Booths of food-sellers tried to tempt them to partake of their fare, and various hucksters called out for good gentlemen and ladies to try their games: axe throwing, mad archery, toss the ball, and other such diversions.
“Why do they call it ‘mad archery’?” asked Simone, as they strolled by the bow-and-arrow booth.
“Ah. The arrows are bent and curved and crooked and the fletching twisted,” said Celeste. “The fun comes in watching their flight toward the many targets. Trying to strike the central bull’s eye and win a prize is quite challenging.”
“Are none of the shafts straight?” asked Emile.
“Straight as a sand viper,” said Borel, laughing.
On they went, pausing a moment before the puppet theater, where the crowd laughed as one of the puppets-a female with a skillet-beat upon a poor, hapless, masked burglar, driving him howling around the tiny stage. As the playlet ended, Borel dropped a coin or two into the passing hat. Then he and the family moved on.
And as they threaded among the throng, the citizens bowed and curtseyed in deference to the royalty, and the royalty acknowledged such with smiles and nods and hand gestures.
At last they reached the arena, and entered the central box.
Horns sounded and Valeray and Saissa took the thrones, while the others took seats alongside or down a tier or two before the royal couple. Across the field and beyond a stout fence running the width of the rise, spectators bowed and curtseyed. When the king and queen were seated and the horns sounded again, the citizenry straightened and waited in anticipation.
A herald rode to the ground before the king’s box and saluted and said, “My lord?”
And Valeray replied, “Let the games begin.” The herald blew a blast on his trump, and the crowd cheered.
. .
After the caber toss-won by a giant of a man, a crofter from the fields in the Summerwood-the herald rode out and about the floor of the arena and cried out, “
Simone turned to Avelaine. “Is that true? Have people been maimed, even killed?”
“Oh, Maman, worry not, for the hammer throwers are very good.”
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
