Simone frowned and huffed, “Well, someone”-she glanced at Valeray-“should provide high, loosely woven wicker walls along each side of the hammer-throw ring. That way, should the thrower lose control of the hammer, then it would simply strike one of the barriers and fall to the ground and not fly into the onlookers.”
“Ah, but wouldn’t that take some of the thrill out of the sport, Maman?”
“Better a safe wife than a grieving widow,” said Simone.
They watched as throws were made, and as each toss was hurled the crowd roared, Avelaine cheering alongside the men, with Simone frowning at this unseemly behavior of her daughter, even though Celeste and Liaze and Camille and Michelle were shouting just as lustily.
And they laughed as one of the garishly clad and painted jesters ran onto the field and took up the hammer and swung it about and tossed it no farther than a half stride. Jumping up and down in seeming anger, he took it up again and swung it
’round and appeared to drop it onto his foot, and he howled and hopped about, holding the injured extremity, while pointing at it and bawling. And then he fell to the ground, and two more gaudy jesters rushed out with a litter, and laid it alongside the
“injured” one and rolled him in between the poles. And when they took it up to bear him away, it seems that it wasn’t really a litter at all, but merely two poles. And as they trundled off, the jester on the ground looked up and about and then leapt to his feet and ran after the others, shouting, while the crowd howled in glee.
“Oh, isn’t this just splendid, Maman?” asked Avelaine.
Maman, laughing and trying to catch her breath, turned to her daughter and nodded, completely unable to speak.
. .
The hammer throw was followed by the discus, and then the running events, and they were followed by a show of horsemanship, with the animals dancing and prancing and sidling and turning to the oohs and ahhs of the appreciative crowd.
After that display, men on horseback and bearing light lances ran races where they speared small rings from atop willowy wands stuck in the ground. The swiftest one with the most rings would be declared the winner. Rider after rider vied, and time was kept by water draining through a hole in a bucket and through a funnel and into a measuring cup. As each rider started, a judge pulled a plug, and the water began to pour.
When the rider rang a bell at the end of the course, the cup was whisked from under the spout and the amount noted-the less liquid the faster the run. The plug was replaced and the bucket refilled and the measuring cup once again set under, and the next rider made his try.
Halfway through the event, the jester entered the contest, and before he finished his single ride, the cup overflowed and the judges replaced it with a pail, and the container above had to be refilled. Amid hoots and laughter and jeers of the crowd, as the water continued to run, the jester yelled, “Oh, oh, help, help, my bucket runneth over!” This brought the other two jesters running onto the field and, amid many pratfalls, they took the rings from the willow wands and, dropping them and retrieving them several times, they at last placed them on the mounted jester’s lance, who then rode back in gleeful triumph, to discover he hadn’t rung the gong. He galloped back to the bell and swung his lance at it, only to miss and fall off his horse, and the animal promptly ran away, with the three jesters shouting and chasing after.
As soon as the whooping crowd settled, again the serious contestants vied for the victory. In the end a young lad of no more than eleven summers was declared champion of that event.
When the archery contest came about, many a man took up the challenge, including Emile and Borel and Alain, and they were joined by Luc and Roel and Blaise and Laurent. In the competition as well, stood Celeste and Liaze and Michelle and Saissa.
Long did the contest last, for there were many vying, yet the number remaining dwindled and dwindled, until at last there were but four: Borel and Luc and Celeste and a man from a place called the Wyldwood-Regar by name, tall and lithe and uncommonly handsome, and many thought he might be one of the Fey, perhaps even an Elf.
Back moved the targets and back, and still none was a clear winner. But finally the range was such that Celeste and her smaller bow, with a pull not equal to those of the three men, at last fell out of the competition.
And now it was Luc and Borel and Regar, and the judges moved the targets one more time, the range now uncommonly distant, and the onlookers gasped at the skill involved. Arrows flew to strike the small central circle afar, yet in the end Borel prevailed by nought but a single shaft. And the crowd roared its approval.
“Well played,” said Regar, running a hand through his yellow hair. “I had not been bested erenow.”
“Who knows?” said Borel. “Were we to have another go, it could readily be you or Luc who would be the champion crowned; and forget not Celeste, for she could just as easily have won as well.”
“Oui,” said Luc. “Last summer it was I who prevailed, and the summer before it was she.”
“Then let us gather her up and share a glass of wine,” said Regar.
“Non, Regar, not for me, but surely you and Borel and Celeste can do so,” said Luc. “I must excuse myself, for I will need all my wits and skill in the knightly competition to come.”
“You are a chevalier, then?”
“Oui. And three contests remain: dueling with epees, the melee, and jousting. And I am opposed by three brothers-Roel, Blaise, and Laurent-boon companions and worthy knights all.”
. .
The tips of the epees were slathered with red ochre, and the contest begun, and whenever a hit was made, the judges looked at the mark and decided whether or no it was a fatal strike, a major wound, or a minor one. A fatal blow would of course end the match; otherwise points decided the victor, with an opponent’s own points being reduced if he had suffered a major wound.
The final match came down to Blaise and Luc, and in the end both had suffered a major wound, but Luc then struck Blaise with a second major, and thus was awarded the contest.
Next came the melee, and for the first time, amid the chnkk!
and thdd! of padded weapons, Laurent was the champion.
By this time it was midafternoon, and the knights retired to their tents to prepare for the jousting.
. .
And a small girl bearing a bouquet of wildflowers wandered through the hustle and bustle of the grounds, as she made her way toward the arena. Finally, reaching her goal, she scanned the guests until she espied the one she sought. Then she turned and traipsed away.
. .
On Camille’s shoulder, Scruff suddenly perked up, and he grabbed a tress of Camille’s golden hair and repeatedly tugged.
“What is it, Scruff? What do you see?”
Scruff chirped excitedly.
Avelaine looked at the wee bird and then at Camille. “What is he doing?”
. .
Looking about to see that no one was nigh, the small girl set aside her flowers, and reached up to her neck and took out a vial. “Remember, my love,” she muttered, “you need to cast a glamour to disguise the dress.” Then she drank down the contents and tossed the vial aside.
. .
“Scruff only does this when he senses a peril of some sort,” said Camille.
“What peril?” asked Avelaine, looking about.
Camille’s own gaze sought the cause. “I do not know.”
“Should we tell the king?”
“Oui.”
. .
There sounded a soft step at the entry to Luc’s tent. Luc turned about to see Liaze. “Come to wish me luck?”
“Oui, beloved, I do, and yet I come for another reason as well.”
“Another reason?” He reached for her, and she came into his arms willingly. “And what might that be?” he whispered.
She gave a low throaty laugh, but then turned serious. “The amulet, the key. I wouldn’t wish it to take damage in the joust.