Riders

35

World Championship day dawned. There were a couple of small classes in the morning to keep the rest of the riders happy, but all interest was centered on the four finalists. Each box was a hive of activity of plaiting and polishing and everyone giving everyone else advice. It was hotter than ever. In the lorry, Jake watched an Algerian schools program on television, trying to steady his nerves, and wondered if there was any hope of his keeping down the cup of tea and dry toast he’d had for breakfast. Tory was frying eggs, bacon, and sausages for the children (it didn’t look as though anyone would have time to cook them a decent meal before the evening) and at the same time ironing the lucky socks, breeches, shirt, tie, and red coat that Jake had worn in each leg of the competition. The new tansy lay in the heel of the highly polished left boot. Jake had seen one magpie that morning, but had been cheered up by the sight of a black cat, until Driffield informed him that black cats were considered unlucky in France. Milk bottles, tins, eggshells in the muck bucket were beginning to smell. Fen was studying a German dictionary.

“It doesn’t give the German for ‘whoa.’ You’ll have to fall back on dummkopf, lieberlein, and achtung.”

“Or auf wiedersehen,” said Jake, “as Clara bucks me off and gallops off into the sunset.”

“The American for whoa, must be starp, starp,’ she went on.

“You remember that red T-shirt you wore when Revenge won at Olympia?” said Jake.

“I’ve got it here,’ said Fen.

“D’you mind wearing it this afternoon?”

Fen did mind very much. It was impossibly hot and she’d got very burnt yesterday, and the red T-shirt would clash with her face. But it was Jake’s day; she mustn’t be selfish.

“Of course not,’ she said.

Jake was encouraged by the number of telegrams. British hopes rested with Rupert, but Jake had generated an enormous amount of goodwill. People were obviously delighted to see him back at the top again. There were telegrams from the Princess and one from the colonel of the regiment at Knightsbridge Barracks, who’d somehow discovered that their old horse Macaulay had ended up with Jake. The one that pleased him most was from Miss Blenkinsop in the Middle East. He knew that she, as much as he, enjoyed the sheer pleasure of showing the world that he could succeed with a horse Rupert had thrown out. Every time Macaulay won anything, he’d religiously taken 10 percent of the winnings and posted them to Miss Blenkinsop for her Horse Rescue hospital. If he won today, she would get £1,000.

If he won, “Oh my God,” he said, and bolted out of the caravan, through a crowd of reporters, and into the lavatory, where he brought up his breakfast.

“Why don’t you bloody well go away?” shouted Fen to the reporters. “You know you won’t get any sense out of him before a big class.”

In the end they had to be content with interviewing Darklis, who sat on a hay bale, smiling up at them with huge black eyes.

“My daddy’s been thick four times this morning. He doesn’t theem to like French food. I love it. We’ve had steak and chips every single night.”

At last there was the course to walk, which made Jake feel even worse. It was far bigger than he’d imagined. The water jump seemed wider than the Channel. The heavy, thundery, blue sky seemed to rest on the huge soaring oxblood red wall, and Jake could actually stand underneath the poles of the parallel.

Malise, walking beside him, winced at the French marigolds, clashing with purple petunias and scarlet geraniums in the pots on either side of each jump. How could the French have such exquisite color sense in their clothes and not in their gardening?

A couple of English reporters sidled up to them. “Did you really pull a knife on Rupert, Gyppo.”

“Bugger off,” said Malise. “He’s got to memorize the course. Do you want a British victory or not? That’s tricky,” he added to Jake, looking at the distance between the parallels and the combination. “It’s on a half-stride. The water’s a brute. You’ll get hardly any run in there. You’ll need the stick.”

“Macaulay never needs a stick,” said Jake through frantically chattering teeth. The sheer impossibility of getting Snakepit, let alone President’s Man, over any of the fences paralyzed him with terror.

Rupert walked with Colonel Roxborough, wearing dark glasses, but no hat against the punishing Brittany sun. He seemed totally oblivious of the effect he was having on the French girls in the crowd. The German team walked together, so did the Americans. Count Guy, in a white suit made by Yves St. Laurent, was the object of commiseration. Over his great disappointment now, he shrugged his shoulders philosophically. At least he didn’t have to jump five rounds in this heat and his horses would be fresh for Crittleden the following week.

