Now she’ll go to pieces, thought Malise in despair.

But Fen held him together and drove him on, picking her way over the obstacles, not touching any of them.

“Look at him,” said Sarah in ecstasy. “He’s really, really trying.”

Coming up to the last fence, Hardy started showing off and gave a huge kick back. The crowd laughed. He kicked back again. Lazily whisking over the last fence, he gave it an almighty clout. For a second the pole shuddered, trembled on the edge, then fell back into the cup.

“God is on our side after all,” said Malise.

“Bloody good,” said Rupert, as Fen slipped off the huge horse, flinging her arms round Hardy’s neck, and taking back all the beastly things she’d ever said about him.

“Until the next time,” said Sarah.

Now the last riders in each team had to jump. Peter Colegate, riding instead of Dino, knocked up a surprising fifteen faults, so his was the round the Americans dropped. Hans Schmidt went clear.

The round, however, the world was waiting for was Rupert’s. Fen straightened his tie and did up one brass button of his red coat which was draped over his damaged right shoulder: “Are you okay? Does it hurt horribly?”

“Yes, but I’ve just had another shot; I’m so spaced out I’ll probably carry Rocky over the fences with one finger.”

Not by a flicker, as he rode into the ring, did Rupert betray his awareness that every camera in the world was trained on him to see what the effect had been of Helen pushing off. If the press had gone to town on Jake that morning, it was without Rupert’s help. He had refused to say a word to them.

He held the reins lightly in his left hand. He carried no whip. The crowd, seeing that he was coming in to jump the most punishing course in history with one arm in a sling, roared their approval and encouragement.

Dropping his reins, he removed his hat. His blond hair glittered golder than any medal. The pain was agonizing. Even the gentlest pop in the collecting ring had jolted his shoulder unbearably, but none of this showed in his face.

Rocky was a gallant and kind horse. Something was different today; perhaps it was the sympathetic, almost helpless way Rupert had jumped him earlier; perhaps it was because for once his master wasn’t carrying a whip. Suddenly there was an expression of deep responsibility on Rocky’s handsome, golden face.

“I will take care of you today,” he seemed to be saying. “Just to make you feel a sod for all the times you’ve beaten me up in the past.”

Over the first two fences Rupert had the greatest difficulty balancing himself, then he settled in. Rocky was jumping carefully, only clearing each fence by an inch or so. Now he was thundering down to the water — and over. Now he was over the derby and the gate, now turning for the huge three-part combination.

“Undoubtedly Rupert is the best rider in the world,” shouted Billy jubilantly in the commentary box. “Look at the power of those leg muscles; he isn’t even shifting in the saddle. Go on, Rupe, go on.”

For a miraculous moment it looked as if he was going to go clear; then Rocky trailed a leg at the last fence and, unlike Fen, brought it down. Out he rode to almost the biggest cheer of the day.

Billy bolted out of the commentary box to congratulate him. “Wait,” wailed Dudley. “There are still the Japs and the Portuguese to jump.”

“That was absolutely brilliant,” said Billy, rushing up to Rupert. “God knows how you did it.”

“Should have been a clear,” said Rupert, kicking his right foot out of the stirrup and wincing and biting his lip as he lowered himself down.

“Tremendous performance, Rupert,” said Malise, looking at his score sheet. “The Yanks are on twelve, the Germans on sixteen, the Swiss on eighteen, the French on twenty. We’re fifth with twenty-two,” he added with quiet satisfaction.

“You shouldn’t be jumping, but I’m sure glad I saw you. Congratulations,” said a voice. It was the doctor from the hospital.

Rupert smiled, but the doctor, noticing his pallor and how much he was sweating, waved his medical kit. “I thought you’d probably need something stronger to face this afternoon.”

“I need an enormous whisky,” said Rupert.

“Not too enormous,” said Malise.


62


Afterwards Fen couldn’t recall if she ate any lunch. Ivor ate his way solemnly through two steaks without realizing it. Billy came too, cracking jokes with Rupert, keeping up everybody’s spirits. They knew they wouldn’t win, the margin was too big, but they were quietly elated. They had conducted themselves with honor.

Prince Philip, who was an old friend of Rupert’s, came up and congratulated them.

“Really tremendous! Well done, all of you! Don’t know why you bother to ride with any hands at all, Rupert.”

