A stable boy was painting the Scratch on the turf. Apart from him, there were six men in the ring, waiting for the referee to arrive and start the fight — the two bare-chested combatants, their seconds and bottleholders. Randal's second was another tar-queued sailor with an equally battered appearance. The bottleholder was a wiry ferret of a man with a shrill voice. The other two were leaving the jeering to him, but he lacked imagination—bastard and uppity kid were about the best he could manage, apart from a few improbable obscenities.
Hamish had now recovered his wits and was doing better, deriding Randal as a punch-drunk antique has-been, whose wits had all been knocked out of him years ago and whose face showed that he couldn't stop a fly-swat. The crowd listened appreciatively and shouted out its own comments. Except for some of the sailors, everyone favored the Scotsman, of course. They would have put their money on him if he'd been missing an arm. He mustn't fail them!
Without his shirt, Randal seemed larger than before. As if to compensate for his bald scalp, his thick body was a forest of grizzled hair, like a bearskin stretched over a barrel. His breeches displayed very bandy legs. There was nothing wrong with his shoulders, but it was the depth of his chest that Toby found worrisome. Hitting that heap of muscle would do no good at all.
"Keep the rounds short," Gavin muttered at his side. "Go down every chance you get. Helps to keep one leg half-bent."
"That's not very sporting!"
"Never mind sporting! You're doing this for money now, lad. And look out for teeth. He's still got some teeth, and a fist full of broken teeth isn't any good for hitting with. Stay away from his mouth."
Toby caught Meg's eye and waved cheerfully. She returned the wave, but she looked worried. She had seen him fight in the past, so why should she be worried? Nice that she was, though. He wouldn't let her down, either.
He flexed his arms. Even Stringer had called them impressive!
One good thing about this battle was that he wouldn't be fighting someone he knew. He wouldn't care so much about hurting a stranger. His right cross was his weapon. He'd won seven fights in the last three games, and every one of them with his right cross. He would keep his left fist in Randal's face until he got an opening and then bring in his timber-splitting right. Just one to the chin might do it. Even at half-power it had floored Rory.
"Remember," Gavin said, "keep your head covered! You've got five fingers on him in height, easy. Body blows just hurt; it's the head that does the job and he's got to come up to you."
Rory excused himself, vaulted the fence nimbly, and strode toward Toby, smiling confidently. Behind him, Sir Malcolm clambered in over the rails. The stable boy trotted off with his paint bucket.
"All set?" Rory said breezily.
Toby flexed his shoulders. "Ready."
"Good man! You know the wagers — if you can come up to Scratch for the thirtieth round, we can't lose!"
"I plan to finish him off a lot sooner than that."
The silver eyes smiled cynically. "Please yourself! Master Stringer and I have put up a purse of fifty marks."
"That's generous! Thank you." Toby had hoped for a share of the winnings, but fifty marks was still money. Real money!
"Plus a tenth of my winnings for you. So the longer you make it last, the more you earn," Rory added pointedly. "Give us a good show. Don't let Scotland down."
A tremor of warning ran over the skin on Toby's back. He glanced quickly at Hamish and saw a reflection of his own sudden unease. Rory had arranged the wagers so that Toby had every incentive to spin out the butchery as long as possible. Why? He had told Stringer that this match was for sport and a wager. He had told Toby that he was fighting to earn an escape from the law. Could he have other motives as well?
And what other parties might take an interest in the match? There was no denying that prizefighting was dangerous. Men died in the ring every year.
"One question," Toby said. "Suppose my opponent gets struck by lightning? What do the Fancy Rules have to say about that?"
Rory glanced covertly at Gavin, doubtless wondering how he would take that unusual query. Then he chuckled.
"Well, it'll be an interesting match, won't it? Thunder to startle him you might get away with, but I suspect lightning would class as cheating." His silver eyes gleamed joyfully as he thumped Toby's shoulder. "This is your big chance, Longdirk. Murder the bast — I do beg your pardon! Murder the beast, I mean. Miss Campbell and I will be cheering every punch."
He turned and sauntered back to the fence as Sir Malcolm shouted for the fighters.
The combatants advanced to Scratch. Their handlers followed, continuing their baiting until the referee barked at them for silence. He looked the two contestants over with no discernible feelings. "Under what names do you fight, gentlemen?" he said quietly.
"Randal the Ripper."
Toby opened his mouth — and wavered. To use his own name in front of this crowd would be rank insanity, when it was posted all over Scotland. He had not foreseen the problem, and yet this was his first professional fight, so the name he used now would be his permanent name.
"He's the Baby Bastard," Randal said, and his two seconds laughed.
"Longdirk of the Hills!" Hamish shrilled.
Sir Malcolm opened his mouth above a flaming beard and let forth a bellow. "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! For a purse of fifty silver marks, an unlimited match under the Fancy Rules, between Randal the Ripper in the brown trews, and Longdirk of the Hills in the green and black."
The crowd roared for the Campbell colors.
"This fight will continue until one man concedes."
An even louder cheer.
"And may the best man win!"
The referee spoke in lower tones. "Fancy Rules means no hitting when you're down, and no kicking. You'll get one warning only. Going down without a blow disqualifies and I'll give no warning on that. Each round ends when one of you touches the ground with anything except feet. After each round, you will have one half minute to come up to Scratch or forfeit the fight. Is that clear?"
"Let me at the brat," Randal growled.
"This is your last fight, old man!" Toby settled his left foot at Scratch and raised his fists. He must use his advantage in reach, keep Randal at a distance.
"Round one!" shouted the timekeeper.
The two men collided in a blizzard of blows. Randal came in under Toby's guard, left-jabbing his ribs mercilessly. Toby backed and fell to one knee, gasping.
"Time out!" the timekeeper called.
Zits! The man was a hundred times faster than he had expected. How many blinks had that taken? Red welts burned on his chest — good! It always took a few thumps to get him mad. He tried to rise and Gavin leaned on his shoulder.
"Take your break. Have a drink."
"I don't want a drink!" he snarled, pushing Hamish's bottle away. "He tripped me! Let me at the sonofabitch!"
He marched to Scratch and raised his fists again.
"Round Two!"
This time Toby blocked the assault, taking the blows on his arms. For a minute he did nothing else, then he began jabbing at Randal's right eye. Soon he saw his chance and swung his thunderbolt right cross at his opponent's chin. It slid harmlessly by. Demons, the man was quick! Again he saw an opening. Again he failed to connect. A fist smashed into his face, sending him reeling.
Randal followed, grinning. He had identified Toby's favorite blow and he could avoid it. The crowd booed: dodging was cowardice. Randal would not care. He did not signal his own punches at all — watching his eyes was useless. He seemed to have no favorite punch. He was good with both hands, and he was delivering real punishment. Toby saw a chance for an uppercut, but it was another trap and left him open. A cannonball left slammed him just above the belt. He hit the turf bodily, choking for air. No man could hit that hard! Impossible!