talking low and earnestly to a big, square-headed youth. Whatever Zophiel said evidently didn't please the young man, for he broke away and strode across to the girl in the yellow kirtle who was now in the company of several lads and girls, laughing and drinking. He grabbed her arm, none too gently, and began to drag her away. The girl tried to wrest herself out of his grasp.
I glanced across at Zophiel. He had retreated to safety and was lounging against the wall, watching the proceedings with amusement. I wondered what exactly he had said to the girl's boyfriend or brother, whichever Square-head was, to make him so annoyed with her. Whatever it was, I was certain Zophiel had baited him deliberately. Perhaps Zophiel had not been as indifferent about the girl walking away as he had pretended to be.
Sensing trouble, a group of about a dozen lads moved nearer, watching with evident interest. I spotted Jofre among them. His face was flushed and he was laughing with two of the young men beside him and ignoring a baby-faced girl who was entwining her arms about him, trying in vain to get him to take notice of her. He swayed, pulled off balance by the weight of the girl hanging on his arm. It was hard totell just how drunk he was from a distance, but he was not sober, that was certain.
Square-head was shouting at the girl in the yellow kirtle now and she was bawling back. She broke free from him and ran behind one of the other lads for protection, clinging on to him. Square-head drew back his fist and punched her protector hard on the nose. He staggered backwards, taking the girl down with him as he fell. All the lads standing around took this as their signal and entered the fray with a will. Fists and flagons flew through the air.
I heard a familiar roar above the screams and shouts.
‘No, Jofre, your hands! Faccia attenzione! ’
But it was too late; Jofre had pushed forward with the rest and was already lost among the flailing fists and kicking feet.
Bodies crashed down upon benches, tables were overturned and pots came clattering to the ground. Suddenly the screams redoubled. A smashed lantern had sent a snake of flame slithering up the ribbons and dried grain stalks decorating one of the poles and set fire to the canopy. The fire took hold rapidly, sending orange flames leaping into the night. Fragments of blazing cloth and dry grain stalks floated up into the black sky, hovering menacingly over the thatches of the nearby cottages and wooden byres. The lads were too engrossed in the fight even to notice, but those villagers still sober enough to realize the danger came running over, trying to push the wrestling lads aside and pull the blazing canopy to the ground. Others flung the food from dishes and pots, using them to scoop water from the nearby horse trough to throw over the blaze.
The fire was finally doused. Fortunately, everything was so wet from the months of rain that the thatches on the cottages were not even scorched. The fight was extinguishedtoo. Enough icy water had landed on the combatants to separate those who had not already been knocked out. One by one, the groaning lads were led or dragged away by scolding mothers, wives or girlfriends, their eyes and lips swelling rapidly. It was, you might say, a typical end to a wedding.
Jofre's exit was, if anything, more ignominious. He had thrown a couple of punches, but he was no street fighter. He'd done more damage to himself than his opponents and a vicious punch in his stomach finished him. Rodrigo found him winded and gasping, rolled in a ball, trying to protect his face from the trampling feet around him. His right hand was already purple and swelling. He would not be playing that night or for many nights to come.
6. St John Shorne's Shrine
In early October of that year, amid a cacophony of barking dogs and the blasting horns and raucous cheering of the pilgrims, we finally trundled into North Marston, the home of St John Shorne. We arrived on St
I glanced across at Zophiel. He had retreated to safety and was lounging against the wall, watching the proceedings with amusement. I wondered what exactly he had said to the girl's boyfriend or brother, whichever Square-head was, to make him so annoyed with her. Whatever it was, I was certain Zophiel had baited him deliberately. Perhaps Zophiel had not been as indifferent about the girl walking away as he had pretended to be.
Sensing trouble, a group of about a dozen lads moved nearer, watching with evident interest. I spotted Jofre among them. His face was flushed and he was laughing with two of the young men beside him and ignoring a baby-faced girl who was entwining her arms about him, trying in vain to get him to take notice of her. He swayed, pulled off balance by the weight of the girl hanging on his arm. It was hard totell just how drunk he was from a distance, but he was not sober, that was certain.
Square-head was shouting at the girl in the yellow kirtle now and she was bawling back. She broke free from him and ran behind one of the other lads for protection, clinging on to him. Square-head drew back his fist and punched her protector hard on the nose. He staggered backwards, taking the girl down with him as he fell. All the lads standing around took this as their signal and entered the fray with a will. Fists and flagons flew through the air.
I heard a familiar roar above the screams and shouts.
‘No, Jofre, your hands! Faccia attenzione! ’
But it was too late; Jofre had pushed forward with the rest and was already lost among the flailing fists and kicking feet.
Bodies crashed down upon benches, tables were overturned and pots came clattering to the ground. Suddenly the screams redoubled. A smashed lantern had sent a snake of flame slithering up the ribbons and dried grain stalks decorating one of the poles and set fire to the canopy. The fire took hold rapidly, sending orange flames leaping into the night. Fragments of blazing cloth and dry grain stalks floated up into the black sky, hovering menacingly over the thatches of the nearby cottages and wooden byres. The lads were too engrossed in the fight even to notice, but those villagers still sober enough to realize the danger came running over, trying to push the wrestling lads aside and pull the blazing canopy to the ground. Others flung the food from dishes and pots, using them to scoop water from the nearby horse trough to throw over the blaze.
The fire was finally doused. Fortunately, everything was so wet from the months of rain that the thatches on the cottages were not even scorched. The fight was extinguishedtoo. Enough icy water had landed on the combatants to separate those who had not already been knocked out. One by one, the groaning lads were led or dragged away by scolding mothers, wives or girlfriends, their eyes and lips swelling rapidly. It was, you might say, a typical end to a wedding.
Jofre's exit was, if anything, more ignominious. He had thrown a couple of punches, but he was no street fighter. He'd done more damage to himself than his opponents and a vicious punch in his stomach finished him. Rodrigo found him winded and gasping, rolled in a ball, trying to protect his face from the trampling feet around him. His right hand was already purple and swelling. He would not be playing that night or for many nights to come.
6. St John Shorne's Shrine
In early October of that year, amid a cacophony of barking dogs and the blasting horns and raucous cheering of the pilgrims, we finally trundled into North Marston, the home of St John Shorne. We arrived on St
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