“I’d better go back and wind up Dudley,” said Billy, getting to his feet. “He says I must be more enthusiastic about the other nations. Good luck, everyone. Take care of yourself, Rupe.”

Rupert raised his hand. He wished Billy could stay. He was beginning to feel desperately tired and the pain was really getting to him.

“Can you give me something?” he said to the doctor.

“It’d be better nearer your round or the effect might wear off. I daren’t give you two shots or you’ll pass out in the ring.”

When the riders came out for the second round, it was soon apparent that the first round had overstretched the horses. Despite menacing clouds on the horizon and the rumble of thunder, the sun was at its height, beating down on to the stadium at a heat of over 100 degrees.

Only the top ten teams went through, but it still meant nearly forty rounds for the crowd to watch. The Americans, who had been led to believe that their team couldn’t lose, came back in anticipation of slaughter. Bored now by foreign rounds, screaming and hysterically cheering on their own riders, their chauvinism was equaled only by Billy’s in the commentary box.

“He’s a nice guy, he deserves it,” he said when Ludwig went clear, dashing British hopes, but he was unashamedly delighted when Mary Jo put in an unexpected twelve faults, and Lizzie Dean hit two fences and put in a stop, and the early French and Swiss riders knocked up cricket scores.

Ivor came in so elated by his first round success that he knocked up only eight faults.

“Marvelous,” said Billy. “That’s really marvelous. Now, with all the second riders gone, Great Britain’s edged up to third place, and the Germans are moving right up behind the Americans.”

As it became apparent that a duel to the death was setting in, people ran in from the halls and the stands filled up to bursting.

“I must have another shot,” said Rupert.

“You can’t risk it,” said the doctor.

Carol Kennedy went clear again. Once again Fen had to follow him.

“The Americans are on thirty-one; we are on thirty,” Malise told her.

Fen’s nerves were in tatters. Last time they’d had so little to lose; now they were in with a chance. If Hardy started kicking out fences, all was lost.

“Kiss me, Hardy, e’er I die of fright,” she said.

In England, they were televising only the second round of the competition. Dino checked the video for the hundredth time to see if there was enough tape for Fen’s round.

“Tory, darling,” he called into the bedroom, “Fen’s about to jump. I think you ought to come and see it.”

He could hardly bear to watch her, she looked so small and defenseless as she rode into the ring. He had seen Rupert patting her hand and giving her encouragement. The bastard looked so impossibly handsome and, with his dislocated shoulder, a more romantic figure than ever. And even worse, Billy Lloyd-Foxe was doing the commentary. What the hell was he doing in America?

“And here comes Fenella Maxwell, riding her second round for Great Britain,” said Billy. “Only nineteen and easily our most brilliant and beautiful girl rider, and voted Sports Personality of the Year in 1979. Come on now, Fen, darling.”

“Oh, shut up, Billy,” howled Janey and Dino from different parts of England.

“Please don’t cheer,” Fen prayed to the crowd as Hardy plunged all over the place. “Please don’t distract him. Let us get around. Concentrate, Hardy, my darling.”

Suddenly Hardy decided to behave, jumping over the fences as though they were fallen logs in the wood.

“I want to go clear, oh please, let me go clear,” prayed Fen, getting excited. But Hardy took such an unexpectedly huge jump over the wall that it didn’t give him enough run into the water and he landed well in with a splash. Fen felt her face covered with tepid water. Hardy was drenched. He loathed getting wet. He lashed his tail, ears flattened.

“That’s done it,” groaned Rupert. “He’ll never clear the upright; he’s come in too close.”

Determined to prove Rupert wrong, Hardy did an incredible cat jump; up and up he went as if he was climbing a ladder. Then with a merry flick of his back feet he was over.

Dino put his arm around Tory.

“Go on, Fen,” yelled Darklis.

“Don’t look round,” screamed Isa. “Daddy’ll murder you.” He stopped, remembering, and looked in embarrassed apology at his mother. “I mean, for goodness sake, hurry.”

Fen thundered down to the last triple — she was over.

“Hooray,” yelled Billy, stamping his feet in the commentary box.

The applause was so defeaning, Fen didn’t realize she’d got a time fault.

Once again, everyone got out their calculators.

“That puts us on thirty-five, very much in contention,” said Malise. “The Germans are on thirty-four, the Americans on thirty. But we can’t afford any complacency. The Italians are on thirty-nine, with Piero Fratinelli to come.”