Chapter 36
Father and the men scheduled a welcoming ceremony for Baron the next afternoon.
Normally, there would be a specific initiation ritual following the welcoming ceremony to formally induct the new member into our band.
But the men were still nervous about making Baron a fully-fledged member, so the probation was a compromise, a test to allow Baron the opportunity to prove his loyalty to our group.
Ironically, the men were even more eager than normal for the welcoming ceremony because of Baron’s background. They’d made an excessive number of jokes about it, and Baron hadn’t helped things when we’d first announced the ceremony.
“So, are we talking animal sacrifices or blood oaths or what?” he had asked seriously.
There’d been a moment of stunned silence before I asked in astonishment, “What types of ceremonies have you been to?”
Will Stutely let out a wild guffaw, and Baron had been utterly confused as to what any sort of induction ceremony would look like without some bloody ritual.
“You sure you pick this guy?” Father had asked me in an aside, eyeing Baron apprehensively after his remark about blood oaths.
Father’s concern was touching, and I knew the men would eventually come to trust and love Baron as I did, but it would take a while.
In the meantime, we would have the ceremony, and I was just as excited as any of the men.
It would be a day of games and feasting.
I knew that Baron had been to precious few parties and celebrations, and the raucous gatherings that the sheriff occasionally hosted—festooned with scantily clad dancing girls and kegs of ale—could not have been more different from what we had planned.
Normally it was easier to plan such festivities, but since we were in unfamiliar territory and still working hard to avoid any suspicion, we had to lie low.
Sam and Tildy had been more than hospitable and now went out of their way to collect all the items the men needed from town.
Will Scarlet had disguised himself to enter the marketplace and procure a few of the things that Sam and Tildy weren’t familiar with.
The men became wildly secretive about what was to come and poked an immense amount of fun at Baron, telling him that they still had to find a boar to slaughter or find curved ceremonial blades for the ritualistic slitting of his wrists.
Baron, well aware of his naivety when it came to healthy friendships, took all of it in good fun, and I was proud of how well he was progressing when it came to getting along with all of the men.
Finally, the time came. All that morning, most of the men and I had been tasked with setting up for the activities.
I’d volunteered to keep Baron out of the way so he wouldn’t see what we were setting up, but Father had put his foot down, saying that he’d seen the way I kept Baron’s attention diverted and that he didn’t want to see that disgusting spectacle again.
So instead, James kept Baron company as the rest of us set up in a nearby forest clearing.
We allowed Sam and Tildy to attend and watch—an unprecedented honor. Normally, our ceremonies were very exclusive in who could attend. But we made an exception for Sam and Tildy because of their continued hospitality.
James led Baron blindfolded into the clearing, then pulled off the blindfold with a flourish, revealing what we had been working on.
Baron looked around at everything. Targets were set up, circles drawn, and we had even improvised a few colorful banners, mostly made from Tildy’s rag bag, which fluttered festively in the warm spring breeze.
“Welcome, everyone!” Dale stepped up. He was always the one to lead at the games. “Welcome to the welcoming ceremony of Baron Blackwellson! Let the games begin!”
Following tradition, we began with the quarterstaff battle to commemorate Little John’s original defeat of Father when they’d first met.
We had constructed a narrow footbridge over a stream, and everyone took a turn pairing off and, each armed with a quarterstaff, and tried to knock the other into the stream below.
Father, whose ribs were still tender, sat out.
I was lucky and felled a blow to the back of Alan’s knees early on and won my first match.
Baron also defeated Will Scarlet. In the second round, I was paired against Little John and was dumped into the stream within a few seconds.
Baron, unfamiliar with the use of a quarterstaff, also went down to James.
As usual, Little John swept all of his matches and was crowned Quarterstaff Champion yet again. He had never been defeated.
After the quarterstaff battle, we moved on to the footraces.
We always bemoaned the fact that everyone except Little John now had to compete while soaked to our skins, but the footrace was to help us dry off quickly.
The first race was a sprint, just across the clearing and back.
Sam, delighted at being asked to help, acted as our starter and Tildy was the judge.
We all took our places, toeing the line that had been dug into the dirt.
“Ready. Set. Go!” Sam called, succinct for once, and we all sprinted off.
Baron and I had a slight advantage over our competition this time.
While the men had all been in prison for a few months, starved and cramped in tiny cells, we had fared better and been well-fed.
It was a distinctive mark to show how physically fit they all were that they still did so well.
Lincoln, lean with his long legs, usually won this event, but his time in prison had evidently taken some of his speed.
I surprised myself by taking the lead early on, but Lincoln overtook me and won yet again.
However, when we went for the three-mile run, Will Stutely surpassed everyone and took first place.
Arm wrestling came next. This was the event where I came in last place, as usual.
Any event that came down to raw strength over skill or speed I would lose.
But as I told the men, I would rather lose honestly than have them go easy on me and chalk up a false win.
And they always tried their best. Dale, who always lost before I had joined the group, was more than pleased to force my arm down onto the flat rock we used as the table before raising his arms in triumph.
The rest of the men all paired off, grunting with exertion as they matched their strength against each other.
The final match came down to Baron and Little John, both immense men, with Little John the taller at nearly seven feet.
They eyed each other’s arms with well-practiced appraising eyes before kneeling on opposite sides of the flat rock.
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, somewhat overconfident 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 tended to 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 word miss.
“Forward it is!”
Will Scarlet went first. Lincoln and Will Stutely both began running from opposite ends of the clearing, carrying the targets at 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.
All the winners of the events lined up to receive their prizes. Dale pranced among them, setting crowns of woven grasses and flowers onto their heads with words of praise. Little John, as tall as he was, pretended to sniff the flowers in everyone else’s hair as he walked behind them.
Baron had a crown of red roses placed in his dark hair.
“Does he get a kiss from the prettiest as a prize too?” Will Stutely hooted, waving me forward. I folded my arms and glared at him.
“You bet he does!” Dale answered quickly. “Come here, you!” He puckered his lips, pretending like he was going to stand on tiptoe to peck Baron on the cheek.
Baron, now alarmed, leapt back in shock, and all the men rolled around in laughter again.
“You all are cruel!” I said, even as I laughed along with them.
“Yeah, you aren’t his type, Dale!”
Tildy came up to announce that it was time for dinner at that point, and Baron was spared from any further embarrassment.