“I know.” But he cannot keep her from leaving me.
Snelling, just ahead, had pushed through the throng and was climbing the County Hall’s stairs. The magnificent stone building had a ground floor open on all four sides so that the upper stories appeared to be on stilts; on this ground floor, also of stone, the ring—fashioned of poles and ropes—had been erected. When the crowd saw Snelling, they sent up a thunderous cry of excitement, nearly drowning his full-bodied shout:
“And now, all the way from Edinburgh, Scotland, let me introduce Angus ‘the Butcher’ Campbell!”
The Scot shoved his way through the crowd and charged up into the ring, where Snelling and Woodford, who would act as his second, waited. The crowd roared in excitement, rabidly eager to see the match begin. As the din rose all around him, the Butcher, grinning confidently, shook his fist in the air, his great voice booming out over the Market Place:
“Sendin’ yer Wild One off to dreamland is what I’ll be doin’, and when I’m done with him, I’ll challenge any mon in this crowd to come up on stage and take me on!”
“Bloody hell,” Cokeham breathed, his the only comment among Den members who had suddenly gone abnormally quiet. Gareth felt the first prickle of uneasiness creeping up his spine, for at six feet three inches, the Scot towered over everyone like a fortress over a battleground. Built as though Nature had tailor-made him especially for the ring, he had a bull neck, a massive chest, and overly long arms that ended in great scarred fists the size of a plow horse’s hooves. This massive upper body tapered to a lean waist and strong, powerful thighs that were as stout as two oaks growing side by side.
“Holy shit,” said Audlett, finding his voice.
Cokeham was still staring. “Er, Gareth, maybe this might not be such a good idea—”
“Shut up,” Chilcot hissed from just behind them, making one of the first sensible comments of his life. “Gareth’s going to drub the daylights out of him, aren’t you, Gareth?”
“Either that or die trying,” Gareth quipped, studying his opponent, and in the next minute Snelling was beckoning him into the ring and the crowds went wild, cheering so loudly that Snelling’s introduction of him was lost in the clamor. A grim-faced Perry joined him as his second, and Chilcot took his place just outside the ring, the bottle containing Gareth’s ale held protectively close against his chest.
“I’ve done some checking on this strutting Celt,” Perry murmured, leaning close to Gareth. He watched Snelling’s men chalking out a square in the middle of the floor, keeping within the ropes that marked out the ring itself. “He’s a determined, rushing fighter and a tremendous hitter. He’s as agile with his left as he is his right, and hits remarkably straight. Watch yourself, okay? He’s going to try to put you out in the first round.”
Gareth stretched his muscles and rolled his shoulders, concentrating on his eagerness to get the fight underway. “Stop worrying, Perry. I’ll take care of him.”
“I dare say you will. Just watch yourself, that’s all I’m asking. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
“Right.” Grinning, Gareth waved to the crowd, which obviously wanted to see their roaring cheers acknowledged. “Just one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t stop the fight. No matter how badly I may get hurt, don’t stop the fight.”
“Gareth, as your friend and your second I’m going to stop it if I see fit.”
“Fine; then switch places with Chilcot, and I’ll have him be my second instead.”
Perry looked away, swearing helplessly under his breath.
“Thank you, old chap.” Gareth clapped his friend across the back. “I knew you’d come through.”
Across the ring, he watched the Scot flexing his muscles and eyeing him with undisguised malice as the rules were hurriedly explained: A man on his knees was reckoned to be down. If a man was down, his principal had half a minute to bring him back to the side of the chalked square, opposite his opponent, lest he be deemed a beaten man. No fighter was deemed beaten unless he failed to come back up to the line within thirty seconds. A man was beaten if his own second declared it so. Once the fighting began, no person was allowed on the stage except the principals and their seconds. No person could hit his adversary when he was down or seize him by the ham, the breeches, or any part below the waist.
Let’s just get this thing underway! Gareth thought wildly, his heart beginning to pound in a potent mixture of anxiety, anticipation, and mad-dog eagerness.
