I shook her off, remembering my father. First time a Mortymer had been dumped outside, I reckoned.
“Jethro!”
I walked up the steps, slipped the catch and shouldered the door. The light was blinding as I went inside, kicked the door shut and leaned against it. All faces swung, and Justin’s swung last, and never will I forget the look he gave; jaw dropped, frowning, mug half raised.
“Right, you, Justin,” I said, and walked towards him. And he laughed as I reached him, smacking the counter, head flung back, roaring.
“Well, give you credit!” he shouted in the second before I hooked him, and his mug went up and he reeled away, his stool clattering. After him now, hitting to go through him as I turned him to the counter and he screamed as an injured child as the rail caught him, bouncing him on to the next one. Raging was Justin, and I was cool, with a brain snatched from the head of my father; cool as ice, measuring distance, calculating. The place was bedlam now, tables being cleared, chairs hooked aside and men flat against the walls, with Gipsy up on the counter fisting and screaming and threatening damages. A rush from Justin nearly upended her as I stepped aside, and I pulled him off her and crossed him solid, bringing him down. It should have killed him, but he got up slowly, spat blood and ran, clawing for a hold. Things reversed now as I turned him to the counter, snapping back his head with lefts, and I saw the boot coming and caught it, lifting high. Off-balance, he teetered on one foot, and I saw the curve of his chin and took my time. This staggered him. His eyes were glazed as he came off the counter and I swung with all my strength. The blow took him full and Gipsy screamed. Up on the counter went Justin, and me after him, pitiless, for to be beaten is one thing but dumped is another. Shoulders slipping, legs waving, he lay across the counter. A hand under his heel, I helped him over. Ten pounds damages by the sound of the glass, but not a sound from Justin. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I peeped. Sleeping like a baby, standing on his head, so I went round after him and pulled Gipsy out of it, getting my shoulder under him. Jane had opened the door and I carried Justin over and threw him out to the cheers of the men. Spreadeagled he fell and laid there, as he had spreadeagled a score of men, and I went back to the counter and drank what was left of his ale, doing the custom.
Stupid is fighting.
“You did him pretty well,” said Jane.
With the tavern door shut behind me I turned to the sound of her voice, for fighting and women go together, handed down from the age of the club.
I did not reply. Just stood watching her. Tombstone blackness just then, but the night came brilliant in sudden majesty, bringing her to flesh and shape, and I went to the door of the barn. Ghostly she looked, her hairpins out, hair tumbling down, as if she would fade with the first touch.
“Never seen one done better,” she said. “The boy can’t complain.”
Just stood watching; watching her eyes narrowed with their laughter; getting the scent of her, the curve of her. The lamp was glowing behind her and the barn was golden with hay, and warm.
“Dear me,” she said. “Is it frightened? And you fight with grown men?” Dimpling now, posturing, her hands round her waist. “Only little I am, mind. Nobody will kill you in here, least of all Jane.”
What is it that leaps, banishing pain, tensing the muscles, throbbing in the head? A vision of Mari flashed then, her fingers spread, examining her darning, her feet crossed before the fire, but the vision fled as Jane’s hand reached out.
“Come, Jethro,” she said, and drew me within.
“Come, Jethro,” said Morfydd beside me, and I swung, hit into reality, the fire exploding as doused with buckets. But the shock of her voice died in shame.
“Eh, now, here’s a pickle,” said Morfydd. “I guessed you’d be here when Justin called. Just saw him again, going like the wind …” and she peered at my face and gripped me, turning me. “God, there’s a mess. Did Justin do that, or Jane?” and she pushed me aside and turned. White as a sheet was Jane, I noticed, though she flushed a bit under Morfydd’s smile.
“Not with Jethro, Jane,” said Morfydd. “A pretty little girl you are, mind, and a man could do worse. But this thing’s no good to you, it’s only half grown.” She turned to me. “Home, you. Or I will start slaughtering.”
Head and shoulders above her I went, being prodded.
But I was not leaving it at that. Even more determined when the clock from the village struck midnight. Down the stairs with me, boots in hand, through the kitchen, hushing Tara quiet, and out of the back with owls hooting their heads off as I went down to Tarn.
Black Boar was silent and in darkness save for a chink of light. The world of night was silent here, the barn as black as gravestones at the entrance, but the lamp still burned dimly in the feeding bars below the rafters, and I went in on tiptoe, knowing that Jane was somewhere around, soon to come to her bed of straw. Dry in the throat I crept inside, peering, wondering what I would do when she came; cursing myself for the coming, wondering why I was there. Shivering, I laid myself down in the darkness, hands clenched, waiting, and my heart beat faster as the straw rustled to footsteps; moved over a bit as she laid herself down.
“Jane,” I whispered.
“Gipsy,” whispered Waldo Bailiff.
And we put out hands and gripped each other. Up scalded, me – skidded through the door and
