I relaxed a little as the old man rambled on, and after a few minutes I allowed Val to lead the way toward the horse ring. A deal was in progress, with an Englishman, protesting the price, ranged against a Gypsy horseman who was holding firm. They were each backed by a dozen or so men of their own kind, shouting and jeering as negotiations moved back and forth. Several times the buyer named a price and put out his hand in the traditional manner of Gypsy horse-dealing; scornfully, the dealer slapped it away and named a better one. Between them the horse stood placidly, his head hanging low, his eyes shifting from his Gypsy master to his prospective buyer. He looked handsome, and sound enough, and I wondered how many times he had been sold and found his way back to the Roma.
My father often bought horses from Magda’s people and had never had any difficulty with them, finding their horseflesh to be of the highest quality and their prices fair. But he always maintained that this was because Magda’s people knew and liked him. They were permitted to camp on his land, and so treated him fairly when horse-dealing. But other Gypsies, he warned us, were far too clever and tricky for us. He had always instructed my brothers to purchase their horses at Tattersall’s if Magda’s menfolk were not to be found. My second brother, Benedick, had neglected to follow this good advice once, purchasing a solid-enough looking animal from a traveling group of Roma when he was in Cornwall. He had been particularly taken with its glossy coat, I remember. It washed off during the first good sweat. Benedick had tried desperately to get his money back, but of course they were long gone, doubtless laughing themselves sick over the stupidity of the younggorgiolordling too stupid to spot a bit of dye in a horse’s coat. I looked as closely as I dared, but this horse seemed genuine enough in his colour, if a bit spavined. And if the prospective buyer did not look to that before the sale was completed, he deserved to be fleeced.
We slipped past them and toward the boxing tent, where a match was in progress. According to the hawker outside, the Gypsy champion, an enormous brute, was fighting all comers for a pound. We listened to his patter for a moment, rather impressed at the fighter’s credentials. His record was a prodigious one, and it occurred to me that they might attract more challengers if they did not stress so openly the number of men he had knocked down.
Val paid the entrance fee for both of us, grumbling as he did so. I reminded myself to reimburse him for the night’s adventures. His allowance was generous, but so were his expenditures. The remainder might not run to an evening’s entertainment.
My eyes watered as soon as we stepped inside and I fought against the urge to cough. It was close in there, with three or four dozen men crowding around, smoking and cursing at the combatants. The rank smell of sweat and horse, sawdust and stale beer clung to the canvas, and I could hear quite distinctly the sounds of solid fists slamming into bare flesh. Val shot me a doubtful look.
“Are you certain you’re up for this?”
I nodded, but he continued to look dubious. He needn’t have bothered. I had seen a number of prizefights as a child. Father adored them, and if he happened upon one, he had not been terribly fussy about bringing me along. I had only to promise not to tell Aunt Hermia and he would bribe me with ginger nuts. I had rather enjoyed those illicit outings. The fighting was brutal, but Father carefully explained the finer points and I always enjoyed the little wagers we placed. The summer I backed seven winners was the summer he stopped taking me along, I remembered wryly. He had begun taking Valerius instead, but he always said wistfully that Val lacked my appreciation for watching grown men thrash each other.
I was surprised now at how quickly it all came back. It seemed that one bare-fisted fight was rather like every other. A few sharp-eyed men would make money on the affair, and several dozen men, largely inebriated, would not. The crowd, ever in danger of having their pockets picked, ringed a beaten-down area thickly laid with sawdust tamped hard by booted feet. It even smelled the same, I remarked to Val. He grimaced, which I thought rather weak from a student of anatomy.
He kept us carefully to the back of the spectators while he scanned the crowd, looking for Brisbane. I had difficulty seeing over the heads in front of me, and for the briefest of moments I regretted my disguise. Had I come in skirts they would have all made way for me, I thought ruefully. But then if I had come in skirts, I would have doubtless attracted unwelcome attention, women being scarce at such events.
A few of the men shifted and I realized the crowd was a bit thinner on the other side. I motioned to Val. We edged past, keeping to the back of the tent as we made our way around. There was a crunching hit suddenly, and a roar went up as the crowd surged forward. I was very nearly knocked off my feet, but I kept my wits and shoved hard against the man who had jostled me.
He turned, his face fat and moistly red in the light of the hanging lamps.
“Watch yourself, sonny. Mustn’t get trampled, now, my lad.”
He turned back to the match and I gave a little sigh of satisfaction. Finally someone had owned me for a boy, even if it was only a drunken lout at a prizefight. I threw a little look of triumph at Val, but he was staring straight ahead, over the man’s head at the fight itself. I nudged at him, but he simply stared. He jerked his chin toward the boxers.
“Look,” he hissed finally.
I edged around the fat man, thoroughly annoyed. He had probably seen a broken nose that had intrigued him or something else perfectly useless, I thought irritably. I rose up on the balls of my feet, peering over the fat man’s shoulder, and got my first proper look at the boxers.
There was indeed a broken nose. Both of the fighters were stripped to the waist. The touted champion stood facing me, streaming blood freely from a pulpy pile in the middle of his face. He was dashing blood out of his eyes with his fists, his expression murderous. Then he smiled, horribly, revealing teeth bracketed in blood. He spit a tooth into the sawdust, but continued to grin like some demented creature. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his fists—enormous, meaty things, the size of hams. He swung heavily, but his opponent darted back lightly, just out of reach. There were bruises beginning to darken the side of the slighter man’s torso, and I wondered if his face was undamaged. It did not seem possible that he could have inflicted such damage on the champion and sustain only a few bruises himself.
But as I watched them battle, I began to understand why. The Gypsy had size on his side, but that was his only advantage. He was heavy and slow, his feet moving as if stuck in treacle.
I pursed my lips, madly disappointed. From a champion I expected more than brute strength. There should be finesse and even a certain elegance of movement. Father had taught me that fist-play was no different from swordplay, demanding skill as well as strength. This Gypsy was nothing more than a machine, hammering whatever lay in his path.
His challenger, on the other hand, was something else entirely. He held himself like a horse will at the start of a race, lightly, ready to spring. His head moved quickly, luring blows that he avoided with a catlike nimbleness. It was so delightful to watch that I nearly laughed out loud. He was a natural, and I regretted bitterly that we had come too late to place a bet on him.
I was just beginning to anticipate a nice long bout when the challenger did something that ruined it all. He moved back again, this time canting himself sideways, forcing the champion to move off balance. Then he raised his fist, and with one quick, brutal blow to the jaw—so fast the eye could not follow—it was done. The Gypsy took a moment, rocking on his heels, eyes rolling back white. Then, without a sound, he fell to the sawdust. A great cloud of it went up with the cheer and money began to exchange hands. The fat man in front of me threw his hat down in disgust.
“Have you lost, then, sir?” I asked, too amused to be careful.
He fixed me with a baleful look. “I have, indeed. The bastard knocked him down in less than two minutes!”
He stomped on his hat and stumped away, cursing fluently. I turned back to what was left of the match, laughing. The crowd had dissolved into a flood of curses and barbs, in Romany and English, and the challenger turned to accept them, as well as his share of the winnings. For the first time I was able to see his face, which surprised me in two ways. First, there was no blood. And second…
“Good Lord,” I said to no one in particular. “Brisbane has rather a nasty right.”
THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER
Quit, quit, for shame! This will not move;
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!