And then the seconds were escorting their fighters up to the line. They were both stripping off their shirts when Gareth, his not even off yet, heard the sudden roar of the crowd a half-second before Campbell’s body slammed into his with the force of a cannonball fired at close range. His neck snapped forward, the ropes collapsed behind him, and then there was nothing but empty space beneath him as he was hurled out of the ring and off the raised stone stage. He landed atop the heads and shoulders of several spectators and fell, twisting, to the street with a bone-jarring crash, there to lay in the dirt in humiliation while a circle of faces closed in on him from above, all shouting, screaming, and yelling at the top of their lungs for him to get up, get up, get up!
Enraged, Gareth was up like a game cock, taking the several steps leading to the stage in one bound, vaulting the re-erected ropes, and going straight for the smirking Scot with fists flying.
The crowd went insane.
And Campbell was loving every minute of it. He was grinning as Gareth’s fists, in lightning succession, connected with his jaw, his torso, his cheek, just standing back and taking it as if it amused him to allow his opponent to work himself up for the benefit of the roaring crowds. Only when Gareth’s bare knuckles caught him square in the stomach, slightly doubling him over, did the Butcher’s easy grin fade, and as Gareth came back with another punishing blow to his chin, he saw the mean glitter coming into Campbell’s eyes and knew the time had come when the Scot would get down to business.
And get down to business he did. Gareth never saw the great fist coming. One moment he was striking hard with his right, and the next thing he knew, it felt as though someone had whacked the side of his face with the butt end of a musket; he was down on his hands and knees, numbly shaking his head and wondering what the devil had hit him while the referee was screaming above him:
“Five six seven.”
“Get up!” the crowd was roaring, then Perry was hauling him roughly to his feet, barely getting him into his corner and back into the ring before the thirty seconds were up. Furious now, Gareth charged the grinning Scot. Calm down. Take your time; make each hit count; use skill and science here since he’s got it all over you in brute strength!
Bang, bang, bang—a hard chop to Campbell’s jaw, his chin, his arm, and then that lethal fist streaking out, right for Gareth’s face. Gareth’s own arm flashed up, blocking it neatly, although the blow rocked him like an earthquake might a building as his entire body shook with its force. He hit out again, fell short of his mark, and now the Butcher, smiling, was lashing out with short, leashed feints and punches, one aimed at Gareth’s eyes, another at his cheek, all the while backing him toward the ropes. Gareth blocked them all, his right arm as faithful a guard as it was a hitter, and then Campbell’s knuckles collided with his gut and he doubled over, gasping, biting back the involuntary surge of vomit even as the crowd went wild around him. The Scot seized him by the hair, bent him beneath his massive shoulder and began pounding him, hard, raining blows against his head like a hail of bricks. Wildly, Gareth struggled to get free, hair tearing from his scalp as he twisted, kicked out, and hammered his elbow into Campbell’s ribs, but the Scot held him tightly and was set to deliver a bruising punishment. Through his ringing ears, Gareth heard the crowd roaring like storm waves against a beach, screaming, shouting, hollering, but all he knew was each jarring thump against the side of his skull, the imprisoning grip of Campbell’s arm, those iron-hard knuckles hitting him again and again and again. Blood was runn
ing down his face now, and he felt his strength beginning to fail him even as courage roared in to take its place, felt awareness begin to leave him even as a single thought started running like a mantra through his dazed brain:
Glad Juliet’s not here to see this—bang! went Campbell’s fist—Glad Juliet’s not here to see this—bang! Glad Juliet’s
And then Campbell released him and Gareth dropped, exhausted, to the stone floor, one hand flashing instinctively out to break his fall. Bruised and dazed, he swayed there on his hands and knees as Campbell strutted a victory dance around him, and the crowds’s enthusiasm for their countryman turned to jeering, disappointed contempt.
“Get up, you pathetic excuse for an Englishman! Get up and show us a good fight, damn your eyes!”
“Get up, get up, get up!”
“Ten eleven twelve.”
“Gareth!” It was Perry, squatting down before him. “Gareth, he’s killing you! Let me call off this lunacy—”
“The devil”—Gareth coughed, tasting blood—“the devil take you, Perry. Help me up or be forever damned. Water ale where’s Chilcot?”
Perry had him under the arms, hauling him up to his feet, staggering beneath his weight as Gareth slumped heavily against him.
“Fifteen sixteen seventeen.”