In the collecting ring, Ivor Braine had been cornered by the press and was telling them, in his broad Yorkshire accent, that he was convinced Jake had been brandishing a knife because the steaks were so tough.

“I wish Saddleback Sam had made it,” said Humpty for the thousandth time.

Driffield was busy selling a horse at a vastly inflated price to one of the Mexican riders.

“Wish it was a wife-riding contest,” said Rupert. “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at Mrs. Ludwig, although I would draw the line at Mrs. Lovell.”

Once again he wished Billy were there. He’d never needed his advice more, or his silly jokes, to lower the tension. Obviously drunk at ten o’clock in the morning, Billy had already rung him to wish him luck.

Rupert had asked after Janey. Billy had laughed bitterly. “She’s like a wet log fire. If you don’t watch her all the time, she goes out.”

Next week, reflected Rupert grimly, he was going to have to take Janey out to lunch and tell her to get her act together.

Despite the lack of a French rider in the final, all the publicity had attracted a huge crowd. There wasn’t an empty seat or an inch of rope unleaned over anywhere. Malise sighed. If there was a British victory, all the glare of bad publicity of the feuds between riders might be forgotten. He watched Rupert, cool as an icicle, putting Snakepit over huge jumps in the collecting ring. Jake was nowhere to be seen. He was probably being sick again.

At two o’clock, each of the four finalists came on, led by their own band. Ludwig came first, to defend his title on the mighty Clara, yellow browband matching the yellow knots in her plaits. Her coat was the color of oak leaves in autumn, her huge chest like a steamer funnel. Unruffled by the crowd, her eyes shone with wisdom and kindness.

Then came Dino on the slender President’s Man, who looked almost foal-like in his legginess. The same liver chestnut as Clara, he seemed half her size. Dino lounged, totally relaxed in the saddle, like a young princeling, his olive skin only slightly paler than usual, hat tipped over his nose, as though he was taking the piss out of the whole proceedings.

Then Rupert, eyes narrowed against the sun, the object of whirring cameras and cheers from the huge British contingent, motionless in the saddle as the plunging, eyerolling Snakepit shied at everything and fought for his head.

And, finally, Jake, his set face as white as Macaulay’s, who strutted along, pointing his big feet, enjoying the cheers.

Like a council of war, the four riders lined up in front of the president’s box, the bands forming a brilliant scarlet and gold square behind them. Les Rivaux can seldom have produced a more breathtaking spectacle, with the flags, limp in the heat, the scarlet coats, the plumes of the soldiers, the gleaming brass instruments, the grass emerald green from incessant sprinkling, the forest, which seemed to smoulder in its dark green midgy stillness, and in the distance the speedwell blue gleam of the sea. The bands launched into the National Anthem, each crash of cymbal and drum sending Snakepit and President’s Man cavorting around in terror. Macaulay and Clara stood like statues at either end of the row.

Fen, body aching from grooming, fingers sore from plaiting, her red T-shirt drenched with sweat, waited for Macaulay to return to the collecting ring. She was far more nervous than usual. She had a far bigger part to play. With the three other grooms she would spend the competition in the cordoned-off part of the arena and change Jake’s saddle onto each new horse. Nearby was Dizzy, braless and ravishing in a pink T-shirt, her newly washed blond hair trailing pink ribbons. One day I’m going to look as good as her, vowed Fen. Then she squashed the thought of her own presumption and had another look at the vast fences. How absolutely terrifying for Jake. The field emptied, large ladies bustled round with tape measures, checking poles for the last time.

“I’ve bet a hundred on Campbell-Black,” said the colonel in an undertone to Malise. “I reckon it’ll be a jump-off between him and Ludwig, with the American third and Lovell nowhere. He simply hasn’t got the nerve.”

Helen, seeing the riders in their red coats, was reminded of the first day she’d met Rupert out hunting.

“Dear God,” she prayed, “please restore my marriage and make him win, but only if you think that’s right, God.”

