The Return of the Warrior Page 18

  ‘Out of my way!’ yelled Jack, frantically trying to get past him and give chase to the fast-disappearing coach.

  But the sharp point of a dagger in his back halted his escape.

  ‘Not leaving us so quickly, are we?’ taunted Hazel, the hawthorn-haired doxy, giving the knife a twist.

  Jack winced, feeling the blade bite, as several other members of Rakesby’s gang materialized from the crowd and encircled him.

  ‘Wasn’t nice of you to leave us tied to a tree like that,’ snarled Rakesby, ‘not nice at all.’

  ‘I thought Lord Percival was to send constables to arrest you,’ replied Jack fiercely. To his dismay, he saw the coach turn a corner and it was gone.

  The upright-man snorted a laugh. ‘He did, but they didn’t send enough men to handle the likes of me.’ He leant in, his stale breath wafting in Jack’s face. ‘So I’ve a bone to pick with you, young Jack Fletcher.’

  With the man so close, Jack drew his katana – fast and hard – to hit him in the gut with its pommel. But Rakesby seized Jack’s wrist first and forced the sword back into its saya.

  ‘Now, now – that’s no way to treat an old friend,’ he said through gritted teeth, his iron-like grip crushing Jack’s wrist.

  With practised light fingers, Hazel relieved Jack of his daishō. Then she gave another prod of her dagger, just to remind him of his predicament.

  ‘Talking of friends,’ said the highwayman, his gaze raking the crowd, ‘where are yours?’

  ‘They’re around,’ Jack replied boldly. ‘So you’d better let me go if you don’t want to be felled like a tree again!’

  Rakesby spat on the ground. ‘That pint-sized monk got lucky! Next time I’ll crush him under my foot. Now, where are they?’

  Jack defiantly held his tongue. But he, too, wondered where his friends had got to. Were they still waiting back at the inn? Or had they followed him in his mad dash after Jess? Wherever they were, he desperately needed their help right now.

  ‘No matter,’ said Rakesby, when Jack didn’t reply. ‘We’ll find ’em soon enough.’

  He nodded to his gang, and Jack found himself roughly seized by the arms and ferried through the market, his feet barely touching the ground. He struggled to free himself. To have seen his sister, only to have her snatched away and himself apprehended by Rakesby and his motley crew – it was beyond torture. He kicked and spat, a wildcat in their unyielding grip.

  ‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘I’m being kidnap–’

  Rakesby whipped his staff around and caught Jack across the jaw, the heavy blow stunning him into silence. As Jack reeled drunkenly, his captors holding him up, Rakesby apologized to the onlookers for Jack’s delirious behaviour, blaming it on too much wine. The townsfolk, some equally merry, laughed and paid him no more attention. The gang moved swiftly on.

  Jack tried in vain to spot his friends in the crowd. He let out a desperate cry – ‘Tasukete! Abunai!’ – calling for help in Japanese, in the faint hope that they might hear him above the hubbub.

  ‘Go ahead, Jack! Wail all you like,’ said Rakesby, grinning. ‘When the piglet squeals, the mother comes running!’

  Jack ceased shouting, realizing that he was doing exactly what the highwayman wanted. He was being used as bait to draw the others. At the end of the street, his captors frogmarched him west towards the cattle market and on to the outskirts of town where a wooden arena had been constructed. Spectators sat on tiered benches, shouting, clapping and cheering. From down in the pit itself there arose a violent cacophony of barks, yelps, growls and roars.

  ‘Do you like blood sports, Jack?’ asked Rakesby, as he and his gang pushed to the front, ensuring Jack had a good view. Towards one side of the arena a post had been driven into the ground to which a huge bear had been chained. The creature, bloodied and fierce, gave a gut-wrenching roar as she tore with her claws at four muscled dogs attacking her. The dogs, their jaws dripping with saliva, snapped and bit into the flesh of the chained bear, even as they were clawed and bitten themselves.

  ‘I so admire mastiffs,’ Rakesby went on, not waiting for Jack to answer. ‘Despite being mauled by the bear, they never give in. That’s true fighting spirit.’

  ‘Although it’s not really a fair fight, when the bear’s chained and her teeth blunted,’ Jack observed bitterly. Trapped by Rakesby’s gang, he felt as chained as the poor bear.

  ‘Never underestimate the bear!’ warned Rakesby, wagging a finger. ‘For they are formidable warriors. How can you not admire their sheer power? See how this one crushes that dog at the neck!’

