Drifting Shadows

by Christine Green

  Chance, that was all he needed.

  On Saturday Becky told Thirza she had duties to perform at the Manor. She would be back in the evening, for her usual visit. She avoided Will’s frowning face as she walked through the yard. ‘Not goin’ to the fight, I hope?’

  He looked ready to argue, so she smiled calmly. ‘I’ve been told not to go. Father said women don’t watch fights.’

  Will nodded. ‘He’s right. I’ll go, come and tell you what’s what when it’s over. You stay with Dinah and Ma.’ His sharp eyes were piercing.

  Becky made no reply, just walked away. She heard him call after her, a note of quick anger in his voice. ‘You hear me, Becks – you stay at home.’

  She waved a dismissive hand as she left the yard. Let him get on with his work; she must live her own life. She would do exactly as she had planned. The little linhay half way up Bonehill would be her refuge. Memory struck then, and she held it close. She and Joseph, loving.

  She would slip in there before everybody arrived, then, when the fight started, make her way up and around to the Rocks, where she could find a shelter of some sort to hide and watch. Of course she must be there. She felt the blood race through her body at the thought. It would be an ordeal, to watch, to see them grapple, twist and push, using all the strength they could find to get a winning hold and force the other’s body to the ground, but she must see it. Must be there, in case…. She took in a long breath that only briefly stayed the knot in her stomach – in case Joseph was hurt. He wouldn’t be, of course, he was so big and strong, and compared with him, Nat Briggs was a weakling, but – in case….

  The day dawned in true autumn style, a damp wind soughing through branches in the valleys and the drifting mist hiding the tors on the high moorland. Rain was expected and, later in the afternoon, Joseph saw the arriving watchers wearing heavy coats and battered hats. He had come in good time, journeying in Dan’l’s horse and cart, along with some acquaintances from the Hexworthy farms, all willing to spend an hour or so helping to organize this unexpected and exciting event.

  He watched as pony and sheep dung was cleared away before the stakes forming the ring were dug in, enclosing a fighting area of some fifteen yards. Laughter and loud talk accompanied the work, and he waited impatiently, with a stomach full of nervous energy, for the hour to arrive. More people were coming than he had expected – more support, he told himself stoutly – and most of them, probably – he managed a grin, hearing the rough words being thrown about – only too glad to be there in the hope of seeing Nat Briggs defeated.

  There was Mr Fielding and his gentlemen friends, all farmers and land owners, arriving on horseback or in traps and gigs, even the Master of the Hunt in his bowler hat, the air thick around them with laughter and talk. Then farmer Narracott rattled up in his old gig, gathering together a crowd of other farmers, clearly eager to discuss the odds and make bets. Another reason to bring Briggs down and not let people lose money, thought Joseph grimly.

  Dan’l Hunt found him. ‘Here you be, Joe – me dad’s skillibegs. Tie ’em round yer legs, t’will keep the kicks from breakin’ anything.’

  Joseph, in the shadow of the big rocks, nodded. He strapped on the hay-lined thick pads and felt better. He looked around for Briggs, wondering if perhaps, after all, the little bit of cowshit had fled. And then – there he was, mounted on his old cob, making the crowd give way before him, throwing a word here, a false smile there.

  Joseph felt his pulse rate settle. It would work out all right. The fight was on. Not long now, and he would win. His frown was grimly resolute. So much depended on winning – the purse would be useful, his reputation would be established, the possibility of future plans would become clearer, and, of course, he would offer his triumph to Becky.

  Beloved Becky. All this for Becky – but don’t think of her now.

  Standing straight and strong, boots laced tightly, shirt loosely falling around him and breeches secured with a thick leather belt, he looked around him, finding the enclosing moorland a comfort, a reassurance. He knew he had learned to understood the moor and its moods, and thought it possibly understood him. Now it made sense to him that this small, seemingly unimportant event was all of a kind with his other experiences of moorland living. He must square up to the situation, make the most of it, somewhere find extra strength and endurance, and then it would reward him, Bonehill Rocks always remaining in his memory as the last bastion of challenges that life had been continually throwing at him ever since he left the Workhouse. This, surely, would see the very last of vulnerable young Jack Adams.

