Chapter Twelve
Hannah could not shake a sense of utter doom as she and Eoin entered a surprisingly extensive chamber.
Men crowded shoulder to shoulder, forming an almost impenetrable wall around whatever they were watching.
A few of the coats were of fine silk, while others were serviceable linen, and still others were threadbare with patched holes.
The place reeked. Of mold. Of sweat. Of stale ale. Of old gin. Of blood—fresh and long dried.
The atmosphere was stifling and not just due to the putrid odors. Desperation, greed, violence, and unholy excitement hung like an almost palpable miasma. Hannah had experienced unsavory places. She’d grown up in Covent Garden after all. But she’d rarely sensed a darkness this cloying.
Hannah was suddenly very glad that Eoin was standing next to her. She’d never thought a man—a nobleman at that—could offer her fortifying comfort by his mere presence. Yet she felt buoyed by his nearness and not just because of his massive build.
“This room is too large to fit under the Horse and Hen.” Eoin practically shouted the words near her ear, but the din was so great that she still struggled to hear. “It must extend under several buildings and even across the alley itself.”
Hannah nodded. She’d been thinking the same.
The tavern was smaller than her coffeehouse, yet her cellar was nowhere near this size.
The ceiling was propped up by rickety, improvised pillars that appeared to be constructed of whatever scraps were handy at the time.
The results looked akin to a child heaping a bunch of twigs together to make a tower.
Those haphazard structures held up equally crude wooden beams that looked nothing like the sturdy rafters of the Black Sheep.
Between the questionable supports were wooden planks where men sat, their legs dangling in the air, their faces red from drink or excitement or both.
Their mouths were contorted in angry shouts and jeers.
Below them were the heads of other spectators, who peered around or through the slapdash columns to watch whatever entertainment was holding them in thrall.
Hannah shivered. It was as if someone had moved the St. Giles rookery indoors and underground. The whole building was one spark or push away from an inferno or devastating collapse.
“Do you think this place existed when my mother worked at the Horse and Hen?” Eoin asked, and Hannah had no trouble detecting the worried pain in his voice.
“I don’t know,” Hannah admitted. The mess of uneven wooden stakes, poles, planks, and logs could have been built ages ago and shored up over the decades, or it could be a new construction.
“But we can’t hover here in the shadows if we wish to learn more.
Do you think you can make a path through the crowd? ”
Normally, Hannah would just slip through, but with Eoin’s size, that wasn’t a possibility. Thankfully, due to his hulking frame, he was the type of fellow that other men quickly sidled away from.
Eoin nodded and quickly began shouldering through the smelly, sweaty mass of humanity. Hannah followed him closely, and she doubted that anyone noticed her even with a parrot perched on her shoulder. Every gaze was riveted to Eoin’s massive form and huge fists.
Within a few seconds, they reached the crowd’s nexus.
Eoin halted abruptly, and Hannah smashed painfully into his back.
Yelping, she rubbed her nose. She would have much preferred a more pleasurable way to discover just how firm Eoin’s muscles were.
Still wincing, she peeked around the duke and then froze too.
Two lads were clobbering each other in a thirty-by-thirty-foot pit a few feet below Hannah’s toes.
Although she had witnessed plenty of street fights and even attended a few matches while dressed as a boy at Championess Quick’s amphitheater, she was stunned by the particular cruelness that the youths displayed.
Viciously, they tore each other’s hair and skin as if their only goal was to inflict the most pain on the other.
When a bigger adolescent slammed the scrawnier one to the ground, Hannah gasped, not bothering to suppress the noise. She couldn’t even hear her own exhalation over the enthusiastic shouts encouraging the juvenile to keep hitting his prone opponent’s face.
She knew the fallen boy—or had at least met him. He’d been the young pickpocket who’d tried to steal from Eoin only two days before. Back then, she’d spotted bruises and welts on his arms, but she’d thought he’d received them from a kidsman or from encroaching on another urchin’s hunting grounds.
Blood sprayed from the boy’s nose, and the other fighter turned to kicking his ribs. Hannah tensed, ready to jump into the ring herself—even though she realized she would likely only get beaten. Beside her, Eoin shifted his body in obvious preparation to assist the lad.
But before either of them could react, a man dressed in a tattered silk coat stepped into the ring.
He pointed to the dominant competitor. The youth climbed out of the pit to cheers and slaps on the back.
The fallen boy was hauled up by his collar and half tossed, half forcibly guided up the wooden wall.
He landed at the feet of a burly man standing next to Eoin and Hannah.
The fellow raised his foot. Although Hannah couldn’t hear every screamed word, she caught a few. “Worthless cur.” “Lost… three shillings.”
Hannah almost dove to cover the boy’s body, but Eoin was faster. He simply moved in front of the prone lad. “Will you stop if I pay you that amount?”
“Eh?” the man asked as he bobbled a bit, likely from drink and pent-up ire.
“If I give you three shillings, will you leave the child alone?” Eoin asked.
“What child?” the man sneered.
“The one behind me.” Eoin’s eyes blazed, but still he made no move to attack even though he could have easily defeated the smaller, drunk fellow. Instead, he calmly withdrew the coins.
“That’s no child. He’s just a fighting mutt from the streets.”
“Will you take the money and stop hurting the boy? I won’t ask again.” Eoin’s voice had become cool—deadly cool.