“Get a hold of yourself, damn you!” Perry hissed in his ear, and Gareth’s eyes flew open as Perry’s palm smacked him hard on one cheek, then the other. Reflexively, he almost hit him back with a closed fist before realizing, belatedly, that it was his friend who had struck him, not that bastard Campbell, and—
Oh, God help me, why won’t my legs work?
“Twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three.”
An egg came streaking past his face and splattered against the wall.
“Get out there and fight, you miserable nob!”
The chalked line swayed and reeled beneath Gareth’s blinking eyes, and then Perry planted a hand between his shoulders and shoved him mightily back in toward Campbell. Just outside the ring Gareth caught a glimpse of Snelling, standing with arms folded and a triumphant smile on his face.
That was all it took.
With a roar, he rushed at Campbell, feinting with his left as he came in with his right. The Scot’s tree-trunk of an arm came up to block it, and Gareth, recovering, came in under it, landing a brutal blow to his opponent’s ribs that split the skin of every one of his knuckles and rewarded him with the sound of a loud crack. It’s about time, he thought, with sudden, frenzied glee, and then the two were fighting in earnest, striking, feinting, blocking the other’s punches and slugging it out like there was no tomorrow. The crowd went insane, rushing up the steps, pressing against the ropes, yelling themselves hoarse. Snelling’s assured grin froze, began to look strained as Gareth beat the Scot back against the ropes, hitting so hard and fast that Campbell could do nothing but block and guard. Perry, dutifully following Gareth around the ring, looked as smug as a cat who’d just caught a robin. And the Butcher was no longer smiling, devoting all his concentration to fending off Gareth’s powerful punches as he looked for an opening to get in a few of his own. Both fighters were breathing hard now, sweating, their muscles pumped up and the veins standing out on their mighty arms.
“Come on, you ugly-faced, porridge-eating haggis-head!” Gareth taunted, circling the Scot and teasing him with sharp jabs designed to make that mighty fist lash out again so he could plant another blow beneath it. “Come on, hit me, you yellow-livered—”
Bang! Out came that murderous fist. Gareth’s right forearm flew up to guard his face, and Campbell’s knuckles, with all seventeen stone of his weight behind them, hit it with the force of a boulder from a catapult, maiming muscle, cracking bone, and sending agony shrieking up the arm in a blinding torrent of pain. Gareth staggered backward, his arm rendered useless for hitting, for guarding, for feinting, even—leaving him only his head, left arm, and heart to defend him as the Scot came charging down on him like a bull at a matador.
That’s it. I’m done for now.
The Butcher hit him hard. Impulsively, Gareth threw up his injured arm to guard the next blow, screaming hoarsely as Campbell’s fist connected at the site of the break. Nausea flared in his stomach. Sweat ran down his face, and as he hit out frantically with his still very capable left, he happened to catch a glimpse of the swelling crowds just beyond Campbell’s bulging shoulder.
There, sitting well above the world atop his mighty black beast, was a grim-faced, and monstrously angry, Lucien.
Beside him was Fox, mounted on what looked to be.
Crusader?
Bang, the Butcher’s fist caught him square on the chin, and Gareth reeled backward, seeing stars. Bugger this. He was furious now. Furious with Lucien for taking his time in getting here, furious his brother was giving him that cold, I-told-you-you’re-an-idiot stare from his lofty throne atop Armageddon, furious with Campbell, with Juliet, with the crowds, with everyone. Sod this for a lark, he wasn’t going to stand here and take this sort of abuse, not with Snelling leaping up and down in excitement as Campbell hammered him like a woodpecker might a tree, not with his brother watching in disgust and disdain, and damn it all, not with Swanthorpe hanging in the balance. There was only one way to defeat this oatmeal-eating bully, and it had nothing to do with brawn, only brains.
I may be down, but I’m sure as hell not out!
His useless right arm cradled to his chest, Gareth lunged in with his left, aiming for Campbell’s eye and instead connecting with the shelf of bone just above it. If I can only blind him, with blood or a blow, I may yet win this fight! The flesh opened like meat beneath a cleaver, sending blood trickling down through Campbell’s bushy eyebrow and into his lashes. The crowd went wild. Campbell, roaring, pawed at his eye and shook his head, and Gareth took advantage of his opponent’s disorientation by charging back in with renewed confidence, his knuckles slamming into Campbell’s nose, his eye, and again, that fearsome brow. Blood was running down the Scot’s face now, the eye already beginning to close, and Gareth knew that if he could only close them both, the fight would be his. Buoyed by success, he struck with lethal speed, pounding the Scot’s face and further opening the cut above his eye with each blow that connected, again and again and again until the big Celt had both arms up to shield his face—an action that brought on a thunderous roar of disapproval from a crowd that found such a cowardly defense worse than contemptuous.
