wall behind. He sagged sideways; Mace hit him twice more, then threw him to the floor.
Sliding into the now vacant seat, Mace leaned upon his forearms and bellowed for a serving-girl. As we seated ourselves a plump woman wearing a dress of homespun wool and a leather apron pushed her way through to us. She was tired, her eyes dull, but she forced a smile, took our order and vanished back into the throng.
Ilka was nervous and sat close to Piercollo, her eyes glancing from left to right at the milling men. His huge arm moved around her shoulder and he patted her, as one would a frightened child. She smiled up him. I almost hated him then and wished that I too could be seen as a guardian of the frightened, a warrior of note.
It was impossible to hold a conversation in such a place and when the ale and food were carried to us we ate and drank in silence, each with our own thoughts.
A young man, slim, his face scarred, put his hand on Ilka’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear. She shook her head, but his hand slid down over her breast. Piercollo moved swiftly, pulling the man clear. The Tuscanian said nothing, but his arm tensed and jerked and the unfortunate suitor flew back into the throng as if launched from a catapult. Mace chuckled and shook his head.
The noise behind us faded away and I turned to see the scarred young man moving forward again, but alongside him was a huge trapper dressed in a wolfskin coat. The man was bald and beardless, but he sported a long red-gold moustache, braided at the ends.
He reached Piercollo and tapped the giant’s shoulder. ‘You have insulted my brother,’ he said.
Piercollo sighed and stood. ‘Your brother has the manners of a donkey,’ he told him.
The newcomer smiled. ‘True, but he is still my brother. And while Karak is here no one lays a hand on him.’ Even as he spoke the man launched a punch. Piercollo swayed back, his own hand sweeping up, the fingers closing around Karak’s fist and catching it easily. I saw the Tuscanian’s knuckles whiten as he squeezed the captured hand.
‘Piercollo does not like to fight,’ he said softly. ‘Piercollo likes to sit and drink in peace.’ The man’s face twisted in pain, his right
hand reaching for the dagger at his belt, but Piercollo squeezed harder and I heard a knuckle crack. Karak winced and groaned, and his hand fell away from the dagger. ‘It would be good for us to be friends,’ said Piercollo, ‘and perhaps drink together. Yes?’Yes,’ agreed the man, the word almost exploding from between clenched teeth.
‘Good,’ said Piercollo, with a wide smile. Releasing Karak, he patted his shoulder almost affectionately and turned back to hisseat. In that moment the man drew his dagger. Piercollo, his back turned, rammed his elbow into Karak’s face, catching him on the bridge of the nose. Everyone in the room heard the bone break. Karak staggered back with blood pouring from his nostrils. Then with a wild cry he leapt at Piercollo. The Tuscanian stepped in to meet him, his fist thundering against the man’s chin. There was a sickening crack and the attacker fell, his knife clattering across the floorboards.
‘You’ve killed him!’ shouted the scarred young man, dropping to his knees beside the body. For a moment we all thought this might be true, but the injured Karak groaned and tried to move; his jaw was shattered, his nose broken. Several men moved forward to aid him, turning him to his back, where he lay gasping for some time before his friends gathered around him, carrying him from the room.
‘If you could have made that fight last a little longer, I might have won a few bets,’ said Jarek Mace.
‘I do not like to fight,’ repeated Piercollo, downing the last of his ale.
‘For someone who doesn’t like it, you are rather good at it.’Piercollo shrugged, and it seemed to me that a great sadness had fallen upon him.
‘You had no choice,’ I told him. ‘He intended to kill you.’I know, Owen, but it gives me no pleasure to cause pain. You understand? I like to hear laughter and song. He was so foolish; we could have sat together and had a drink, told stories and become friends. But no. Now he will spend months with broken bones. And for why? Because he has a brother with bad manners. It makes no sense.’You are a good man,’ I said. ‘You were not to blame.’I am not good man. Good men do not break the bones of others. I am weak, friend Owen.’