Legge missed nothing and must have seen the change in my face.
‘You’ve heard of him?’
In fact, Miles Brinkburn–whom I’d never met–was one of the two reasons for riding out there that afternoon. I wasn’t quite ready yet to admit that, even to Amos.
‘He has an elder brother,’ I said.
‘That’s right. Stephen Brinkburn.’
‘Is he here?’
‘Should be. He’s the one who’s supposed to be going next, only he’s late.’
‘Stephen Brinkburn is the Knight of the Black Tower?’
‘That’s right.’
Which explained the change in Miles Brinkburn’s expression.
‘Is the brother a pupil of yours too?’ I said.
‘Not a pupil, no. He rides better than his brother. But he wants me to look out for some new horses for him. He’s just going to take a run or two against the Railway Knight.’
‘Railway Knight?’
It was true that people who cared about money were talking up railways as the next thing to make everyone’s fortune, but as a title it was hardly medieval.
Amos laughed and pointed towards the back of the tavern. Two servants were trundling out something that looked like an enormous version of a child’s toy. It was a life-size wooden horse with a wooden knight in the saddle, the whole thing mounted on a wheeled platform.
‘They give it a push and it runs on rails down the list,’ Amos explained. ‘Comes in useful if a gentleman wants a bit of extra practice.’
The Knight of the Black Tower still hadn’t arrived, so most of the spectators were watching three riders in normal costume but carrying lances, taking it in turns to charge at a figure like a scarecrow with a shield on its chest, set up at some distance from the lists.
‘What’s that?’
‘They call it a quintain,’ Amos said. ‘You have to hit it square in the middle of the shield. If you hit left or right it swings round and clouts you with its arm, like that.’
One of the riders galloped at the scarecrow figure and just caught it with his lance on the outside of the shield. It swung out a jointed arm with a flail on the end, hit him in the chest and almost had him out of the saddle. The spectators on the roof laughed and jeered. It sounded as if some of the men had been drinking already. The second rider tried and missed the target entirely. The third dropped his lance.
‘Want a try?’
At first, I didn’t realise that Amos was talking to me. He must have seen something in my face that I hadn’t intended to show.
‘Well, why not? I don’t suppose we could do any worse.’
I was half-appalled to hear myself saying it, but it had been in my mind that Rancie and I could do better, even though I did have the disadvantage of riding sidesaddle. He gave me one of his mischief-making grins, walked over to a pile of lances stacked against a tree and came back holding one.
‘Like this, see. Point it across her withers and ride straight at it.’
If it were to be done, it must be done without thinking about it. I tightened my right knee round the pommel of the saddle, pressed my left heel lightly against Rancie’s side. It only needed a touch. As usual, she read my thoughts and cantered straight as a swallow towards the quintain. I kept my eyes on the centre of the shield and concentrated on keeping the lance steady. It was lighter than I expected and when the point of it hit the shield square in the centre, the top of the lance broke like a barley straw. Amos’s whoop of delight told me that we’d got it right first time.
I don’t think the spectators on the roof had realised I was going for the quintain until I struck it, but now laughter and cheering broke out. I knew my face was going red. I hadn’t intended to make a spectacle of myself. I’d felt as if Amos and I were two children in a barnyard together, daring each other, and for a moment had forgotten everything else. I glanced up at the terrace and blushed even more hotly when I saw that the loudest cheers were coming from the young man who’d ridden as the Knight of the Green Tree. Miles Brinkburn was actually on his feet, applauding. Since the thing had to be carried off somehow, I bowed from the saddle to acknowledge the applause and, carrying my splintered lance, walked Rancie back to where Amos was standing.
Luckily, a new arrival distracted attention from me. Another knight had appeared at the far end of the lists on a useful-looking dark bay, a group of friends with him on foot. He was in armour and carried a shield with the device of a black tower. Stephen Brinkburn. He had not yet put on his helmet, so I had the chance for a long look at his face. He was less striking than his younger brother, though by no means bad looking. His hair was light brown and worn quite long, his nose an aristocratic beak. Above all, he looked serious, as if this craze for jousting were no game. More than that, he looked like the kind of man for whom nothing was a game. I thought that when they’d played cricket at their public school, the younger brother would have sent balls flying in all the wrong directions while the elder one frowned over the rule book. One of the friends handed up his helmet. He settled it carefully on his head, not moving until he was satisfied that the eye slit was at exactly the right level, then took his lance from another friend.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the lists, the servants were manoeuvring the Railway Knight on to his set of rails. When they were ready the marshal looked inquiringly towards the Knight of the Black Tower. The silver helmet gave one heavy nod and he levelled his lance.
‘The shield!’ somebody yelled at the servants. ‘Take it off.’
The shield of the Railway Knight had been loosely covered with a piece of sacking, presumably to protect it. It was dangerous because if it had flown off when the wooden knight gathered speed it might have caused his opponent’s real horse to shy. The servants were just giving the Railway Knight a good shove to set him off on his career down the lists, but at the last moment one of them managed to twitch off the piece of sacking.
The metallic bellow that sounded when the shield was revealed was louder than the galloping hooves of the dark bay and the hiss of wheels on rails. It sounded like some furious and gigantic elephant in a cave. It took us all a moment to realise that the bellow was coming from inside the helmet of the Knight of the Black Tower. As he bellowed, he drove his horse towards the Railway Knight at a speed that looked suicidal. When his lance struck the Railway Knight’s shield square on, the force splintered the lance like kindling and rocked the wooden rider. The artificial horse trundled on to the end of its track. The rider reined in the bay at the end of the list with a force that brought his forelegs off the ground, then spun him round like a circus trick-rider. He rode across the grass, over a flowerbed and straight at the back of the tavern as if he intended to propel himself and his horse inside. The spectators on the roof had been too stunned by his bellow to applaud what had, after all, been a very accurate hit. Now some started shouting at the rider to stop and others screamed. Only one of them seemed unalarmed. Miles Brinkburn sat there with a smile on his face like a child at a pantomime.
Stephen Brinkburn drew his horse up by the steps that led to the spectators’ platform, dropped the reins and began taking off his helmet. It revealed a face white with fury, jaw set. He dropped the helmet, flung himself out of the saddle and– still in armour–started clanking up the steps to the platform. By then, some of his friends had caught up with him.
‘Leave it, Stephen, he’s not worth it.’
‘For God’s sake, Stephen, you’ll get into the newspapers.’
He took no notice of them. Miles Brinkburn had left his seat now and was standing at the top of the steps, the smile still on his face. From several steps down, Stephen launched himself at his brother. For a man encumbered with metal plates, it was an astounding feat of athleticism or fury. Miles hadn’t expected it and was knocked off his feet. The two of them slithered all the