The Wild One (42 page)

After all, since when had he — who would do
anything for a laugh, for the sake of outrageousness, or simply to
make a spectacle of himself — been one to experience stage
fright?

Since realizing that even if he won against
the Butcher tonight, he would still be going home to bitter
defeat.

"Hey, Gareth, cheer up there, man!" It was
Chilcot, leaning close and frowning. "You're not nervous, now, are
you?"

"Don't be a pillock," Gareth scoffed, waving
him off.

"I know you're worried that Snelling might
try to do something to Juliet, but Hugh's staying with her; he'll
keep her safe."

"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 running 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.