Intrigued, Mulgrave waited until the two fighters had examined the circle and climbed down to the ground. ‘Good day to you, Master Shada,’ he said then. ‘It is an honour to have you visit our town.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Chain Shada, without hint of humour. He was several inches over six feet tall, wide-shouldered and bull-necked. His face, though showing the marks of more than one hundred fights – scarred eyebrows, a broad flattened nose – was still savagely handsome. His eyes were dark, and wide set, his voice deep. ‘Who are you?’
‘Captain Mulgrave. I will be in charge of security.’
‘Will the Moidart be watching me in the final?’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘Pity. He’ll miss a fine exhibition. I expect it will be against Gorain here,’ he added, slapping the shoulder of the powerful man standing alongside him. ‘He’s good. In a few years he’ll be even better. Luckily I will have retired by then.’
‘I saw you fight the champion from Goriasa,’ said Mulgrave. ‘It was at Werwick Castle four or five years ago. You broke his jaw in the first period, but he fought on for nigh on an hour.’
‘Aye, he was tough, that one,’ said Shada. ‘Had a good left right combination, and knew how to use his head. Split my nose with a good butt in the eleventh period. Thought I’d gone blind. Are you a fight follower?’
‘No. I was on duty that day also. But I recall your footwork was exquisite. Always in balance – even when in trouble.’
‘It’s all in the legs, Mulgrave. Every punch comes from the toes, and every blow received is absorbed and lessened by correct footwork. Tell me, are there any highland men who should merit concern?’
‘Fist fighting is not a sport here, Master Shada. It is not even considered a craft. In the highlands a fight involves two men throwing punches until one falls down. But there will be some big lads facing you, and you’ll take a few whacks before the final.’
‘Not so,’ replied Chain Shada. ‘I am only here to fight the final. The bishop offered me fifty pounds. He is a fight follower and my greatest supporter – or so he tells me.’
Mulgrave fell silent for a moment. ‘That is hardly sporting, sir.
The man you face will have fought maybe five … six opponents before he steps into the circle with you.’
‘I shall go easy on him. As I said, it is more of an exhibition, and will give Gorain an opportunity to test himself. I’m hardly likely to want to batter my own apprentice.’
‘Indeed. I can see that. However, there is always the possibility that you will not be facing Gorain.’
‘You think some highland lout can beat me?’ Gorain sneered. ‘Nonsense!’
Mulgrave looked at him. Like Chain Shada’s his face was broad, the cheekbones and brows rounded, and therefore less likely to suffer cuts. There was a brooding power in the man, but Mulgrave took an instant dislike to him. There was something in his eyes that spoke of cruelty and malice.
‘A lucky blow, sir,’ said Mulgrave, ‘a slip, a rush of blood to the head. It could happen.’
‘In a pig’s eye!’ snapped Gorain. ‘I am unbeaten in seventeen fights. No stinking sheep-shagger will beat me. You can wager your fortune on that, captain.’
‘I don’t gamble, sir.’
‘It wouldn’t be a gamble,’ said Chain Shada. ‘Gorain has the talent to be the best I have ever seen. I intend to make twice the fortune from his career that I have made from my own. Next month he will be fighting in Baracum, in the King’s Tourney. There he will make a name for himself. And now we must be going. The bishop has promised us steak and uisge. It is said there is no finer steak than that found in the highlands.’
‘The same can be said of the uisge,’ Mulgrave told him.
‘I may try it – but only after the tourney,’ said Chain Shada. ‘A fighter needs a clear head.’
‘An old fighter maybe,’ said Gorain.
Mulgrave saw a momentary flash of irritation cross Chain Shada’s features. ‘It was good to meet you, captain,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we can meet for a dram of uisge later tonight.’