  The mastiff in question gave a pained yelp, then fell limp. The bear tossed it away just as another leapt on her back. She twisted and tumbled in a wild effort to dislodge the beast. Jack looked away, sickened at the spectacle. All round the arena spectators were feverishly placing bets on the outcome of the fight. He could never understand how some people could take pleasure in seeing one poor beast tear and kill another for the sake of mere entertainment.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ demanded Jack, as the bear finished off a bulldog.

  ‘We’ve come to make a bet,’ the upright-man replied with a fiendish grin.

  ‘New dogs!’ yelled the pit owner, a fat man with heavy jowls and a sweat-stained shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.

  Rakesby raised a hand. ‘I’ve a fresh dog for the pit.’

  The owner glanced over, questioning with his rheumy eyes. ‘Let’s see if it’s worthy, then.’

  Without warning, Jack was picked up and tossed into the arena. He landed hard in the dirt, jarring his shoulder on impact. The crowd gasped, then fell silent. Winded and hurting, Jack looked up. The two remaining dogs – another large mastiff and a muscular bulldog – halted their attacks on the bear and now glared at him, their jaws open, their fangs dripping with blood. The wounded bear pawed the ground, her great head turning towards the intruder in the pit.

  ‘He’s no dog!’ exclaimed the pit owner.

  Rakesby shrugged. ‘What can I say? He’s the runt of the litter!’

  Ever so slowly and carefully, Jack got to all fours. The two dogs stalked towards him, growling deep in their throats. In their frenzied bloodlust, they didn’t see a young man before them. They saw a young bear to rend and tear to pieces. A primeval fear seized Jack. The dogs sensed his weakness and closed in. At the last second, Jack made a dash for the arena wall. He threw himself up, clinging to the top of a wooden panel as the two dogs barked and snapped at his heels. However, as Jack tried to scramble to safety, Hazel met him with her dagger.

  ‘Oh, Jack! Don’t spoil the entertainment for everyone,’ she said with a smirk, and she brought the knife’s hilt down.

  Pain flared through his fingers and he was forced to let go. As he fell back into the pit, the bulldog went for him – but Jack leapt aside. The dog hit the arena wall and was stunned – but now the mastiff was giving chase. Rakesby laughed, and the rest of the spectators joined in, as Jack sprinted for the opposite wall. Almost tripping over one of the dead dogs, Jack dodged round the frenzied bear. A huge paw, the size of a cannonball, lashed out at him and he was caught on the arm by the bear’s claws.

  ‘Watch out, Jack!’ Rakesby taunted gleefully.

  On reaching the far side of the pit, Jack glanced back and saw the mastiff launch itself at him. He barely managed to get his arms up before the dog was upon him. They fell to the ground and wrestled in the dirt, the beast’s slobbering jaws snapping inches from his face.

  As he continued trying to hold the mastiff off, Jack was vaguely aware that around him wagers were being laid on his survival. Given his dire situation, he didn’t put the odds much in his favour.

  Jack had fought many enemies, but never a dog. The mastiff was relentless in its fury, its claws scrabbling at his chest as if digging for a bone. Blood soon soaked through Jack’s tattered shirt. Yet he grimly kept the dog’s slobbering head at bay. He had everything to fight for, not only his life but Jess’s safety too. He had t
o survive to rescue her from Sir Toby’s clutches.

  The spectators looked on in morbid fascination. Above their shocked gasps and shouts of encouragement, Rakesby’s voice boomed loud and clear. ‘Keep fighting, Jack, I’ve put sixpence on yer!’

  But Jack was rapidly weakening under the mastiff’s ferocious onslaught. None of his training had prepared him to fight a rabid wild beast. There were no punches to block or kicks to counter. No blades to deflect or weapons to disarm. The dog had no battle strategy – it simply wanted to rip, tear and bite.

  Then Jack remembered Sensei Kyuzo’s katame waza training. Surely his teacher’s grappling techniques would be as effective on a dog as on a man? In a bid to gain the advantage, Jack rolled over until he was on top of the mastiff. Then, pinning a forearm across the dog’s throat, he began to choke the animal. It spluttered and writhed beneath him. But, in rolling, Jack had made the fatal error of entering the bear’s domain. Straining on her chain, the enraged beast took another swipe at Jack. Her sharp claws ripped through the cotton of Jack’s shirt and scored four red lines into his back. Crying out in pain, he lost his grip on the dog and the mastiff’s jaws clamped on to his forearm.