  But voices were calling. ‘Freeman! Briggs!’ He left the shelter of the rockface and walked out into the rope enclosed ring, surrounded now by eager faces. The judging sticklers stood on the edge of the ring, ready to keep spectators back with their staffs and to ensure fair play.

  The man in charge was a large, red-faced farmer from Throwleigh way, whose ancestor William Cann had been a champion wrestler. He marched into the ring, looked around the circle of eager watchers, and then addressed the fighters. ‘Freeman and Briggs – no gouging, no tripping, no kicking above the knees. Four falls’ll win. Touch hands, if you please.’

  Joseph felt Briggs’s damp hand hardly touching his, and saw his closely set eyes squinting at him as he muttered, ‘I’ll get you,’ before backing away. Joseph leaned down, arms hanging forwards, eyes fixed on Briggs’s thin, tense body taking up the same stance, both of them eager to make the first move.

  Joseph sucked in a breath, nodded, and waited. It was vital to know just how Briggs was going to fight; what were his weak points, his strengths? Only a few seconds to wait, then Briggs pushed forward, to grab hold of Joseph’s loose shirt. Joseph felt the force of the arms trying to ram him off balance. For a small man Briggs had great strength. There were catcalls from the watchers and Joseph knew instinctively that he must be ready for illegal moves; Briggs wasn’t the man to play fair. The warning shouts continued. ‘Watch ’is heels – no hitches!’

  The sticklers moved with the fight, intent on every step the two men took. Once a stick was pushed between them as Briggs held the flapping shirt and aimed a kick at Joseph’s thigh hidden beneath it.

  ‘Unfair!’ came the shouts and they parted again. But in the next second Joseph heaved himself towards Briggs with all his force and kicked at his legs. He felt the bone-thudding crash hit home and knew cruel joy.

  A shout of approval whirled around his head, but no longer was he listening. He was lost in this brutal, enclosed world, getting into the right position to tackle that small, twisting body, finding a way out of the revengeful, hardened iron-tipped boots that aimed at vulnerable parts of his own legs. There were agonizing moments of yielding and having to accept the pain of sly kicks, craftily and quickly hidden by another easier attack, so far unseen by the sticklers.

  Rain began to fall, cooling Joseph’s sweating body, soaking into the turf beneath his feet, oozing in slippery little channels and adding to the danger of Brigg’s thin, seemingly armour-plated feet always just a few inches away from his own, hitting home. He felt blood soaking through the skillibeg on one leg where the string had come untied, leaving him unprotected.

  Not a wound, but a spur. He pressed on with extra strength, determined to floor the man who danced so expertly on thin legs, cleverly using iron tips to find painful spots, unseen by the sticklers moving around them.

  Friendly voices helped. ‘Come on, Freeman, give that l’il hayseed what for….’

  And then, suddenly, he found the way to hold Briggs still, and in that second he floored him. Briggs was on his back, breathless, lying on the now rain-soaked turf, staring up with narrow eyes full of disbelief and fury.

  ‘One fall,’ shouted the judging stickler and the crowd roared approval. Briggs pulled himself up, rubbed his back, glared at Joseph, and then took his stance and at once Joseph knew he was in graver danger than before. But he knew now how his opponent fought; quick moves, hurried grabs, fo
rceful unseen and illegal kicks where it hurt, a lithe body that spun away within a second of each attack. Joseph clamped his lips together and planned exactly how to deal with this cheating little wretch. He was ready with his hands now, quick to draw Brigg’s shirt so close that kicking legs had no chance of reaching their target. And with that nearness, all his strength streamed out, lifting the body and throwing it down.

  One fall, and then two. A third to Briggs, after he managed a sly trip of Joseph’s feet and more shouts and an intervention by a stickler. ‘No tripping. Any more and we’ll disqualify.’

  It seemed to Joseph, half blinded by the rain and his sweat, that the fight would never end. He hoped he would last out and win, but realized that it was more than a match; Briggs’s staring eyes and rictus expression of hate claimed it was a fight to the death.

