Page 42 of The Final Vow

Bradshaw and an idiot in a Viking helmet had squared off against each other. Bradshaw looked terrified. But defiant. Shealwayslooked defiant when she was scared. She met her fears face on. Had done ever since Poe had known her.

‘Hello, everyone,’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’

The mood in the group immediately changed. Went from predatory to guilty to angry.

‘Go back to your TARDIS, Doctor,’ the man in the Viking helmet said. ‘This is between me and the she-elf.’

The man’s helmet was a touch too big for him. Underneath the brow ridge, he wore Eddie the Eagle glasses. He had piggy eyes. Poe had never seen a less scary Viking. His helmet didn’t even have horns.

‘Hi, Poe,’ Bradshaw said, breathing out in relief.

‘You OK, Tilly?’

‘I am, Poe. This man was just telling me how small his penis is. I’m not sure why he’s so cross.’

Eddie the Viking stepped forward. So did Poe.

‘Take another step and I’ll punch your face flat,’ Poe said. He pulled out his ID and added, ‘And if I get so much as a hangnail doing it, I’ll arrest you for assault.’

Eddie the Viking stopped.

‘Tilly, walk me through everything,’ Poe said.

‘This man told me his name was Horse and if I went with him to the accessible bathroom, he’d show me why. Except, I know his name is Horace, not Horse. He is part of a men-only group called the Norse Pantheon.’

‘Horace the Viking?’ Poe said. He nodded. ‘Yes, that fitsverywell.’

‘And then he said that the women in Droitwich call him Horse because of the size of his genitalia. And as I understand that men of low wit equate penis size with masculinity, I thought it unusual that he’d told me his is very small. I imagine he finds sexual intercourse very difficult. I really don’t see what I did wrong.’

‘See,’ Horace said, sulkily. ‘I made a cheeky comment and she took the piss. And now it’smewho’s in trouble. It’s what they do.’

‘Who?’

Horace spat on the floor. ‘Women,’ he said. ‘War and war gaming is a man’s business. There’s no role for women. Their brains function differently. But now they’re here, competing. Competing and complaining. Taking it over.Sullyingit. And we aren’t putting up with it any more, are we, lads?’

There was a ragged, half-enthusiastic cheer from the rest of theCarry On Vikingscrew.

‘Did my friendaskyou about the size of your genitalia?’ Poe said.

‘She didn’t have to,’ Horace said defiantly. ‘The only reason women attend these things is to find men. It’s a known fact.’

‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Poe said. ‘But since you told her anyway, I think I’d like to hear what she has to say. Tilly?’

‘The average weight of a stallion is one thousand kilos, Poe. The average length of their erect penis is fifty centimetres. That’s five centimetres for every one hundred kilos. The average weight of a man in the UK is ninety kilos but the man shouting at me is morbidly obese—’

‘I amnot—’

‘Don’t interrupt,Horace,’ Poe said. ‘Tilly?’

‘That means if he weighs one hundred kilos, his penis is five centimetres when erect,’ she continued. ‘That’s under two inches, well below the national average of five.’

‘Will you stop saying that!’ Horace shouted.

He stepped forward again. Bunched his fists. Poe was surprised. The threat of hitting people combined with his NCA ID card was usually enough to stop things escalating. TheCarry On Vikingscrew took a step forward too. Safety in numbers. One of them put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Smiled, glassy-eyed. Which was when Poe saw their drinking horns were wet. Some still had dry foam on the lip. It was a touch after midday, but the mead bar had been open since ten. Poe frowned. He’d made a serious miscalculation. A drunk crowd was an affray waiting to happen. It just needed someone to set it off. To light the blue touchpaper. Something like their wannabe alpha losing face to, God help us all . . . a woman.

‘Apologise,’ Horace said to Bradshaw.

‘Maths doesn’t lie, sir,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I have nothing to apologise for.’