  Caught between teeth and claws, Jack realized he was as good as dead.

  The shouts of the crowd grew to fever pitch and Rakesby leant over the arena wall to gloat at Jack’s demise. ‘I told you, Jack: never underestimate the bear!’

  His words cut through the pain and Jack knew what he had to do. Rather than rolling away from the bear, he rolled towards her, with the dog still gripping his arm. Using the mastiff as a shield, Jack let the bear attack, and her claws dug deep into the dog’s back. The mastiff yelped, releasing Jack’s arm, and was almost immediately torn from him. The bear killed it with a single bite to its throat.

  Jack scrambled away to safety. Although many had bet against him, the crowd now cheered his miraculous escape. But the gladiatorial battle wasn’t over yet. The remaining bulldog, recovered from its impact against the arena wall, stalked towards Jack. Injured and exhausted, Jack didn’t know whether he had the strength left to fight it off. Weakly, he raised his fists into a fighting guard.

  ‘This isn’t a boxing match!’ heckled Hazel, prompting a wave of laughter.

  But Jack had nothing else with which to fend off the savage animal.

  The beast bared its teeth and growled. Jack braced himself.

  Then a dagger landed at his feet, a slim stiletto blade with a pair of ornate curved prongs above the hilt.

  Jack snatched it up.

  ‘Foul play!’ yelled Rakesby, scanning the crowd for the dagger’s owner.

  Jack had no idea who his benefactor was – he couldn’t spot Akiko, Yori or Rose among the spectators – but he was thankful nonetheless. He held out the blade, warding off the animal.

  The bulldog sensed the danger and became wary, eyeing the silver point as if it was a bear’s claw. The crowd began jeering and booing, some demanding that all bets be called off. But Jack realized that, even if he managed to defeat the dog, Rakesby and his gang wouldn’t let him go. They intended he should die one way or another, which meant Jack needed to escape the pit and Rakesby’s gang.

  So, rather than killing the bulldog, Jack backed slowly away to the far side of the arena and the post that tethered the bear. The abused beast swung towards him, her eyes red with pain and fury. Jack tried to unhook the chain, but discovered it was padlocked to the post. Roaring, the bear reared up on her hind legs to take a swipe at him. Jack furiously tugged on the chain but to no avail. Then the bear spotted the bulldog prowling towards Jack and lashed out at its old enemy. As bear and dog fought, Jack thrust the tip of the dagger into the padlock and tried to jimmy it open. The bear knocked the bulldog aside with a brutal slash of claws, and the dog landed in a bloody heap and lay still. Then the bear turned back to Jack, intent on finishing off her last threat.

  His hands slick with sweat and blood, Jack frantically jiggled the blade in the lock. At the very last moment, he heard a click and the padlock sprang open. The iron chain fell to the earth; the bear hesitated. She looked at her shackles … then at Jack … then gave a mighty roar. Jack feebly raised the dagger, a toothpick against the claws of a fully grown brown bear – but the bear swept past him and bounded over the arena wall. Despite her injuries, she clambered into the stalls with ease. Spectators scattered in panic, screaming for their lives. A woman’s cloak was torn from her and a man was crushed under the heavy paws of the wild animal. Pandemonium reigned and, in the confusion, Jack scrambled up the wooden wall and out of the pit …

  ‘Not so fast!’ hissed Hazel. She thrust her knife at Jack’s heart.

  Jack blocked the blade with the curved prongs of the stiletto dagger, then, twisting the hilt, disarmed her. He followed up with a side kick that sent Hazel tumbling into the pit – taking Jack’s stolen katana and wakizashi with her. She landed next to the wounded bulldog. Unfortunately for her, the dog wasn’t quite dead and in its death throes the animal latched on to her with its slobbering jaws.

  Jack went to jump into the pit after her, but two of Rakesby’s gang came rushing at him with rapiers. Armed only with the dagger, Jack managed to fend off the first jab but was caught on the arm by the second attack. Smarting from his wound, he retreated through the fleeing crowd, the bear still on the rampage. But now more gang members materialized to block his escape. Surrounded by rapiers, cudgels and knives, Jack had nowhere left to run.

  Rakesby appeared with his knotted staff. ‘Enough of this blood sport!’ he spat. ‘Kill the runt!’

