Lizzie was afraid Mack might be dead. She pushed through the crowd and stepped into the ring. Mack’s second knelt beside his prone body. Lizzie bent over Mack, her heart in her mouth. His eyes were closed, but she saw that he was breathing. “Thank God he’s alive,” she said.

The Irishman glanced briefly at her but did not speak. Lizzie prayed Mack was not permanently damaged In the last half hour he had taken more heavy blows to the head than most people suffered in a lifetime. She was terrified that when he returned to consciousness he would be a drooling idiot.

He opened his eyes.

“How do you feel?” Lizzie said urgently.

He closed his eyes again without responding.

The Irishman stared at her and said: “Who are you, the boy soprano?” She realized she had forgotten to put on a man’s voice.

“A friend,” she replied. “Let’s carry him inside—he shouldn’t lie on the muddy ground.”

After a moment’s hesitation the man said: “All right.” He grasped Mack under the arms. Two spectators took his legs and they lifted him.

Lizzie led the way into the tavern. In her most arrogant male voice she shouted: “Landlord—show me your best room, and quick about it!”

A woman came from behind the bar. “Who’s paying?” she said guardedly.

Lizzie gave her a sovereign.

“This way,” said the woman.

She led them up the stairs to a bedroom overlooking the courtyard. The room was clean and the four-poster bed was neatly made with a plain coarse blanket. The men laid Mack on the bed. Lizzie said to the woman: “Light the fire then bring us some French brandy. Do you know of a physician in the neighborhood who could dress this man’s wounds?”

“I’ll send for Dr. Samuels.”

Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed. Mack’s face was a mess, swollen and bloody. She undid his shirt and saw that his chest was covered with bruises and abrasions.

The helpers left. The Irishman said: “I’m Dermot Riley—Mack lodges in my house.”

“My name is Elizabeth Hallim,” she replied. “I’ve known him since we were children.” She decided not to explain why she was dressed as a man: Riley could think what he liked.

“I don’t think he’s hurt bad,” Riley said.

“We should bathe his wounds. Ask for some hot water in a bowl, will you?”

“All right.” He went out, leaving her alone with the unconscious Mack.

Lizzie stared at Mack’s still form. He was hardly breathing. Hesitantly, she put her hand on his chest. The skin was warm and the flesh beneath it was hard. She pressed down and felt the thump of his heartbeat, regular and strong.

She liked touching him. She put her other hand on her own bosom, feeling the difference between her soft breasts and his hard muscles. She touched his nipple, small and soft, and then her own, bigger and protruding.

He opened his eyes.

She snatched her hand away, feeling guilty. What in heaven’s name am I doing? she thought.

He looked at her blankly. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“You were in a prizefight,” she said. “You lost.”

He stared at her for several seconds, then at last he grinned. “Lizzie Hallim, dressed as a man again,” he said in a normal voice.

“Thank God you’re all right!”

He gave her a peculiar look. “It’s very … kind of you to care.”

She felt embarrassed. “I can’t think why I do,” she said in a brittle tone. “You’re only a coal miner who doesn’t know his place.” Then to her horror she felt tears running down her face. “It’s very hard to watch a friend being beaten to a pulp,” she said with a catch in her voice that she could not control.

He watched her cry. “Lizzie Hallim,” he said wonderingly, “will I ever understand you?”

15

BRANDY EASED THE PAIN OF MACK’S WOUNDS THAT evening, but on the following morning he woke up in agony. He hurt in every part of his body that he could identify, from his sore toes—injured by kicking Rees Preece so hard—to the top of his skull, where he had a headache that felt as if it would never go away. The face in the shard of mirror he used for shaving was all cuts and bruises, and too tender to be touched, let alone shaved.

All the same, his spirits were high. Lizzie Hallim never failed to stimulate him. Her irrepressible boldness made all things seem possible. Whatever would she do next? When he had recognized her, sitting on the edge of the bed, he had suffered a barely controllable urge to take her in his arms. He had resisted the temptation by reminding himself that such a move would be the end of their peculiar friendship. It was one thing for her to break the rules, she was a lady. She might play rough-and-tumble with a puppy dog, but if once it bit her she would put it out in the yard.

She had told him she was going to marry Jay Jamisson, and he had bitten his tongue instead of telling her she was a damn fool. It was none of his business and he did not want to offend her.

Dermot’s wife, Bridget, made a breakfast of salt porridge and Mack ate it with the children. Bridget was a woman of about thirty who had once been beautiful but now just looked tired. When the food was all gone Mack and Dermot went out to look for work. “Bring home some money,” Bridget called as they left.

It was not a lucky day. They toured the food markets of London, offering themselves as porters for the baskets of wet fish, barrels of wine, and bloody sides of beef the hungry city needed every day; but there were too many men and not enough work. At midday they gave up and walked to the West End to try the coffeehouses. By the end of the afternoon they were as weary as if they had worked all day, but they had nothing to show for it.

As they turned into the Strand a small figure shot out of an alley, like a bolting rabbit, and crashed into Dermot. It was a girl of about thirteen, ragged and thin and scared. Dermot made a noise like a punctured bladder. The child squealed in fright, stumbled, and regained her balance.

After her came a brawny young man in expensive but disheveled clothes. He came within an inch of grabbing her as she bounced off Dermot, but she ducked and dodged and ran on. Then she slipped and fell, and he was on her.

She screamed in terror. The man was mad with rage. He picked up the slight body and punched the side of her head, knocking her down again, then he kicked her puny chest with his booted foot.

Mack had become hardened to the violence on the streets of London. Men, women and children fought constantly, punching and scratching one another, their battles usually fueled by the cheap gin that was sold at every corner shop. But he had never seen a strong man beat a small child so mercilessly. It looked as if he might kill her. Mack was still in pain from his encounter with the Welsh Mountain, and the last thing he wanted was another fight, but he could not stand still and watch this. As the man was about to kick her again Mack grabbed him roughly and jerked him back.

He turned around. He was several inches taller than Mack. He put his hand in the center of Mack’s chest and shoved him powerfully away. Mack staggered backward. The man turned again to the child. She was scrambling to her feet. He hit her a mighty slap to her face that sent her flying.

Mack saw red. He grabbed the man by the collar and the seat of the breeches and lifted him bodily off the ground. The man roared with surprise and anger, and began to writhe violently, but Mack held him and lifted him up over his head.

Dermot stared in surprise at the ease with which Mack held him up. “You’re a strong boy, Mack, by gob,” he said.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” the man shouted.

Mack set him on the ground but kept hold of one wrist. “Just leave the child alone.”

Dermot helped the girl stand up and held her gently but firmly.