Tory, in the riders’ stand, with Darklis and Isa, prayed the same for Jake, but without any qualification.

“I wonder when Daddy’s going to be thick again,” said Darklis.

Then a hush fell as in came Ludwig. As he rode past the president’s box and took off his hat, the rest of the German team, who’d all been at the champagne, rose to their feet, shooting up their hands in a Heil Hitler salute, to the apoplexy of Colonel Roxborough, who went as scarlet as his carnation.

The only sound was the snort of the horse, the thunder of hoofs, and the relentless ticking of the clock. Girding her great chestnut loins, a symbol of reliability, Clara jumped clear.

Malise lit a cigar. “At least we know it’s jumpable,” he said.

Dino came in, talking quietly to the young horse.

“That’s a pretty horse,” said Malise.

And a pretty rider, thought Helen, who was sitting near him.

Being so much slighter, President’s Man seemed to go twice as fast. Dino’s thrusting acrobatic style and almost French elegance and good looks soon had the crowd cheering. He also went clear.

Then came Rupert, hauling on the plunging Snakepit’s mouth, hotting him up so he fought for his head all the way around. By some miracle of timing and balance, he too went clear, and Snakepit galloped out of the ring, giving two colossal bucks and nearly trampling a crowd of photographers under foot.

“God help those who come after,” sighed Malise.

“I’m not taking a penny less than £30,000,” said Driffield.

Fen gave Macaulay a last-minute pat and a kiss.

“Good luck. Remember you’re the greatest, and remember what you’ve got to avenge.”

Jake looked suddenly gray. “I can’t go in.”

“Yes, you can. You’re doing it for Macaulay and Miss Blenkinsop.”

“I’m going to throw up.”

“No, you are not. Keep your mouth shut and off you go.”

“Numero Quatre,” called the collecting ring steward irritably.

Jake rode into the ring, obviously quite untogether. He might never have been on a horse in his life. He had the first fence down; and the second he took completely wrong, Macaulay stumbled and nearly came down on the hard ground. Then he hit the third.

Twelve faults. He’s been nobbled, thought Tory in despair.

“He’s blown it,” drawled Dino.

“Oh, my God,” said Fen. In anguish she watched the tenths of seconds pirouetting on the clock as Jake pulled Macaulay up to a standstill, stroked his neck, spoke to him, and started again.

“Can’t even ride his own horse,” said Rupert scathingly. “It was a freak he got to the final anyway.”

“He’s bound to get time faults,” said Colonel Roxborough.

Jake set off again in a somewhat haphazard fashion and cleared the rest of the ten fences, but never really connected all the way round, notching up three and a half time faults.

He shook his head as he rode up to Fen.

“A great start, huh?”

“Competition’s young, you wait,” she said, giving Macaulay a lemon sherbet. Then, when Jake had dismounted, she removed the saddle, which had to be put on Snakepit, the horse Jake was riding next.

“You’ve got three minutes to warm him up,” she said, looking at her watch.

“Needs cooling down, if you ask me.”

Ludwig’s groom came over to collect Macaulay, who went off looking very put out, turning his head continually to gaze back reproachfully at Jake. Jake went up to Snakepit, who flattened his ears and rolled his eyes.

“Now you’ll get your comeuppance,” Dizzy hissed at him.

In the roped-off arena, Macaulay did several wild jumps, nearly unseating Ludwig. He didn’t like the discipline of the German rider. He went into the ring, a mulish, martyred expression on his white face.

“Look at the old moke,” giggled Fen. “Isn’t he lovely?”

Despite his disapproval, however, Macaulay gave Ludwig a good ride and went clear.

“Interesting what that horse can do when it gets a proper rider on its back,” said Rupert.

Dino went in on Clara. He was very nervous and gave Clara very little help, but each time he put her wrong she was so well trained she got him out of trouble, rising like a helicopter off her mighty hocks.

Jake didn’t want to watch Rupert on President’s Man. He was getting acquainted with Snakepit. He spent several minutes rubbing his ears, smoothing his sweating, lathered neck, talking to him softly, and giving him pieces of sugar. Faced with the challenge of a new horse, he was too interested to be nervous.

