The step that made the dance

The soft warmth of early summer coated the rooftops and poured honey down the windows. From the top of the hill, Will could see the others slowly filling the street, white shirts bright and amber gold glasses glowing like citrine. He rolled a cigarette and then scraped the rest of the tobacco from it's shiny plastic packet into a leather pouch, which he tucked into the top of his sock, under the jangling bells. His final touch was to push his earring through the skin where the hole had closed again. He went down to join his side, having spotted Dennis and Macky. Old friends and half-familiar faces greeted him with winks and nods, slaps and pats, cheers and smiles. Someone bought him an ale and the hint of caramel in the hops made him smile in satisfaction. He nodded a thank you to his patron and made his way outside through the hustle, in a dance as old and true as any they'd ever done.

It had gone three by the time the first set performed and Pete, their fool, weaved Puck-like through the dancing limbs and waggled his beard at the women. The crowd clapped and whooped and wished sobriety off on it's merry way. Over the course of the long afternoon, they only had to clear the road once, for a passing truck. The shoppers and families and youngsters bustled a few streets on but here there was a blissful bubble as occasional passers-by watched with a smile and then moved on.

Macky performed a jig for Marianne and she she took him inside for a drink, letting him stare at the tops of her breats without her usual protest. She had caught the sun and Will thought the red patches across her cleavage might look like eyelids for two bulging, milky eyes. He had caught her changing once, out the back of the cider tent at the Norfolk Folk Festival and the image of a fully naked half of her, arms up and head back as she put on a tshirt, had stuck with him for a long time.

Jed, who had been their squire for the best part of ten years, dragged Will away from a friendly argument about  preserving meats where he had made a bet involving a ham which nobody would remember. Sam, their rag and bag man, passed out their sashes, ribbons and short staves. He tried to tell them a story about a hen he'd bought at the market last month but he kept getting distracted. They teased and mocked him good naturedly, slurring their own stories and also losing the thread.

Their set was the last of the day and it showed. Dennis had his waistcoat on inside out and back to front so their symbol, a bright red helmet wrapped in green leaf, was hidden against his chest. Sam tripped twice into Jed and the supporting crowd were the ropes that held him up as he circled, punch drunk. As the dance continued, they formed two facing lines of three and held their staves at both ends, smashing the middles together in rhythm. Macky lost his grip and with a resounding thwack, broke two of Will's fingers.

At the hospital, they had to cut off his wedding ring when the purpling digit swelled around it. He never put it back on and he still remembers that day as one where he'd never felt more himself.