Sam, acting as the starter again, called, “Ready!”
They held up their hands, elbows placed solidly on the flat stone surface and the other arm held behind their backs.
“Set!”
They clasped hands.
“Go!”
Both Baron and Little John flexed, trying to force the other’s arm down. For the first time in my memory, Little John was being challenged. Baron’s biceps were just as large as Little John’s, and Baron had youth on his side. Little John, somewhatoverconfident from his years of unopposed victories, began to lose ground as Baron began forcing his arm backward.
“Hey Baron, Laurel’s watching you!” Will Scarlet called out.
Baron’s eyes flicked involuntarily up to where I was standing. Little John used the distraction to press his advantage back to their original starting position and Baron refocused, grimacing, struggling to gain the lead again.
It seemed to last forever. Beads of sweat popped up on both Little John’s and Baron’s faces. It seemed that they were equally matched in terms of strength, and now it was coming down to stamina. The men all began taking sides. Some called encouragement to Baron, others to Little John. As the time seemed to stall, both men’s arms began to shake, but still neither was budging.
Eager to stir things up, Lincoln called out, “Laurel will kiss the winner!”
“She most certainly will NOT!” came Father’s instant reply.
“Take him down, Baron! It’s time he lost!”
“C’mon, Little John! Don’t let yourself lose to a boy!”
I didn’t call out until the end. Both men had red faces and were breathing heavily, and I couldn’t keep out of the excitement.
“You can do it, Baron!” I finally yelled.
That was all the encouragement he needed. Fueled by my shout, he heaved one last massive effort and succeeded in pounding Little John’s hand down.
The cheers that erupted were deafening. Little John slapped Baron on the back with his left arm, rather than his sore right, and commended him on being the first to ever defeat him.
Knife throwing came next. This was the event where I would shine. Five archery targets were set up at various distances, and each person was given ten seconds with five knives to hit as many targets as accurately as they could. The bigger men tendedto do poorly in this event, as they historically relied on their physical strength to overpower their opponent rather than using a skill that required hundreds of hours of practice.
Little John and Baron, arm muscles still overtaxed from their extended arm-wrestling bout, failed miserably and sat down first. Will Scarlet, who had taught me the art in my youth, Father, Alan, and I were the ones who excelled at knife throwing.
After all four of us hit every bulls-eye on each target, we were required to start with our backs turned before throwing each knife. Father twisted too quickly and aggravated his still-injured ribs and sat down. Alan got four out of the five, and Will and I both hit them all.
The final battle required volunteers to run while carrying the target between themselves and the thrower, and the person being tested had to hit as close to the bullseye as they could with only four knives this time. Will Stutely and Lincoln were unanimously elected since they had won at the footraces.
Baron watched, open-mouthed, as they both cheerfully hopped to their feet and went to pick up the targets. “Aren’t they worried you’ll hit them?” he asked in amazement. Sam and Tildy were expressing similar concerns about the level of risk in the activity.
James, ever the quiet one, was the one who answered. “Why should they be worried? Will and Laurel don’t miss.”
“Backs turned or forward facing?” Will Scarlet asked breezily, beginning to juggle with a few of his knives. Show-off.
“Fer pity’s sake, face fo’ard!” Sam called, his voice rising to a fevered pitch. “I rather preefer the notion of not ‘aving a stiff on me prope’ty.” To me he added, “An’ don’t you miss…miss,” then chuckled at his double use of the wordmiss.
“Forward it is!”
Will Scarlet went first. Lincoln and Will Stutely both began running from opposite ends of the clearing, carrying the targetsat their sides. Will Scarlet briefly assessed their speeds and directions, then threw rapidly with both hands, hitting the bullseye on each target, then drew more knives and sent them spinning with deadly accuracy to embed right next to their fellows.
A perfect score for the four knives. They pulled them out and handed the blades to me.
I stepped up for my turn, and Lincoln and Will Stutely began sprinting across the fields again. I threw one, two, three perfect bullseye shots, but misjudged the final throw, and it thumped in a ring beside the bullseye. Still incredible throwing, but Will Scarlet won. He deserved it; he was still far better than I was.
The final contest to close out the games was archery. The targets were again set up, and everyone stepped up to try. Father watched lazily as we all put forth our best efforts, each trying to put five arrows as close as we could to the bullseye, then waltzed up to the start line. Even while using a lighter bow with a smaller draw weight because of his ribs, he managed to get a perfect score, with all five arrows clustered in the center of his bullseye. There was no need for whittling down competition one person at a time. We all knew no one could hold a candle in comparison to Father’s archery skills.