Next minute he was up, determined not to hang on the horse’s mouth. He went on talking to him. Snakepit was so short in front it was like sitting on the edge of a cliff, a cliff that might crumble any minute and turn into an earthquake. He rode quietly round for one of the two minutes left, stroking and still talking, then put him over a jump, letting him have his head. Suddenly, Snakepit seemed to sweeten up.

“What d’you reckon?”

“Very good,” said Fen. “Must be a nice change for him, like a weekend on the Riviera after working in a factory.”

Cheers from the ring indicated Rupert had gone clear on President’s Man, urging him on by sheer brute force and driving power. The horse, however, was upset.

Jake rode Snakepit into the ring. Snakepit tugged at the bridle and found no one hauling him back, so he stopped pulling and gave Jake one of the easiest rides of his life.

As they came to the upright Jake, out of sheer nervousness, hooked him up a stride too short, but Snakepit, reveling in his newfound freedom, made a mighty effort and cleared the fence easily.

“Bloody hell,” said Rupert. “He’d have stopped if I’d done that to him.”

“Looks a different horse,” said Malise in a pleased voice. Having insisted that Jake was selected, he was desperate for him to ride well.

The colonel grunted. “Still going to win my bet.”

At the end of the second round everyone was clear except Jake, who was on fifteen and a half faults. The crowd was beginning to get bored. They wanted trouble, crashes, upsets, and falls. It was Ludwig’s turn to ride Snakepit.

“I vas in two brains vether to ride heem. I’ve got a vife and children,” said Ludwig to Jake, “but after your round, I doubt if I’ll have any trouble wiz him.”

Snakepit, however, thought otherwise. He didn’t like the harsher, more rigid style of the German, who, like Rupert, wouldn’t give him his head. He deliberately knocked down the upright and kicked out the second part of the combination.

Rupert had no trouble going clear on Clara.

Jake, who was warming up President’s Man, couldn’t resist having a look at Dino on Macaulay.

“The American chef d’equipe told him to give Mac a good whack at the water,” said Fen gleefully, “and Dino’s neglected to take off his spurs, too.”

“Jesus, it’s like riding a charging elephant,” muttered Dino to himself. “Hasn’t he got any brakes?”

Macaulay lolloped crossly into the ring, with a mulish expression on his face. “I’m not a seaside donkey giving rides,” he seemed to say, as he ran out at the upright. Then, having been given a clout with the bat, he jumped it, then proceeded to bring the wall tumbling down.

“Joshua at the battle of Jericho,” said Fen. “Oh goodie, Dino’s whacked him again.”

Coming down to the water Macaulay ground to a halt, them jumped the small brush fence with no effort at all, landing with a huge splash in the middle of the water, absolutely soaking Dino. Then he put his head down and started to drink. The crowd, particularly the Lovell children, screamed with laughter.

Dino finished the course and rode out grinning. “I didn’t expect an impromptu shower,” he said to his teammates.

“That round’s probably lost him the championship,” muttered Fen. “He’s a good loser.”

President’s Man was frightened, puzzled, and muddled. Having been broken and trained by Dino, he’d seldom carried other riders. But now he liked the gentle hands and the caressing singsong voice of the man on his back. Trying to imitate Dino’s acrobatic style, Jake managed to coax a beautiful clear out of him.

“Bloody hell,” said Dino, shaking his head. “You’d figure Manny’d want to avenge me after what Macaulay did to me.”

It was the start of the last round. The excitement was beginning to bite, the crowd had woken up.

“This is a gymkhana event,” grumbled Colonel Roxborough. “I’d never have let my Baskerville Boy go in for this.”

“Rupert’s on zero, Ludwig’s got eight faults, Dino eleven, Jake fifteen and a half, but he’s got the easiest round to come,” said Malise, who was busy with his calculator.

Ludwig rode in first on President’s Man. The young horse was really tired and confused now. He had jumped his heart out for three clears and he’d had enough. Like Snakepit, he preferred the gentleness of his last rider. Despite brilliant tactics from Ludwig, he knocked up eight faults.

