A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [54]
Lizzie paid her entrance fee and elbowed her way into the shouting, jeering crowd. There was a powerful smell of sweaty, unwashed people. She felt excited and wicked. The female gladiators were in the middle of their combat. Several women had already retired from the fray: one sitting on a bench holding her head, another trying to stanch a bleeding leg wound, a third flat on her back and unconscious despite the efforts of her friends to revive her. The remaining four milled about in a rope ring, attacking one another with roughly carved wooden clubs three feet long. They were all naked to the waist and barefoot, with ragged skirts. Their faces and bodies were bruised and scarred. The crowd of a hundred or more spectators cheered their favorites, and several men were taking bets on the outcome. The women swung the clubs with all their might, hitting one another bone-crunching blows. Every time one landed a well-aimed buffet the men roared their approval. Lizzie watched with horrid fascination. Soon another woman took a heavy blow to the head and fell unconscious. The sight of her half-naked body lying senseless on the muddy ground sickened Lizzie, and she turned away.
She went into the tavern, banged on the counter with a fist, and said to the barman: “A pint of strong ale, Jack.” It was wonderful to address the world in such arrogant tones. If she did the same in women’s clothing, every man she spoke to would feel entitled to reprove her, even tavern keepers and sedan chair men. But a pair of breeches was a license to command.
The bar smelled of tobacco ash and spilled beer. She sat in a corner and sipped her ale, wondering why she had come here. It was a place of violence and cruelty, and she was playing a dangerous game. What would these brutal people do if they realized she was an upper-class lady dressed as a man?
She was here partly because her curiosity was an irresistible passion. She had always been fascinated by whatever was forbidden, even as a child. The sentence “It’s no place for a lady” was like a red rag to a bull. She could not help opening any door marked “No entry.” Her curiosity was as urgent as her sexuality, and to repress it was as difficult as to stop kissing Jay.
But the main reason was McAsh. He had always been interesting. Even as a small boy he had been different: independent-minded, disobedient, always questioning what he was told. In adulthood he was fulfilling his promise. He had defied the Jamissons, he had succeeded in escaping from Scotland—something few miners achieved—and he had made it all the way to London. Now he was a prizefighter. What would he do next?
Sir George had been clever to let him go, she thought. As Jay said, God intended some men to be masters of others, but McAsh would never accept that, and back in the village he would have made trouble for years. There was a magnetism about McAsh that made people follow his lead: the proud way he carried his powerful body, the confident tilt of his head, the intense look in his startling green eyes. She herself felt the attraction: it had drawn her here.
One of the painted women sat beside her and smiled intimately. Despite her rouge she looked old and tired. How flattering to her disguise it would be, Lizzie thought, if a whore propositioned her. But the woman was not so easily fooled. “I know what you are,” she said.
Women had sharper eyes than men, Lizzie reflected. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said.
“You can play the man with me for a shilling,” the woman said.
Lizzie did not know what she meant.
“I’ve done it before with your type,