Maneuvering his opponent, his one fist flying and his body sheened in sweat, Gareth looked out over the crowd and saw Lucien.
No longer furious, but smiling.
And now he was driving the Butcher straight back into the ropes while around him he heard Snelling cursing, the Den members yelling encouragement, the crowd cheering him on. He was going to win. He was going to defeat the Butcher fair and square and Swanthorpe was going to be his—
But Campbell rallied. With a mighty roar, he lowered his head and came straight for Gareth, seizing him round the waist, crushing his broken arm against his ribs as he lifted him high into the air, and hurling him with colossal force straight down at the stone floor. There was a loud crack as the back of Gareth’s head hit the stage. Then Campbell landed heavily atop him, and Gareth knew no more.
“Damnation!”
The shouts of the crowd ringing in his ears, the referee’s toll of a count already beginning, Perry charged forward, both he and Woodford frantically trying to lift Campbell off of Gareth’s still body.
“Four five six.”
“He’s not getting up. Call off the fight,” growled Woodford.
“Sod off!”
“Seven eight nine.”
Perry desperately tried to rouse his friend. He slapped his cheek and shook him and leaned down and shouted in his ear. Nothing.
“Eleven twelve thirteen.”
He couldn’t hear with the rising roar around him, couldn’t think with the panic that was making his heart race, didn’t know whether to call off the figh
t or what. Again, he slapped Gareth’s cheeks, but there was no response, not even a groan of pain, and beneath still, half-closed lashes, Perry could see the milky crescent of his friend’s eyes, rolled back in his head and seeing nothing.
He looked up, saw the Den members gesturing and waving, and there, off above a sea of heads, the Duke of Blackheath coming forward, the crowd parting before Armageddon like waves before a ship.
“Seventeen eighteen nineteen.”
“Damn you, Gareth, wake up!
The Butcher, bleeding heavily, was strutting around his fallen rival in amusement and high contempt, holding his arms over his head in a victory salute, shouting. The Den members were all yelling at the top of their lungs, the duke was still coming, and Perry, desperate, bent down, bodily picked up Gareth and threw him over his shoulder, and, staggering beneath his weight, rushed him back to their corner, rudely dumping him on the cold stone and ripping the bottle of ale from Chilcot’s stunned hand. He poured it straight over Gareth’s face—
“Twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four.”
—and was rewarded with a sudden flutter of his friend’s lashes, a sharp, spastic jerk of his head, and a groan of pain. Dizzily, Gareth tried to raise himself, only to sway and fall back against Perry’s arm with a sigh.
“Twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven.”
Three seconds left. Cursing, Perry grabbed Gareth’s injured arm and twisted it right back, and his friend lunged to his feet with an inhuman howl of pain, lashing out with a fist that nearly took off the top of Perry’s blond head. But he was up, if dazedly awake, and Perry wasted no time rushing him back to the line and shoving him at the Butcher once more.
Gareth, reeling and all at sea, saw only a blurry vortex of faces spinning around him. He saw Campbell’s bloody visage moving in and out of his vision, heard the crowd shouting at him to pull himself together, felt only pain throbbing viciously in his arm, his bruised ribs, pulsing in the back of a skull that felt as if it had been mashed like a potato. And now Campbell was hitting him again, hard, but the pain seemed to come from far away, and Gareth had little interest in defending himself, only standing there, swaying on his feet, blinking dumbly with each blow. From some distant part of his brain that was still functioning, he found himself hoping that Juliet wasn’t here to see this that she would never hear about it that the Butcher would just hurry up and put him to sleep because he could feel stone beneath his knees now, and Campbell was still hitting him, and Perry was yelling “Foul!” and Lucien—’Sdeath, was that Lucien?—was bellowing in a voice that could’ve shaken the very heavens:
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