“Glory alleluia,” said Fen, rushing up to Jake as he mounted Clara, “Ludwig’s got half a fault more than you now.”

Riding Clara was like driving a Lamborghini. With the slightest touch of the leg she seemed to surge forward. Jake had never known such acceleration. He felt humble to be riding such a horse. The crowd were growing restless again. With three clears under his belt, Rupert was obviously going to walk it.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Fen with a total lack of sympathy. “Snakepit’s carting Dino.”

Snakepit, thoroughly over the top, galloped around the ring, taking practically every fence with him, notching up twenty-four faults.

“Actually he did bloody well to stay on,” Fen conceded, as Snakepit carried him unceremoniously out of the ring.

“I think I’ve won my bet,” said Colonel Roxborough.

“Looks like a British victory,” said Malise, wishing he felt more elated.

“Rupert used to own that horse,” said the colonel smugly. “He’ll find him a piece of cake.”

Macaulay thought differently. Rupert had decided not to warm Macaulay up. The horse had already jumped three rounds and anyway, when Rupert had gone up to him, Macaulay had promptly flattened his ears, given a furious squeal of rage and recognition, and struck at him like a cobra. Rupert only just jumped out of the way in time.

“Don’t look,” said Fen to Jake. “It’ll only upset you. Concentrate on Clara.”

“I think Rupert needs our help,” said Colonel Roxborough.

Humpty, Malise, Driffield, Colonel Roxborough, Dizzy, and Tracey all stood round Macaulay’s head, holding on to his bridle for grim death as he stood at the entrance to the arena.

They blocked Macaulay’s view as Rupert got onto his back, but he knew instantly. He seemed to tremble in terror, his ears glued to his head, his eyes seemed all whites in a white face.

But with six of them hanging on, he could do nothing.

“In you go,” said Colonel Roxborough. “Good luck.”

They all jumped away as Macaulay shot forward. The moment he got into the ring, he went up on his hind legs, huge feet shadowboxing, his white face suddenly a mask of malevolence. Then he came down.

“Oh, look,” said Fen in ecstasy. “He’s not going to fail us.”

Taking no notice of Rupert’s brutally sawing hands, Macaulay went into a rodeo act, bucking and bucking and cat-jumping and circling in the air, frantic to get Rupert off.

“He ought to join the Royal Ballet,” said Fen.

Ivor’s mouth was open so long a fly flew in. Even Driffield stopped selling his horse.

“Do something,” said Helen frantically to Malise. “He’s going to kill him.”

“With any luck,” muttered Fen.

“Dear God,” said Jake in misery, “I should never have subjected Macaulay to this.”

It was amazing that Rupert stayed in the saddle so long. Macaulay’s mouth was bleeding badly now, bits of red foam flying everywhere. It was quite obvious to the crowd that the great black horse, like a maddened bull, had only one aim in life — to get the rider off his back.

Rupert plunged his spurs in and brought his whip with an almighty thwack down on Macaulay’s quarters.

“You can’t shift me, you black bugger,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh-la-la, quelle domage,” said Fen happily. “Oh, bien fait, Macaulay.”

Dino shot her a sidelong glance. “You’re being kind of unsporting,” he drawled, as a final maddened buck sent Rupert flying through the air. It was lucky he let go of the reins. A second later, Macaulay had jammed on his brakes and swung round in pursuit. Rupert had never run so fast in his life. As he dodged behind the wall, Macaulay followed him, squealing with rage, teeth bared. The crowd were in an uproar.

“Stop him,” screamed Helen. “Someone do something.”

Rupert had shot into the oxer now, hiding behind the brush part, peering out from a lot of sky blue cinerarias like Ferdinand the Bull. Macaulay was too fly to be thwarted. He cantered round to the other side, where Rupert was protected only by a large pole, and went for him, darting his head under the pole, missing him only by inches.

Rupert ran out of the oxer, belting towards the combination, taking refuge in the third element, which was a triple, only two hundred and fifty yards from the collecting ring.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t take up athletics,” said Fen. “He’d certainly qualify for the Olympics.”

Malise strode up to the French chief steward.

“You must send in the arena party to head him off,” he said.

