Vol 5: The Duel at Destiny Manor
“Let it be known — the lawn shall decide.”
It began, as all proper duels do, with a small glove and a large sense of occasion.
That morning, just as the ivy on Destiny Manor finished stretching itself in the sun, Mr B. Archer stood firm on the gravel driveway. Before him loomed Sir Reginald Ticklebottom, monocled menace and purveyor of puffery, flanked by his usual cloud of smug.
Without a word, Mr B. Archer plucked a tiny white glove from his pocket and let it fall with theatrical flair.
Sir Reg snorted. “A gauntlet? On my gravel?”
“A challenge,” said Mr B. Archer calmly, “at high noon, on the bowling lawn. Mano-a-mano. Wingtip to wingtip.”
By midday, the village was a-buzz. The bowling lawn — usually reserved for cucumber sandwiches and extremely polite disputes — was surrounded by every insect in the valley. Bees with binoculars, ants with folding chairs, even a centipede selling commemorative bookmarks.
Sir Reg appeared first, gliding in with a dramatic swirl of his velvet cape, a polished shield strapped to his arm, and a spear so sharp it could slice through a biscuit tin (though, sadly, it never had the chance).
Then came Mr B. Archer — bow across his back, eyes steady, tie only slightly askew from a brisk march across the green.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The two adversaries squared up once more, just as they had that morning — only now the sun sat higher, the stakes taller, and the sandwiches noticeably fewer.
Sir Reg barked, “Draw your weapon!”
Mr B. Archer did.
He cocked a single arrow, eyes fixed not on the hornet before him... but on something higher.
The Ticklebottom family crest — a great stone emblem perched above the manor’s doorway — glistened in the light.
With a gentle twang, the arrow shot skyward, arcing with perfect elegance…
CRACK!
The crest split, wobbled... and came crashing down in a dramatic plume of heritage and gravel dust.
Silence.
Sir Reg, shield still raised, stared at the ruins of his legacy. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then promptly lost all interest in duelling, honour, and — reportedly — embroidery club, for the foreseeable future.
Mr B. Archer gave a slight bow. “Some crests aren’t worth carrying.”
Then, to the amazement of all, he turned to the gathered crowd and called:
“Now then. Who’s up for an end of lawn bowls?”
A final word from Mr B. Archer:
"True victory rarely needs a sting. Sometimes, all it takes is knowing exactly where to aim — and the courage to aim there."