the Black Pyramid.
Bets were being laid and men crowded round the ring. The whores watched idly, fanning themselves with affected boredom, except for those who had made a conquest and disappeared with their victims. The gnarled old man had sought a private chamber with both his women and young Sedgewick had disappeared in the company of his doxy, presumably to have the veils finally removed from before his eyes.
Lord Lechdale stood up and declared the bout about to begin but was drowned out by a great roar of cheering and shouting. Nat Broome whispered some final instructions to the Black Pyramid and stepped out of the ring. John drew a breath.
With a fleetness of foot that the Apothecary had not realized he possessed, the Black Pyramid began to circle his man, landing a punch now and then which the mighty fellow obviously considered no more than he would a fly settling on him. His tactic was clearly to land a punishing blow on the black man’s jaw and send him flying to the floor. However he had some difficulty in achieving this because the Pyramid stayed just out of arms’ reach, constantly dodging and weaving his way around the ring.
John turned to Joe. ‘I’ve got a feeling he’s going to lose.’
‘He can’t do that, Sir. I’ve just bet a guinea on him.’
The bell went for the end of round one and more bets were placed and a great deal more wine consumed.
‘It’s a good match though,’ said the clerk, removing his wig and displaying to the world the thatch of red hair that lay beneath.
‘I think we’ll see some action now,’ John answered.
He was right. Mighty John Elmwood put on a sudden turn of speed and rained blows down on the top of the Black Pyramid’s head. Hurt, the black man punched at his opponent’s chest and actually got into a clinch with him. The referee, a small neat man dressed entirely in white, circled them trying to break the hold but neither of the two fighters were listening to him. Instead they parted of their own accord and stared at one another menacingly. Then the Pyramid shot out a snake-like arm and landed a terrific blow on the point of Mighty John’s chin. The great man rocked back on his feet but stood his ground, having first spat out a tooth with all the nonchalance of one disposing of a quid of tobacco. Then he thundered after the Black Pyramid at full pelt. There was a cry from the crowd as the black man fell to his knees.
‘This is it,’ shouted John, aware that he was about to lose two guineas.
‘God’s teeth but I think you’re right,’ answered Joe, jumping to his feet.
There was a huge roar as the white man, apparently forgetting that he was in a boxing tournament, picked up the hapless Black Pyramid and threw him clean out of the ring and flat on his back onto the stone floor. The referee raised one of Mighty John’s huge arms, like the side of an ox, above his head and shouted, ‘The winner’. The boxing match was over.
John got to his feet and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of pushing young men, some jubilant, some downcast, depending on whether they had lost or gained small fortunes. They were shouting excitedly at one another, refilling their wine glasses, and generally charging about. But the Apothecary was making for the figure lying motionless with only one person taking any notice of him at all, that being Nathaniel Broome. Feeling somewhat anxious, John knelt down beside the unconscious Black Pyramid and felt for his pulse. It was faint but it was there.
‘Can you lift him?’ he said to Nat. ‘He’ll get trampled to death in this melee.’
‘If you can assist me, Sir.’
Together they lugged the massive frame to a side of the room, John taking the head end, Nat the feet. The black man was packed with muscle that weighed heavily, so much so that both men were gasping by the time they put the fighter down again.
‘Has he been knocked out before?’ John asked, dragging in breath.
‘Oh yes. Once or twice. But this is the most severe beating he has ever had.’
‘I’ll try to bring him round. Go and fetch a damp cloth, there’s a good chap.’
Joe Jago appeared at their side, squatting down and peering into the Black Pyramid’s face.
‘Still alive I see.’
‘But in dire need of revival. Lift his head, Joe.’
Scrabbling round in his pocket the Apothecary located a small bottle of salts which he placed under the Black Pyramid’s nostrils. The black man’s eyelids twitched and his eyes opened, then rolled up in his head alarmingly. At that moment Nat reappeared with a grubby cloth which John put on the bare-knuckle fighter’s head.
‘What happened?’ asked Jack Beef, rolling his eyes down again.
‘You lost the fight,’ Joe answered with a glint of icy humour.
The Black Pyramid gave a groan and gingerly shifted his shoulders. ‘I’m in agony,’ he said quietly. His eyes closed once more. ‘I haven’t had such a beating since the night Mr B…’
‘Keep quiet,’ admonished Nathaniel urgently. ‘Don’t talk. It’s bad for you.’
‘I think we should try to move you,’ said John as the circle in which the black man lay began to grow smaller as the rips of Exeter crammed forward to claim their winnings. He looked at Joe and Nat. ‘Help me get him to his feet.’
With a great deal of effort and cries of ‘Heave’, John and Joe managed to raise the Pyramid up, where he stood with buckled knees, lolling like a large dark doll, an arm round each of their shoulders. Nathaniel, meanwhile, propped him up from behind, sweating with the strain.
‘Time to go I believe,’ said John, and this said the party left the Great Hall, solemnly bowing their heads to their host who stared at them astonished as they passed by.
Once outside, the three men managed to haul the barely conscious fighter into the coach that Elizabeth had loaned John for the evening.
‘Where are you staying?’ the Apothecary asked Nathaniel.
There was a momentary pause. ‘With friends in Exeter.’
‘Then we’d best take you back there.’
It seemed to John, ministering to the Pyramid as best he could in the small space and the darkness, that the coach trundled its way through the night interminably. Lord Lechdale’s mansion was situated outside Exmouth and they crossed the wooded land that lay between there and their destination with an almost creaking slowness. Occasionally the wounded man let out a deep-felt groan but other than the flicking of his eyelids gave little sign that he had regained consciousness. He was naked except for the tights he had fought in and a cloak which Nathaniel had flung hastily around him, and was shivering with the cold.
‘It is kind of you to take us back to our lodging, Sir,’ said Nat, breaking the silence.
‘We could hardly have abandoned you,’ John answered. He changed the subject. ‘I think you should send for a physician in the morning. Jack Beef is in a poor state.’
‘Oh, he’ll recover,’ Nat answered, almost in an offhand manner. ‘He’s endured worse than this in his time.’
‘But I thought he rarely lost a bout.’
‘That is true, he doesn’t.’
‘But you said…’
John was interrupted by Joe. ‘Draw your pistols, gents. I think we are about to be visited by a gentleman of the road.’
Peering out of the coach’s window John saw a shadowy figure moving amongst the trees. ‘I’m not carrying a weapon,’ he said. ‘Are you?’
For answer Joe gave a quiet laugh and drew from the depths of his coat a gun, the butt of which shone silver in the dim light. But his fears were false. The figure disappeared into the woodland and the coach trundled on in peace.
‘I wonder who that was?’ John murmured.
‘Probably one of Lord Lechdale’s men,’ answered Nat.
‘Why should he be following us?’
‘Who knows?’ came the laconic reply.
Forty minutes later they reached the outskirts of the city and entered through one of the gates.
‘Leave us here, gentlemen, if you would,’ said Nathaniel.