“And get them keeled?” said the steward. “He is still within the time limit.”

The squeak of the elimination hooter went off at that moment, making everyone jump out of their skin. Macaulay was prowling around and around the triple, darting his head at Rupert, tail swishing furiously, quivering with rage.

“That horse doesn’t seem very keen on Rupert,” said Ivor Braine.

“Hardly surprising,” said Humpty. “It used to belong to him.”

Four gendarmes entered the ring, gingerly fingering their pistols. Macaulay turned, revving up for another charge. Rupert snatched up one of the poles. It was extremely heavy, like a caber. As Macaulay advanced, Rupert brandished it at him.

The collecting ring steward rushed up to Jake. “I theenk, Meester Lovell, you better go and collect your horse.”

At that moment Macaulay reared up, striking at Rupert, missing him only by inches, knocking the pole from his hands.

Rupert backed away; he had no protection now.

Jake walked into the ring, a small figure, totally insignificant without a horse.

“Watch this,” said Fen to Dino.

As Macaulay turned to go in for the kill, Jake put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Macaulay stopped in his tracks, looking wistfully at Rupert for a second, then, turning, trotted back across the arena, whickering with pleasure, nudging Jake in the stomach, licking his face. The crowd, having been frozen with terror, suddenly burst into a huge collective roar of laughter.

“Well done,” said Jake softly and, not even bothering to take hold of Macaulay’s bridle, he walked out of the ring. Macaulay trotted after him, giving him great sly digs in the ribs as if to say, “Didn’t I do well?”

Malise turned to Colonel Roxborough. “Even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.”

“I’ve just lost a hundred and we’ve lost the championship. I don’t know why you’re looking so bloody cheerful.”

“Tarry a little,” said Malise.

Rupert came out of the ring, his face like marble. Helen rushed forward. “Darling, are you all right?”

“No, I am bloody not,” spat Rupert, pushing her out of the way. “I’m going to object. That was deliberate sabotage on Jake’s part.”

The reporters surged forward, clamoring for a quote.

“What are you going to do, Rupe?”

“Lodge an objection. That horse should be put down instantly. It’s a total delinquent. Jake put it in deliberately to fuck me up.”

He was so angry he could hardly get the words out. The collecting ring was in an uproar.

Malise elbowed his way to his side.

“I’m going to object,” said Rupert.

Malise shook his head. “Can’t make it stand up. Macaulay’s no more difficult a horse than Snakepit. He was all right with all the other riders. He’s like a lamb with the Lovell children.”

“Well, Jake trained him to do it, then. You saw how he called the bugger off when he wanted. He tried to kill me the other night, and he tried to kill me now.”

The reporters were avidly writing down every word.

“The competition isn’t over, Rupert,” said Malise, lowering his voice. “Jake’s got to ride Clara.”

“To hell with him,” snarled Rupert. “If the jury won’t accept an objection, I’ll have the law on him for attempted murder.” And he stalked off in the direction of his lorry.

Jake rode Clara into the ring, holding his hands up high, sitting very straight in the saddle, trying to copy Ludwig’s style of riding.

“It seems a shame to ask you to beat your master,” he said.

“Oh, Clara, please do a cleara,” said Fen.

The crowd had witnessed near tragedy and then high comedy. The commentator had to put everyone back on course. Ludwig had sixteen faults after four rounds, Dino had thirty-five; Rupert Campbell-Black had been eliminated. Jake, after three rounds, was half a fault lower than Ludwig. He could not afford a single fence down if he was to win. He kicked Clara into a canter. Over the first fence she sailed, over the second, over the third. She gave the parallel a clout but the bar didn’t budge. Ludwig, smoking frantically, stood with his back to the arena, the rest of the German team giving him a running commentary.

Fen, eyes tight shut, was slightly moving her lips.

“What are you doing?” asked Dino.

“Asking God to help Jake,” said Fen, not opening her eyes.

“Rather unfair to Jake,” said Dino. “I guess he can do it by himself.”

Malise suddenly turned to Driffield. “For Christ’s sake, stop selling that horse and come and watch this.”

