27. Laurel
LAUREL
Agloomy haze seemed to linger over the forest so it didn’t feel quite as cheerful as I remembered.
Everyone greeted me when I arrived, calling my name from beside cookfires, practice fields, and the paths between cottages.
I bobbed my head and waved in acknowledgement, but my heart wasn’t in it.
I’d told myself that returning to Sherwood Forest, even briefly, would make everything feel right again.
This was home. The prospect of a weekend filled with celebration, contests, and laughter ought to have cheered me up at once.
It didn’t.
Everything looked muted. A gray mist hung beneath the branches of the treetop canopy and drifted all the way to the ground.
The leaves seemed duller than usual, the paths quieter, the familiar cottages appeared less welcoming than they should’ve been.
This was the same forest I knew and loved, but somehow it felt as though the color had been washed out of it while I was gone.
Or perhaps that was only me.
“Nice horse,” Peter called out.
I turned to see Little John’s son crossing toward me with his easy, familiar stride. He was taller than I remembered, though perhaps everyone seemed taller now that I was so thoroughly exhausted by castle corridors and servant work.
“Thanks.” I swung down from the saddle and tossed him the reins. “It belongs to an old boyfriend. Take care of his pony for me, would you? I have to return him later.”
“Old boyfriend?” Peter asked curiously.
I turned and walked away before he could ask anything more. “Just take care of the horse.”
I did not want to discuss Baron. Not with Peter. Not with anyone.
Little John had done his best to host a fun tournament, and I was determined to enjoy it.
At first, that determination required more effort than I expected.
With more than half of the Merry Men missing and after the grandeur of the tournament held in honor of the new Sheriff of Nottingham, this one seemed a little lackluster.
The decorations were far simpler, the crowd much smaller, and the cheers not nearly as loud.
I hated that I noticed. I hated even more that the comparison brought Baron to mind when I had sworn a thousand times over that I was done thinking about him.
Most of the usual events ended almost immediately after beginning.
Without the strongest contenders present, Little John dominated most events, I easily won the knife-throwing contest, and Lincoln’s son Louis, who had inherited his father’s agility, won all the footraces without any trouble at all.
I’d always reveled in the vicious satisfaction that came from a win, but even victory felt a little hollow when it came too easily.
But after two days, the celebration began to improve my mood.
Or perhaps I became better at forcing myself to enjoy it.
The sun finally broke through the mist, brightening the green of the leaves and warming the damp ground beneath our feet.
Children ran between the trees with ribbons tied around their wrists.
Women laid out food on long tables. Men who had been gone on shorter missions returned in time to join in some of the later games.
Slowly, the forest began to sound like home again.
I relished the competitions, the more difficult, the better. I’d always loved a good challenge, and a demanding challenge was exactly what I needed. Anything that forced my mind onto strategy, movement, and winning was far preferable to thinking about my father’s absence, or anything else.
During the wrestling matches, everyone was paired off, and the winners moved to the next round.
I did very well for most of my matches. I was paired against several of the youth in Sherwood Forest and made quick work of all of them.
They wrestled each other often enough, but they still hesitated when facing a girl.
I held no such reservations, and within seconds, I had them pinned in the dirt while the younger children cheered.
Only the initiated members of the Merry Men gave me real competition. They never held back and had no qualms about knocking me flat if I deserved it. Eventually, I was paired against Lincoln.
He wasn’t nearly as large as Little John or Baron, so I had a chance of defeating him, and in terms of skill, we were fairly evenly matched. But Lincoln’s long arms and legs gave him a clear advantage. His reach was far greater than mine, and he knew exactly how to use it.
When our round began, Lincoln wasted no time.
He pounced immediately, driving his shoulder into my middle to knock me to the ground.
I clenched my abdomen just in time to keep the wind from being knocked out of me completely, but I still hit the ground with a loud thud that made several onlookers groan in sympathy.
I spun at once to avoid being pinned and tucked my chin down so Lincoln could not get one of his long, thin arms around my throat.
He grabbed for me, but I rolled away and leapt back onto my feet.
