming to full attention over Freddy’s head and pointing down at the central festival area. “A castle!”
Indeed, down in the valley between the wolds, a little castle had been erected in what looked like very thin, very cheap wood, and painted in the style of old, mossy bricks. “I see it, my love,” Claire told him. “Look at that, they’ve painted shields on the side.”
“They have,” Tommy agreed, “and one of them is House Bentley’s. See the cannons? Those are real.”
The crowd applauded as they came into view, with several alarmingly large men rushing forward in their enthusiasm to greet Tommy, specifically.
“Our Lady of the Games!” one called her, and the others repeated it with a cheer.
Claire glanced at Silas, who nodded and smirked.
“Papa, I want a stick,” Oliver was saying ahead of them, pointing to a line of men with long switches in their hands. “Can I have a stick?”
“Only if you are a stickler,” Freddy replied, stopping and stooping to let Oliver climb back onto the grass, “and my boy, you are most assuredly not.”
“What is a stickler?” Claire wondered, walking up to join them, and touching Oliver’s chin so he would look up at her and allow her to dab any remaining pie debris from his perfect little face.
“A rule keeper,” Freddy said, watching her wield his kerchief with the kind of pleased glow that Claire thought was likely dangerously conspicuous out here in the open. “To prevent more nail-studded boots and the like.”
“Stickler,” Claire repeated thoughtfully, glancing back at him with a fraction of a smile. “I could be one, if not the boy.”
“You could be,” Freddy agreed softly, “but you’d be easily compromised.”
“Me?” she answered with amusement. “I think not.”
Tommy, at that moment, whirled around to Silas with her eyebrows raised and made the other man sigh.
“Pay up, boy,” she said to her grandson, holding her hand out for three shiny shillings that were passed over in good order.
Claire chose to ignore that.
Freddy, to his credit, glared at them.
Dot looked perfectly serene.
“My lords and ladies,” said one of the burly men who’d previously greeted Tommy, jogging up to the space between Claire and Freddy. “The podium is just over here by the castle. This is where you’ll signal the cannons.”
“The cannons?” Claire said with a little start. “I thought we’d be cutting a ribbon.”
The man grinned widely. “No ribbons today, my lady. The games are for noise.”
