The horse trainer getting to his feet, slowly wiping his honey congealed hands together, and murmuring a stream of oaths as he attempted to dislodge an entire pound of butter adhering to his breeches.
‘By god I do rather resent this. From a stripling only out of short pants. I’ll fight you Kildare. Sure you’ll not get away with another lucky shove like that I’m telling you.’
‘I’ll give you more than a shove, I’ll bloody well give you a thrashing.’
Major Bottom coming forward, his port well to the side out of harm’s way as his free arm is held across Darcy Dancer’s chest to hold him back. The Major raising his voice.
‘Sir I think that challenge is highly inadvisable, remember we’re guests in this man’s house.’
A band of accomplices gathering behind the horse trainer as he adopted a hand to hand combat pose of an Asian flavour, making lunges as he emitted loud grunts, one of which got awfully loud as one foot squeezed deeply into the butter only recently dislodged from his breeches. Darcy Dancer pressing away the hunt secretary’s arm.
‘You take one more buttered foot forward you simpleton and I’ll break your back across my knee.’
‘Simpleton is it. I’ll show you who’s a simpleton. You’ll not break my back, you’ll not.’
Most of the indoor staff of Andromeda Park retreating behind Crooks who was edging his way back behind them making the whole contingent resemble a big many legged bug crawling backwards. Along with a cold blast, more figures arriving in the front door. Voices on the sidelines taking up viewing positions.
‘Ah your man is an expert in the oriental art of self defence and he’ll soon put paid to that Kildare.’
‘Ah I wouldn’t be too sure about that now. By the way that Kildare flipped your man flying, I’d say he’d be getting a lesson from a gentleman well versed in the Gaelic art of pure mayhem and murder.’
Hunt members closing closer about the protagonists some with whips raised, others clutching crockery to let fly. One swinging his fist prematurely and landing it on the face of another hunt member as Darcy Dancer landed him back a punch to send him sailing on his arse, blood exploding out of his nose. Town idlers among the hunt followers, making haste to descend upon the strewn sandwiches and cakes. A cry clearly from Crooks.
‘Hit him in the haggis Master Reginald.’
And a louder cry going up in the shadows. The black beetle browed agent with three others emerging from the door of the long unused west parlour. The timber merchant from the town taking up the rear at whom one had to discharge shot when he was generously helping himself to oak trees not that many years back.
‘Come on lads. Together. At the buckeen. We’ll take him.’
Gearoid with a bottle in one hand and a candelabrum held aloft in the other.
‘Ah it’s the charge of the Light Brigade all over again. I’m telling you.’
The middle of the hall, tea cups breaking on the tiles. Candles knocked over. Hunt members rushing to pile on top of Darcy Dancer. The scrum of bodies teetering. Grunts and thumps. Boots skidding on the tiles. Green and blue collars of red coats torn in the grabbings. Kitty and Norah arriving around the hall corner ferrying trays heaped with more sandwiches up from the kitchen. Dumping them on the floor. Amid the screams and shouts, slabs of bread, beef and ham flying.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph there’s murther and slaughter.’
The indoor staff of Andromeda Park retreating back. Kitty and Norah halfway up the grand staircase. Dingbats crouched shivering next to Crooks. Both peeking out over a heavy marble topped console table pushed out from the wall. Proving Crooks had plenty strength enough when needed. His Dublin accent slipping as he announced.
‘Ah now don’t lay a hand to me I’m an invalid I am.’
More hunt members and followers, agent and accomplices climbing the heap burying Darcy Dancer. Bringing him kicking, tearing, punching to the floor. Bottles on the sidelines emptied down throats and wielded as weapons. Ear twisting, eye gouging. Hair uprooted. Knees pummelled into crotches. Boots socked into ribs front, back and sides. Whips snapping. A door knob stuffed in a mouth. A hard leather toe sinking into the spine of the horse trainer. Huntsman blowing the horn. An English lady hunt visitor retreating backwards eyebrows raised behind a glass of cherry brandy.
‘Dear me, the noise, the people.’
‘Bejesus you’re killing me when it’s him we’re after.’
‘I say the bugger’s strong. Get him.’
‘Constrict his oesophagus.’
‘God save the king.’
‘Bugger the king. Up Ireland.’
‘Put the boot into him.’
‘Bloody hell I’ve just busted my toes.’
‘You cowards.’
A dull lethal thud landing on someone’s pink coated back. The victim spilling out his breath, slumping forward on his face. Another hunt member turning round to raise his arms to ward off a blow aimed at his head. The further upraised iron poker which had just flattened his associate, descending on an upraised wrist. A howl of pain as an ulna, radius and metacarpals fractured in twenty places. A voice of reason.
‘For Jesus sake almighty tear that fucking thing out of that woman’s hands.’
‘You cowards.’
Leila sleeves rolled up two handed belting the thrashing mound of backs. Aiming her poker swipes at another rolling to escape across the tiles. The attackers covering Darcy Dancer unpeeling and turning, to protect their heads. Darcy Dancer left on the floor with one head squeezed in a scissor grip between his legs and another with his arm locked across its throat gasping, tongue hanging out and a face turning deeper and deeper blue.
‘Your man’s choked for the love of Jesus will you let go before he needs the last rites.’
A mud splattered Mental Marquis striding in the door, turning momentarily to fill a tall glass with brandy, and putting it to his lips, draining it to a drop and reaching for a refill as he surveys the battle.
‘Ah this is developing into a nice bit of damn evil amusement. And who, may I ask of somebody who knows, is that utterly beautiful creature wielding that warhammer so brilliantly.’
Leila swinging her poker back and forth, advancing upon the retreating phalanx of hunt members and interlopers. The hunting priest followed by his elegantly ecclesiastic parson friend coming in the door. Both accoutred half in clerical garb and half in their hunting kits tailored in Paris.
‘Stop this violence. O glory be to god what infamy is this afoot. That you should break this man’s priceless china and delft.’
‘Get out of the way parson. And you too father. Or you’ll have Meissen in the eyeball.’
Urgent pounding. The front door slamming open into someone’s face and shut again with a scream over someone’s foot. The parson pushed forward to his knees. The hunting priest, his collar popped up across his eyes blinding him. Farmer Amnesia Murphy’s coat pulled over his head, raging around in circles like a fighting bull. The Mad Major waving his red coat as a cape taking Murphy through a faena. Someone present familiar with Spanish.
‘Olé.’
The Slasher sisters parked near the fire quietly munching sandwiches. The fat faces of Kitty and Norah back again peering around the corner of the back hall. And a shout from the front door.
‘Step back. Back I’m telling you.’
Sexton, his hob nailed boots skating on the tiles, a bill hook raised in his massive hands, its curved blade glinting.
‘Move another muscle any of you or touch another hair of the head of the master of this house and you’ll not only get a hit of this across the humerus that will send your infraspinus fossa flying but your noggins when I’m done splitting them won’t know which side they’re buttered on. I’m telling you.’
The silvery shiny sharpness of Sexton’s hook cocked back over his shoulder hovering in the smoky air. The assembly coming to a rigid standstill. Major Bottom wiping a splotch of cream from his face. Kern and Olav roaring and barking out front. Leila, veins standing out on her neck, her lungs pumping up and down in her chest, her whitened knuckles still holding the poker aloft. Sexton turning his one eye around the hall.