  Jack pivoted on the spot, trying desperately to ward off any attacks. But he was outnumbered seven to one.

  Then a slim gentleman with an upturned moustache stepped into the circle. He was dressed in a fine purple doublet and hose trimmed with lace. A black velvet cape hung stylishly off one shoulder and a wide-brimmed feathered hat adorned his head. With a flourish, he unsheathed his rapier – a long sliver of elegant steel.

  ‘And who are you?’ demanded Rakesby, furiously.

  ‘I, sir, am Signor Horatio Palavicino,’ announced the swordsman, with a grand air and distinctly foreign accent.

  Rakesby sneered. ‘A fop from Italy? Get lost! This ain’t your fight.’

  ‘It is now,’ replied Signor Horatio, sinking into a low guard, his rapier out straight, his left arm held high for balance.

  Rakesby shrugged. ‘So be it. Kill ’em both, lads.’

  His gang rushed in. Jack readied himself to fight to his last breath, but he barely got a thrust in. Signor Horatio lunged, deflected and disarmed all six attackers in a matter of seconds. His sword work was almost too fast to see, the rapier blade whipping through the air like a hornet, stinging its victims and wounding them into immediate submission.

  Rakesby gazed round at his men. Then he turned his outrage on the newcomer. ‘You may be quick with a rapier,’ he snarled, ‘but I daresay you ain’t as quick as a bullet!’

  Pulling his flintlock pistol from his belt, the highwayman took aim at Signor Horatio. The swordsman held his ground, noble and proud even in the face of certain death. There was nothing Jack could do to save his saviour –

  A guttural roar issued from the arena. Rakesby spun back round to face the approaching bear, re-aimed and fired his pistol. The bear flinched and howled in pain, but kept coming. And Rakesby fled for his life.

  ‘Ah, how Shakespeare would have approved!’ Signor Horatio laughed, as the highwayman hightailed it into the woods, with the enraged bear close behind. ‘Exit, pursued by a bear!’

  Jack stood surveying the aftermath of their escape, his and the bear’s. The tiered benches round the arena were abandoned and in disarray, having been knocked over during the audience’s hysterical flight. Some spectators were still present, wandering around in a daze or tending to the shocked and injured. A few more unprincipled individuals were scouring the ground for dropped coins and lost possessions. But most had retreated into the relative safety of t
he town. Surrounding Jack in a ring lay the groaning and writhing bodies of Rakesby’s gang, each nursing a painful and potentially fatal wound.

  The threat over, Signor Horatio resheathed his rapier. ‘May I have my dagger back, per favore, signor?’ he asked, holding out a gloved hand.

  ‘By all means,’ said Jack, returning the fine stiletto blade. ‘Thank you for saving me. I owe you my life.’

  ‘Pah! It was nothing!’ replied the swordsman, flicking a speck of dust off his velveted shoulder.

  ‘Your sword work cannot be described as nothing!’ exclaimed Jack, astounded at the man’s blasé attitude. ‘Your skill with a blade is extraordinary!’

  His saviour puffed up like a peacock at the compliment.

  Jack studied the man’s dark and handsome face. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Jack Fletcher. May I ask you why you came to my aid?’

  Signor Horatio pursed his lower lip and shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I was impressed by your fighting spirit.’ He raised a slender finger and pointed at Jack. ‘Also, your balanced posture suggests you’re a trained swordsman too. I am right, no?’

  Jack nodded and Signor Horatio beamed at his educated guess. ‘What school did you train at, and who was your master?’ he asked.

  ‘The Niten Ichi Ryū,’ Jack replied. ‘Under Masamoto Takeshi.’

  Signor Horatio frowned. ‘I’ve not heard of that sword school.’

  ‘It’s in the Japans,’ explained Jack.

  ‘Ah! That must be why,’ said Signor Horatio, nodding to himself. ‘Well, you’ve no doubt heard of mine,’ he said, then paused dramatically before announcing: ‘Signor Horatio’s School of Fencing!’

  From the way the swordsman spoke, it was obvious he was supremely proud of his institution. Jack hated to disappoint his saviour, but replied honestly, ‘I’m afraid not, Signor Horatio … I’ve been out of the country a while.’

  For a moment the swordsman appeared somewhat deflated. Then he smiled again. ‘No matter. One day everyone will have heard of Signor Horatio’s School of Fencing!’