  Becky was watching, persuaded almost without knowing from her half hidden position at the back of the crowd. Although women were not supposed to watch such fights, she found herself being treated in a friendly fashion. ‘Here, maid, step in front – you can see better.’ And then she was there, among the fidgeting, shouting spectators, letting their enthusiasm edge into her own mind. Yes, it was brutal sport, but she was being forced into understanding the appeal of watching those two men using all their instinctive knowledge and strength to try and floor one another.

  She almost forgot it was Joseph fighting Nat Briggs – but then Nat fell and she saw the expression on his face as he pulled himself up. An evil scowl, determined on revenge. And her feelings changed. But for all her growing hatred of this brutality, she knew she had to watch. What had Joseph said, when he left her not long ago? If you think of me, and I think of you, we’re together. She knew he wasn’t thinking of her now, but she would send all her thoughts and longings to him, and perhaps they would somehow reach him.

  She watched as the rain fell increasingly heavier and guessed that danger had become more acute. The heavy, hard boots were slipping, bodies out of control for that split second that could bring pain and another fall. Nat fell again, but then it was Joseph who overbalanced as he grabbed at the twisting body just out of reach. There were immediate shouts of concern. Joseph was the hoped for winner, but the score was only just in his favour. And then he fell again – this time as Nat lured him into a clinch that was slyly aiming a kick at his body. More warnings, and on it went.

  Becky felt her stomach knotting with every move they made. The score mounted. Three all now and everything depended on the next moves and which of them could make the other yield. She could see they were both tiring. Rain and sweat poured down their heated faces, and the arms that reached for victory were growing heavy and slow. Joseph’s leg was red with blood and he winced as another sly kick reached for his groin. Becky closed her eyes for a second, but forced them to open again. It would be over soon – the next fall deciding victory. The crowd’s increasingly rough shouts scoured her mind clean of everything save her desperate need of Joseph’s safety.

  And then, as she watched, she noticed a stickler momentarily dropping his staff and bending to retrieve it in a fatal second of lost concentration, and in that moment her eyes moved to Nat and she saw him grin, knew he was up to something wicked, and held her breath. She saw his right hand reach out, fingers extended. It swung to within an inch of Joseph’s face, and then swept on towards his eye.

  Gouging.

  ‘No!’ Horror-stricken, her scream was loud enough to silence the shouts for a second, its echo booming among the surrounding rocks. Silence, and then, as the stickler pushed his staff between the two bodies, separating them, again the voices exploded in fury.

  The stickler had to shout to make himself heard. ‘No gouging! You know that. Briggs, You’re disqualified.’

  Becky found herself swept up in a vast movement of heated bodies leaping forward into the ring, breaking the rope and surrounding the two gasping men. Briggs was pummeled and pushed around, while Joseph was helped into the shelter of the rocks. Becky watched, praying that he was safe but knowing she must wait. She left the sticklers and Joseph’s friends to offer drying towels, warm clothes and a mouthful of cider, and retreated back to her hiding place within the side of the rockpile.

  Her breath was short and painful, her body ached as if she, too, had been at the mercy of those wicked arms and kicking feet, her mind overwhelmed with terrible images. She wanted just to be left alone to recover – and then, turning, saw Nat Briggs being chased out of the ring, limping unevenly over the soaking turf, nearing her in his bid to reach his pony and escape.

  Their eyes met. He took a step sideways, scowled, and thrust out his fist. ‘You bitch! You did it – you stopped me getting him. Well, you’ll ’ave it instead.’ Face contorted, he put the last ounce of his failing strength into a punch which caught her on the side of her head and then ran off, into the drifting mist and the pouring rain.

  Becky felt a cloud of pain sweep through her head, and, gasping, fell to the ground.

  She was falling into a black abyss, falling, falling. Her last horrified thought was is Joseph safe? And where is he…?

  CHAPTER 22

  He was there at her bedside. Opening her eyes she looked straight into his, grey, wide, fearful.

  ‘Becky.’ His voice was deep and full of anguish. ‘You’ve come back to me, thank the Lord. What happened? But no, you mustn’t talk, not yet. Just rest.’ He was on his knees beside her, his hands holding hers, warm and strong.

