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 loudthudthat 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 followedthroughout the day. Several of the women had a quilting competition, where they presenteddifferent 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.
