Barleycorn

Mary had warned Martin not to come. He’d lost his horse last time he came to the house of his brother, Red Paul the butcher. Couldn’t even remember why. A wager, most like. Too much strong drink was partly to blame.

‘You’ll not speak of my Polly that way,’ Martin remembered saying.

‘Oho! What’s this? His blood’s up at last! Didn’t know he had any,’ Red Paul challenged, leaning forward in his eagerness, rolling his eyes at his lumpen son, Robert and sycophantic friend Simon. ‘Thought his veins ran with milk.’

Simon laughed. Robert smirked.

Martin could tell from experience that his brother was on the brink of song – it would be something mocking, accompanied by the rhythmic bashing of tankard on table. He rushed to head him off.

‘My Polly’s worth her weight in gold. What she does with that straw’s a work of art. And she’s fast,’ said Martin.

‘Fast, eh? That’s good to know, eh, Robert? You bear that in mind. It’ll speed up the wooing.’

‘Speed up the wooing!’ echoed Simon.

Martin stood, gripping the table edge to steady himself. ‘She’s a fine girl, Paul, and Mary raised her right. You’ll not speak of her that way. She’d be a prize for any man.’

‘Even me?’ said Paul, into a sudden silence.

Martin felt the prick of danger, a spur dug into a flank but could not stop himself now. His temper had leapt the gate at a canter, reins trailing, and made away across the fields.