  Weakly, she looked around. She was in her bedroom at the Manor, with Joseph on one side of her and Thirza and Mrs Mudge on the other. If she looked down towards the end of the bed she saw her father standing there, staring down at her, his lined face tight with anxiety.

  Her family, her friend Mrs Mudge and Joseph, her lover. What more could she want? The pain in Becky’s head pulsed and ached, but somehow she smiled. They were all here, caring for her, and Joseph was alive! She turned to him, caught the expression on his face and knew their thoughts had come together, even though they were silent.

  Rupert Fielding was speaking, his voice low and rapid. ‘I’ve sent for Dr Gale. He should be here soon. You must stay where you are, Becky, and just rest. We don’t know what happened, but it’s clear you had a blow to your head.’

  She was able to breathe better now. Longer breaths, clearer thoughts. The pain coming and going but not stopping her from needing to tell them. ‘It was Nat,’ she whispered. ‘He was trying to get away, and he saw me – and – and….’ But then it was too much to have to live through it all again. The expression on his face, his terrible words, and then the blow that brought darkness and pain. She closed her eyes and tried to forget.

  Thirza was bending over her. ‘Poor lamb, try an’ sleep. Doctor’ll give you some’at for the pain when he comes, but rest now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Becky was slipping back into the comfort of drowsy forgetfulness, but Joseph’s hands remained holding hers, giving her the warm security of being loved. After a moment or two she slept and the two women at her bedside carefully left the room, Mrs Mudge whispering to Thirza, ‘Come down and have a cup of tea while I make some broth for the poor maid.’

  Rupert caught Joseph’s eye. He nodded at him. ‘You did well, Freeman. That evil little bastard tried every trick, but you finally floored him. I understand he’s gone now. His cottage is empty, his clothes cleared out and his cob with him. Making an escape – and he’s lucky to do so. Many of the spectators wanted to get him.’

  Standing up, Joseph slipped his hands away from Becky’s, now that she slept. He grimaced as his back complained of undue exertion and bad treatment, and his voice was dark as he said, ‘Just as well he’s gone. If he’d stayed around I would have hunted him down. Hurting Becky….’ He shook his head and his jaw tightened with his thoughts.

  Rupert looked at the strong weathered face with its deep-set eyes and tight mouth and understood the feelings that remained unsaid. ‘You’re all right, yourself? That kick to your leg needs attentio
n. Dr. Gale can look at it when he comes.’

  ‘No need. Something to tie round it, that’s all it wants. And anyhow, I have to get back to work. I can’t stay here.’

  ‘But Becky—?’ Rupert’s voice rose.

  ‘She’ll understand.’ Quiet, clipped words and Joseph walked stiffly towards the door.

  ‘I leave her with you, sir, and know she’ll be well looked after. Tell her, please, that I have one more thing to do and then I’ll be back.’

  Rupert said nothing for a moment, but then, as Joseph’s hand reached out to open the door, he said spontaneously, ‘Wait a moment, Freeman. Something I want to discuss with you. It’s important. Why not spend the night here and give yourself time to recover properly before you go back to Hexworthy? And of course Becky will want to see you again when she awakes. What about it?’

  Joseph took a deep, long breath. Tempting to accept this invitation; a sluice under the yard pump, a good hot meal, a bandage or two and then somewhere to sleep off the aches and pains and bad memories of the day. And another few moments with Becky tomorrow. a chance to know that she really was recovering. Slowly letting his breath out, he grinned wryly. ‘I can’t say no, so thank you, sir. I’ll stay and make my excuses to Mr Narracott when I get back there tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll understand. After all, you’re the hero of the day. He won’t put you off.’ Rupert’s voice was jovial and he walked slowly around the room to sit at Becky’s bedside, nodding as Joseph left the room. Deep in thought he began making plans. Plans for the future, for himself and for both of them, Becky and her sweetheart. Turning to look at her, sleeping peacefully now, he realized that life certainly brought shadows, but also, surprisingly, allowed the sun to shine and dispel them. It was a new and welcome thought.