“Go, Laurel!” cheered a young girl’s voice from the crowd.
I grinned. Lincoln was back on his feet too, breathing harder than before. “You’re getting slow, Lincoln,” I teased.
He grinned back and ran at me again.
This time, I ducked beneath his arm, pivoted sharply, and jumped onto his back.
I wrapped my legs around his torso, locked my ankles, and began to squeeze with all the strength I had.
At the same moment, I slipped one arm around his neck and forced his head forward with the other.
He struggled for breath and reached for my arm, trying to pry me away, but I clung tight to his back and held on.
Lincoln twisted and turned, but I refused to loosen my grip. His strength was beginning to fade. Finally, he did the only sensible thing left and fell straight backward.
His full body weight slammed me into the ground.
Pain shot through my back and shoulders, and tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them.
I continued to hold on, blinking hard as my vision blurred.
Lincoln rolled onto his side and reached over his shoulder to grab at me.
I buried my face into my arms to avoid his hands, and he caught the back of my tunic instead.
A loud ripping sound split through the cheers.
There goes another good tunic, I thought, but still refused to yield.
At last, Lincoln slapped the ground to signal that he was beaten. I let go immediately and rolled off him, breathing hard and trying not to look as battered as I felt.
“Well done,” I told him, dabbing at my streaming eyes.
He massaged his throat. “Same to you.”
Then he took a good look at my tunic and winced. “Sorry about that. I’ll fix it for you.”
I looked down to where the seams had torn along both sides. I shrugged. “It was worth it to beat you.”
“Only this time.” Lincoln waggled a finger at me. “I’ll get you next time.”
Little John gave me one of his daughters’ shirts to replace my ripped one while it was being repaired, then added with a grin that he was to be my final competitor in wrestling.
I lost most spectacularly.
For several minutes, Little John simply stood there while I attempted a variety of attacks and holds.
I even tried the same trick I had used on Lincoln, but I couldn’t get my legs to wrap properly around Little John’s torso, and he simply looked amused by my efforts.
Nothing worked. Once he attacked back, I had no chance. He had me pinned within seconds.
“Yield?” he asked.
“I’m considering my options,” I grunted into the dirt.
“You have none.”
“I yield.”
The crowd laughed, and Little John helped me up.
More events followed throughout the day.
Several of the women had a quilting competition, where they presented different quilts and everyone voted on which was best. Boring.
It was the same with the young girls who showed off their stitched samplers.
I examined each one to be polite, but privately thought I would rather scrub every floor in Nottingham Castle than sit each day attending to tiny threaded patterns.
I saw a crowd clustered around a table and went to investigate, eager for any distraction from the patchwork quilts.
Everyone was watching Peter Little and Dalton, one of Dale’s sons, play chess.
I smiled as I joined the throng. At least chess was interesting to watch.
Friar Tuck had taught all the youth in Sherwood Forest how to play and it was a popular pastime.
I was a thoroughly mediocre player as I tended to under-analyze positions and didn’t plan my attacks with as much foresight as I ought to.
My father had lamented this fact more than once and said it made me a poor strategist for battle plans.
My response was always that I did not need to lead an army. I was a spy, not a commander.
Even so, I enjoyed observing chess games.
Peter was an excellent player, the best after Friar Tuck. He sat with one elbow on the table, his expression focused as he slowly whittled down Dalton’s defenses. Piece by piece, Dalton’s position collapsed. Eventually, his king was forced to the side, and Peter checkmated him.
Applause broke out from the watching crowd, and Peter and Dalton shook hands.
“Who’s next?” Peter called.
“He already beat everyone,” grumbled Teresa, Dale’s daughter. She leaned comfortably on her crutch and gave Peter an annoyed look. “There isn’t anyone left.”
“Laurel, how about you?” Dalton called. I shook my head immediately, but my refusal went unheard. Hands pushed me down into Dalton’s vacated seat before I could escape.
“I’ll lose,” I protested.
“You aren’t that bad,” Peter assured me.
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m flattered.”
But people were clamoring for me to play, and this was supposed to be a week of games, after all. Peter generously offered me the white pieces so I could move first.