The carriage rolled into the outskirts of Holborn, bearing Avery nearer to the mill. Avery rode up top with the driver, with His Grace comfortable on the inside of the conveyance. Breathing deeply, Avery looked down as the ground rolled along beneath the horses’ feet. He must clear his mind, make himself ready to face his opponent. He must win this match. There was no choice for him.
A playful breeze tossed his hair, at odds with the churning in his guts. Prachett would be at the tourney today. He’d be expecting Avery to spin the match to his specifications. Though Prachett had never paid Avery for his participation in the underhanded dealings, he had forgiven a portion of Avery’s debt.
But now that Avery owed Prachett nothing? He’d fight honestly. And, if all went well, he’d win.
The apothecary had sent a messenger around just before they’d left for Holborn. The medicine for his aunt’s ailment would cost more the next time around, as the ingredients were becoming scarce. It was more critical than ever that he win today’s purse.
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They arrived by the ring much before Avery was ready. He disembarked from the carriage with thinly disguised trepidation. Prachett would be here soon.
Avery’s needs didn’t matter to Prachett. He wasn’t after the purse; he was after the hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds to be gained from betting on the right man.
“Hoy, Russell,” Jenks, Avery’s bottle man, called from the corner of the roped-off square that would serve as their stage.
“Jenks.” Avery nodded a greeting as he stripped to the waist. The crowds were drawing closer to the ring, each man attempting to get the best vantage for the upcoming brawl. The shouts and raucous laughter did nothing to calm his nerves or fray them. He’d stopped thinking of them as humans. They were cattle, mindless animals that brayed and milled about while he did his duty.
He moved lightly back and forth on his feet, relishing the feel of blood pumping harder through his veins. As he moved, Jenks spoke.
“You’re to face Martin Peters, a young scrapper just come up from Brighton. He lasted near two hours in his last fight, and would have won had Lockston not tripped him so underhanded-like. He’ll be spoiling for a tough ’un, s’truth.”
Avery nodded. “Then we shall give him what he asks for.”
Jenks laughed, tossing a rag over his shoulder. “That’s it, m’lad. His Grace will be glad of that, and the rest of the Fancy too, I’ll wager. Becoming quite their darling, you are.”
Jenks walked away from him then, leaving Avery to his exercises.
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The earth was damp beneath his feet. Fortunately the rains had stopped early the day prior, or his bout would have been a much colder, more inhospitable affair. As it was, his breath fogged from his mouth and nose as he stretched his limbs.
Closing his eyes, he bent forward to stretch his spine.
As it always did, the image of his mother leapt unbidden to his mind. He did not try to stop the horrendous memory from playing out, as he used to. Experience had taught him that was a useless endeavor.
They’d been delivering a meal to an elderly woman in the parish. On their return, his mother had looked at him and smiled.
“Do you know why I love you so, Avery?”
He’d grinned, looking up into his mother’s face. “No, why?”
She’d laid a comforting hand on his back, rubbing softly.
“Because you are kind and good. You help me to remember to smile.”
She’d hugged him close to her side, and he breathed her in deeply. He’d been so young then.
The brigand had come upon them only moments later. The wild-eyed man had grabbed mother’s basket, spilling the food over the roadway. His mother screamed, grabbing for her young son. But Avery had ripped free of his mother’s grasp to leap upon the man and defend her.
She’d fallen so quickly. The sharp crack of her skull on the rock haunted him even now.
And here he was again, ready to fight another man. It seemed that he killed her anew every time he stepped into the square to fight.
But this time, his violence ensured his aunt’s survival. It was his atonement for her death. He could never bring her back, but he could keep his aunt, her only sister, alive for her.
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A prickle of warning spread across his shoulders, and he turned. Of course. Prachett approached, flanked by two of his men. The menacing smile on Prachett’s face boded ill. Avery stood silent, filling his broad chest with air. Calm. He must remain calm.
“Russell.” Prachett’s voice slid over Avery like grease.
“’Tis good to see you here.”
Avery said nothing.
“It has been much too long since you’ve been among us. Peters is a newcomer and lost his first. You know where the bets will fall today, don’t you, lad?”
Avery shook out his fists, wishing he could use them to pummel Prachett into the dirt instead of young Peters.