Alone in the ring, it was as though Jake was in another world. He was conscious only of the joy of riding this beautiful, beautiful horse, thinking he could clear the stands, even the Eiffel Tower, on her. He turned for the water.

“Come on lieberlen, or dummkopf, I forget which it is.”

Clara took a great leap, happy to have an expert on her back. Jake was aware of the blue water going on forever and the anxious, upturned faces of the photographers. But he found the perfect stride and was safely over. The crowd couldn’t forbear a cheer, then shushed themselves. The three elements of the combination, then the huge triple and he was home. Overcome with nerves, he made Clara take off too early at the first element. She only just cleared it, so he turned her to the left at the next element, giving her room for an extra stride and placing her perfectly at the last element.

He was over.

“Magic riding,” raved Malise. “Oh, come on, Jake.”

Unable to restrain itself the crowd broke into a huge roar. The triple seemed to rush towards him. He lifted the mare up and up. The poles flew beneath him.

That’ll do, he thought in ecstasy. I’m World Champion.

All around the thunderously cheering arena, Union Jacks were waving as he rode out of the ring, patting the gallant mare over and over again.

“He won,” screamed Fen, hugging Tory and then flinging her arms round Dino and kissing him.

Dino, taking advantage, kissed her back. “That’s almost worth only coming third,” he said.

All the British team, except Rupert, were going mad with excitement. Malise and Colonel Roxborough were throwing their hats in the air. Jake came out of the ring and slid off Clara into Tory’s arms. For a second they clung to each other, not speaking. He could feel her hot tears on his cheek and the thunder of congratulatory hands raining down on his back.

A magnum of champagne was thrust into his hands. He opened it and soaked everyone around, then they all had a swig.

There was no sign of Malise or Rupert. They were closeted with a member of the international jury, Rupert shouting in only too fluent French and Malise trying to pacify him. But there was no case, said the Frenchman. There was nothing in the rules about not putting in a difficult horse. Macaulay plainly hadn’t liked Rupert, but he’d behaved with all the other riders, and Snakepit certainly hadn’t been an easy ride for anyone, except Jake. Jake was undeniably the winner and they’d better get on with the presentation. Muttering that he was going to report Jake to the BSJA, Rupert stormed out of the tent.

“Where are you going?” said Malise.

“Not back into the ring to get the booby prize,” snarled Rupert.

“My dear boy,” said Malise gently, drawing him aside, “I’m sorry. It was bad luck. You’ve had a great disappointment and probably a very frightening experience.”

“Balls,” said Rupert. “I’ve been robbed.”

“You must have beaten Macaulay severely for him to go for you like that.”

“He was my horse. What fucking business is that of anyone’s?”

“The RSPCA for a start, and the FEI, not to mention the BSJA. It won’t do your image any good, nor will a lot of emotive stuff about selling Macaulay to the Middle East, and him starving and ending up in the stone quarries.”

“If you believe that story.”

“I do,” said Malise, “and it could ruin you. The press are longing to get you, and you know what the English are like about cruelty to animals. It’ll take a lot of guts, but go back into the ring and keep your trap shut. Bet you’ll get a lot of marks.”

Back came the bands, but this time the four horses were too tired to be disturbed by the drums and the cymbals. Ludwig shook Jake by the hand. “Well done, my friend, well done.”

“Clara was the best-trained horse. You should have won it,” said Jake.

“You fought back from a terrible start; zat is more important.”

Dudley Diplock ran up to Jake. “Seuper, absolutely seuper,” he cried, giving Macaulay a wide berth. “Can I interview you immediately after the presentation?”

Rupert rode in last. The crowd gave him almost the biggest cheer in sympathy. He was handsomer than Robert Redford, he had jumped three spectacular clears, and certainly most of the women in the audience had wanted him to win.

Jake rode forward, leaving the other riders lined up behind him, and removed his hat as the band played the National Anthem. His hair was drenched with sweat and there was a red ring on his forehead left by his hat. In a daze, he was given an assortment of rosettes, so you could hardly see Macaulay’s white face for ribbons. There was also a purple sash, which clashed with Jake’s scarlet coat, and a huge laurel wreath for Macaulay’s neck, which he tried to eat. Then, to Jake’s intense embarrassment, one beautiful girl in matching green suits after another came up and presented him with prize after prize: a gold medal, a Sèvres vase, a Limoges tea set, a silver tray, a magnum of champagne, an enormous silver cup and, finally, a check for £10,000.

