She has never seen anybody look so alive. She breathes deeply, catching the salt of sweat on her tongue; hears the smack of bone on flesh, of knuckles sinking deep somewhere giving, and a collective groan from the crowd in sympathetic pain. Cat presses up against the ropes of the makeshift ring, grasping the rough hemp tightly in her hands as she yells out her support. How different, how powerfully real he seems, compared to the fat policemen in London; the cherubic vicar; her own thin and bony self.
Another punch and George begins to bleed from one nostril, sweat flying as his head snaps to the side. His shoulders slump and blood vessels stand proud along the muscles of his arms. Ugly pink bruises are blossoming around his ribs. But his expression is calm, one of steady deliberation. He knows, Cat senses, exactly what he is doing. What he should do next, what he has doubtless done before; all oblivious to the strain of it and the fatigue and the pain he must feel. His opponent’s face is fixed into a grimace of effort and aggression. George is waiting, she sees. Using the other man’s aggression against him. Making him feel frustrated and eager to wade in, to get the job done. Letting him land a few big punches, letting him see the path to victory, making him impatient for it, making him careless. George waits, he weaves; he blocks a blow that would have closed his right eye – just in time, letting it glance from his face as if next time he might not be fast enough. It works. The other man steps in, drops his guard, pulls back a swing that he means to be the final punch of the night. He takes a fraction of a second to wind up, to twist his whole body behind the blow. When George strikes, his arm moves so fast it’s hard for the eye to follow; an upper cut that hits the taller man under the chin with a force that snaps his head back on his neck. The man drops abruptly, stunned, and lies propped upon his elbows, all bewildered.
George stands poised, but his opponent sinks slowly onto hisback, and out of consciousness. The roar goes up again, deafening, shutting out thought; and without realising it, Cat adds her voice to it, a triumphant yell for George’s victory. Money changes hands, men shake their heads, George is passed a mug of beer, is clapped on the back; somebody throws a blanket over his shoulders which he shrugs off at once, accepting instead a stool to sit down on and a tatty piece of muslin with which to wipe his face. Cat makes her way towards him, wide eyed and inexorable.
‘And I thought you such a gentle soul, when I first met you,’ she tells him, without preamble. George frowns at her for a second, then smiles, recognition flooding his face.
‘Cat Morley, who speaks so well and cusses even better,’ he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Though he is tired and bruised, there’s a gleam in his eye, and Cat recognises it. The same gleam that sent her sneaking out of The Rectory in the dark. ‘I didn’t think to see you here.’
‘There’s precious little entertainment in this town, it seems,’ she says, wryly.
‘True enough. I’d have thought you’d be kept in of an evening though, saying your prayers with the vicar and his wife?’
‘Have you been asking about me?’ Cat demands.
‘Maybe I have, and what of it? It’s you that’s come and sought me out, after all.’ George smiles.
‘True enough.’ Cat echoes him. She smiles, a quick flash of her small, white teeth. ‘Do you always win?’
‘Not always. Most of the time, though I say it myself. There’s few around here who would bet against it, but every few weeks a fellow comes along who thinks he can knock me down.’ George gestures at the loser of the fight, still lying where he went down, and apparently forgotten.
‘Won’t somebody take care of him?’
‘His people are somewhere hereabouts. They’ll pick him up by and by, if they’ve not fallen down themselves,’ George assures her.
‘So why do
Another punch and George begins to bleed from one nostril, sweat flying as his head snaps to the side. His shoulders slump and blood vessels stand proud along the muscles of his arms. Ugly pink bruises are blossoming around his ribs. But his expression is calm, one of steady deliberation. He knows, Cat senses, exactly what he is doing. What he should do next, what he has doubtless done before; all oblivious to the strain of it and the fatigue and the pain he must feel. His opponent’s face is fixed into a grimace of effort and aggression. George is waiting, she sees. Using the other man’s aggression against him. Making him feel frustrated and eager to wade in, to get the job done. Letting him land a few big punches, letting him see the path to victory, making him impatient for it, making him careless. George waits, he weaves; he blocks a blow that would have closed his right eye – just in time, letting it glance from his face as if next time he might not be fast enough. It works. The other man steps in, drops his guard, pulls back a swing that he means to be the final punch of the night. He takes a fraction of a second to wind up, to twist his whole body behind the blow. When George strikes, his arm moves so fast it’s hard for the eye to follow; an upper cut that hits the taller man under the chin with a force that snaps his head back on his neck. The man drops abruptly, stunned, and lies propped upon his elbows, all bewildered.
George stands poised, but his opponent sinks slowly onto hisback, and out of consciousness. The roar goes up again, deafening, shutting out thought; and without realising it, Cat adds her voice to it, a triumphant yell for George’s victory. Money changes hands, men shake their heads, George is passed a mug of beer, is clapped on the back; somebody throws a blanket over his shoulders which he shrugs off at once, accepting instead a stool to sit down on and a tatty piece of muslin with which to wipe his face. Cat makes her way towards him, wide eyed and inexorable.
‘And I thought you such a gentle soul, when I first met you,’ she tells him, without preamble. George frowns at her for a second, then smiles, recognition flooding his face.
‘Cat Morley, who speaks so well and cusses even better,’ he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Though he is tired and bruised, there’s a gleam in his eye, and Cat recognises it. The same gleam that sent her sneaking out of The Rectory in the dark. ‘I didn’t think to see you here.’
‘There’s precious little entertainment in this town, it seems,’ she says, wryly.
‘True enough. I’d have thought you’d be kept in of an evening though, saying your prayers with the vicar and his wife?’
‘Have you been asking about me?’ Cat demands.
‘Maybe I have, and what of it? It’s you that’s come and sought me out, after all.’ George smiles.
‘True enough.’ Cat echoes him. She smiles, a quick flash of her small, white teeth. ‘Do you always win?’
‘Not always. Most of the time, though I say it myself. There’s few around here who would bet against it, but every few weeks a fellow comes along who thinks he can knock me down.’ George gestures at the loser of the fight, still lying where he went down, and apparently forgotten.
‘Won’t somebody take care of him?’
‘His people are somewhere hereabouts. They’ll pick him up by and by, if they’ve not fallen down themselves,’ George assures her.
‘So why do
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