Even the inebriated man registered the chill. His mouth flapped closed, and he snatched the money from Eoin’s outstretched palm. Then he slunk a few feet away, glancing back once or twice as if making sure that Eoin wouldn’t follow.
Eoin bent to help the lad, but the adolescent half lurched and half stumbled to his feet.
He clutched his side and glared. Hannah could see a flicker of surprise in Eoin’s blue-green eyes, but she understood the boy’s venomous reaction.
The child had to fend for himself, and he’d probably learned early that nothing came without cost. Hannah’s parents might have shielded and loved her, but she’d grown up close enough to the edges of society that she could comprehend what the lad had endured.
“What do you want?” the boy demanded as he wiped his bloodied lip with the hand not gripping his ribs.
“Just to help. That’s all. You have nothing to fear from me.” Eoin’s measured voice was tinged with kindness.
The boy didn’t stop glowering, and his slight body remained tense, clearly poised to bolt.
But he didn’t dart away. Perhaps he expected others who lost their bets to retaliate against him.
It might be common in the vicious hellhole.
For whatever reason, though, the lad lingered near them like a hunted deer huddled below a rock shelter.
The fellow in tattered finery announced the next fight—this one between two women, who were naked from their waists up. This wasn’t about boxing talent. It was about the prurient interests of the onlookers.
“I—I think we know what happens underneath the Horse and Hen.” Eoin’s normally even voice was shaky and hollow. “There’s no need to stay for another match.”
Eoin was clenching his jaw so hard that his cheek muscles had dented.
His big hands flexed as he stared at the fighting women.
It was clear to Hannah that he was imagining his own mother in that ring.
Had she participated in catfights in this subterranean room before she’d married Eoin’s father?
What about after? Had she found herself forced back into this brutal life in order to feed herself and her daughter?
No wonder Eoin’s aquamarine eyes had gone dark. Hannah knew the pain she experienced when she thought about what her father and uncle had endured when they’d been shoved into a dark hold of a ship along with hardened adult criminals.
“I agree that we should leave,” Hannah said quietly. Eoin’s sorrow wasn’t the only reason for an immediate departure. “I think I know why that guard allowed us to enter.”
“He thought I was a fighter,” Eoin said grimly, tapping at one of the fake bruises on his face.
Hannah nodded. Eoin wouldn’t survive long if forced into that ring. Even his bulk couldn’t compete against the skill of a hardened prizefighter.
Before heading to the exit, Hannah gave one last glance toward the ring. The women were both yanking each other’s long locks and shuffling in an agonizing circle.
Hannah was just about to turn when the master of ceremonies jumped into the ring, his tattered coattails flapping from the effort. He raced toward the women and started shouting, “Break it up! Break it up!”
Protests erupted, and the screaming caused pain to explode inside Hannah’s head. The pressure swelled with the ferocity of the crowd’s ire. Gnawing unease swept through her. Something wasn’t right. The women ignored the command as they each tried to force the other to the ground.
The silk-clad announcer did not seem deterred as he waved to four burly fellows.
After leaping into the pit, they broke into two pairs and pulled the fighters apart.
The women rained blows upon each other and their captors.
Finally, they were separated—their fists still swinging.
One of them even clutched a chunk of the other’s hair.
“The Purveyor has spoken. The Purveyor has spoken,” the master of ceremonies solemnly called out, as if this were akin to a proclamation by King George. At the name, the unruly crowd miraculously settled. Whoever the Purveyor was, he held sway.
“The Purveyor wants the first prizefighter match to begin!” the announcer bellowed.
Dread burst through Hannah as the man swung with a flourish in Eoin’s direction. Desperately, Hannah tried to scramble to stand in front of Eoin—even as part of her recognized the futility. It was not as if her slender frame could obscure Eoin’s massive one.
“You!” The master of ceremonies pointed a finger in Eoin’s direction. “You! Come down here now. Show us what a fight really is.”
Eoin stepped backward, but to his stoic credit, he managed not to look like a hunted hare. Hannah was fairly certain that she was the very picture of a prey animal as she swiveled her head around to locate any exits.
“Why are you backing away?” the announcer sneered. “Do we have a cowardly jackanapes here? Don’t let him run, fellows!”
The crowd behind Eoin shoved him forward, and he stumbled into Hannah.
Before he mowed her over, he picked her up and plopped her down to his side.
Hannah watched in utter horror as Eoin was forced to leap into the pit.
Cheers and jeers rang through the chamber.
Hannah’s stomach clenched so violently that bile burned her throat.
How was she to stop this? She could fight, but not at the level of a prizefighter. She had no prayer of helping him.
Pan paced nervously on her shoulder, but he did not fly into the air.
It was as if the slender bird was trying his best to protect her even as she was trying to save Eoin.
Pan had been trained to provide distractions during times of danger, but normally he screamed about ghosts and murder.
Hannah doubted that either of those cries would terrify this crowd.
In fact, they’d probably want to witness a killing. What could instill fear?
The bear could. Obviously, it was at the entrance to intimidate. And all these men had witnessed its frustrated anger.
And Pan. Pan could roar.
Perhaps not well enough to fool a calm and rational gathering, but this was a crowd on edge. It wouldn’t take much to stir up a panic.