There was nothing except one rosette and much smaller checks for the others.

“Can’t we each have one of those girls as consolation prizes?” said Dino.

Even when Prince Philip came up and shook him by the hand, Jake was too euphoric even to be shy and managed to stumble a few sentences out. Aware that the place was swarming with photographers and television cameras, Macaulay resolutely stuck his cock out and refused to put it in again.

“Just like Rupert,” said Fen.

As Jake came out of the ring, he was cornered by Dudley Diplock. “May I personally shake Macaulay by the hoof. How the hell did you get him to do it?” he added, lowering his voice. “I’ve been waiting ten years for someone to give that shit Campbell-Black his comeuppance. The whole show-jumping world will club together and give you a medal.”

Gradually it was dawning on Jake that most people seemed more delighted Rupert had lost than that he had won. After the television interview with Dudley, which was not very articulate but so full of euphoria and gratitude to Macaulay and Tory and all the family and Malise, that it charmed everyone. Malise joined them. Neither he nor Jake were demonstrative men, but for a second they hugged each other.

“You were brilliant,” said Malise in a strangely gruff voice. “Sorry I didn’t get to you earlier but I’ve been with Rupert. He wanted to object.”

“Nothing to object about,” said Dudley.

“Quite,” said Malise. “But that’s never deterred him in the past. Fortunately, they weren’t having any of it. But he has been badly humiliated, so I think the less crowing about that side of it the better. Come on,” he added to Jake, “everyone’s waiting to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“The world’s press, for a start.”

“I want to ride Mac back to the stable. I’ve got nothing to say to them. I won. Isn’t that enough?”

Malise looked at him. Was there a flicker of pity in his eyes? “It won’t have had time to sink in,” he said, “but things are never going to be the same again. You’re a superstar now, a world beater. You’ve got to behave like one.”

On the way, they passed Helen Campbell-Black; she was crying. Both Malise and Jake hoped that Rupert wasn’t going to take it out on her. As they fought their way into the crowded press tent, euphoric English supporters, stripped to the waist, including Humpty, Ivor Braine, and Driffield, were already getting plastered.

“Fucking marvelous! You beat the bugger,” said Driffield, thrusting a glass into Jake’s hand, while Ivor overfilled it with champagne.

“Three cheers for the champion,” said Humpty. “Hip-hip-hooray.” Everyone joined in. The noise nearly lifted the roof off.

“Lovell for prime minister,” yelled an ecstatic British supporter. Opening another magnum, he sprayed the entire press conference with champagne.

Jake was carried shoulder-high to the table with the microphones. He collapsed into a chair and was bombarded with questions. He answered the foreign ones through an interpreter.

He was extremely happy, he said, but very, very tired. One didn’t sleep much before a championship. He’d won because he was very lucky. Macaulay was a great horse, perhaps not in the class of any of the other horses, but he had been rested all year. Clara was the best-trained horse. She didn’t knock down a single fence, she ought to get a special prize.

Everyone was still clamoring for information about Macaulay.

Jake said carefully that he’d always liked the horse, and when Rupert sold the horse on, he’d tracked him down and bought him.

“Did you deliberately put him in to sabotage Rupert?” asked Paris Match.

Jake caught Malise’s eye. “Of course not. I’d no idea how he’d feel about Rupert.”

“Did you know Rupert had sold the horse because he was vicious?” asked Joanna.

Jake looked up, the somber black eyes suddenly amused. “Who’s vicious?” he said. “Rupert or the horse?”

Everyone laughed.

Later a celebratory party went on until four o’clock in the morning, but Rupert and Helen gave it a miss and flew home.

Soon all that was left of the World Championship was a few wheel tracks and a bare patch at the corner of the collecting ring, where all week ecstatic grooms had snatched up handfuls of grass to reward their successful charges, as they came out of the ring.