“Viva España!” screamed the crowd as the first Spanish rider came in. Although they had applauded the earlier riders politely, they cheered their own hero unrestrainedly.

“Doesn’t look very magnifico to me,” said Rupert, as the horse went head over heels at the rustic poles, crashed through the wall and the final double, losing his rider again, and having to be led out impossibly lame.

“I’ve seen enough,” said Humpty, running down the steps and out to the collecting ring to scramble onto Porky Boy as the first German rider rode leisurely into the ring. Hans Schmidt was the second best rider in the German team, but his dark brown horse didn’t like the course any more than the others and came out, most unusually, with twelve faults.

As he walked out, ruefully shaking his blond head and muttering dummkopf, he was practically knocked sideways by Humpty bouncing into the ring. The merry Porky Boy, ears pricked and fighting for his head, his black tail swishing back and forth across his plump cobby quarters, bucketed towards the first fence. The crowd was amused by him and his rider, who rose so high out of the saddle over the bigger jumps that it seemed he would never come down again. But he got around with a very creditable twelve faults.

Now it was time for the second Frenchman to jump.

No one went clear, as round followed round and disaster followed disaster. Several horses overturned and were eliminated. A Spanish horse burst a blood vessel and had to be destroyed later in the day. Despite Rupert’s gloomy prognostications, Lavinia jumped well for only twelve faults, which meant the Germans and the English were level pegging on twenty-four faults at the end of the second round, with the other nations trailing well behind. The next German, Manfred, got eight faults, the best round so far. He was followed by Rupert, who did not jump well. Macaulay, like Belgravia, overoated and insufficiently ridden in, had been frightened in the collecting ring by three loudspeakers crackling fortissimo above his head. An enormously powerful horse, it took all Rupert’s strength to stop him running away in the ring. By some miracle they went clear until they got to the upright, where Macaulay, put wrong, hit it sharply.

For a second the pole bounced agonizingly in the cup, then fell. Unbalanced, and taking off too early, Macaulay also had a foot in the water. Rupert came out of the ring looking bootfaced.

He’s dying to beat the hell out of that horse, said Jake to himself. He watched Helen, beautiful in her yellow hat, biting her lip with disappointment as she entered eight faults by Rupert’s name. Jake didn’t want to be around when Rupert came back. He’d seen enough rounds anyway.

Riding around the collecting ring, he felt sicker and sicker, trying to remember the turns and the distances between the jumps. But his mind had suddenly gone completely blank, as if someone had pulled a lavatory chain, draining all the information out of his head, leaving an empty cistern.

He wished he could slip into the matadors’ church to pray. He listened to the deafening cheer as the last Spanish rider went in and groan follow groan as he demolished the course.

Now it was time for the mighty Ludwig von Schellenberg, the greatest rider in the world, to go into the ring and show everyone how to do it, which he did, jumping clear. But so carried away was he by the poetry and stylishness of his round that he notched up one and a half time faults.

He came out grinning and cursing. Now, as luck would have it, as Jake was due to jump, the last rider in Round One, the general chose to arrive and everything ground to a halt while two lines of soldiers with machine guns formed a guard of honor and the band played the Spanish National Anthem several times, and dignitaries were introduced with a lot of bowing and shaking of hands, and the general was settled in his seat.

“This is a bugger,” said Malise, after Jake had been kept waiting twenty minutes. “I’m very sorry. They’ll call you any minute. Just aim for a steady clear, take it easy, and ride at the center of the fence.”

Up in the riders’ stand Helen was doing sums.

“If the Germans count Ludwig’s, Manfred’s, and Hans’s rounds, and drop Wolfgang’s, that puts them on twenty-one and a half,” she said. “We’ve got Rupert on eight, Humpty on twelve, and Lavinia on twelve; that makes thirty-two.”

“We won’t get lower than that this half,” said Rupert. “Jake’s bound to be eliminated.”

Ludwig von Schellenberg came into the riders’ stand. “You look beautiful, Mees Helen, in that hat,” he said, clicking his heels as he kissed her hand.

“She’s a Mrs. not a Miss, you smarmy Kraut, and keep your hands off her,” said Rupert, but quite amiably. Ludwig was one of the few riders he liked and admired.

“Number Twenty-eight,” called the collecting ring steward.

Jake rode quietly into the ring. During the long wait he had counted Sailor’s plaits, found there were fifteen, his unlucky number, and had quickly undone them, so Sailor’s sparse mane crinkled unbecomingly like Harpo Marx’s hair.

As the horse shuffled in, flea-bitten, head hanging, Ludwig laughed and turned to Rupert: “Do you get your horses from zee knacker’s yard now?”

“May I be Franco with you?” said Rupert. “That is the ugliest horse anyone’s ever seen.”

Helen looked at Jake and repeated her remark about the knight of the sorrowful countenance to Malise, but Malise wasn’t listening either; he was praying.

The audience was losing interest. There hadn’t been enough clear rounds, the Germans were so far ahead it didn’t look as though anyone, and definitely not the Spaniards, would catch them up. The general was talking to his energy minister about oil prices. No one was paying much attention as Sailor cantered towards the first fence.

Tilting at windmills, thought Helen, filled with compassion.

“Never get over it,” said Rupert.

But suddenly this extraordinarily ugly animal shook himself like an old music hall actor who realizes he’s got a capacity crowd, gave a snort of pleasure, and took hold of the bit.

“Christ, look at that,” said Humpty Hamilton as Sailor cleared the first fence.

“And that,” said Billy as he cleared the second.

“And that,” said Malise, resisting a temptation to crow, as he cleared the third.

“And that,” said Helen.

“Jesus, he can really jump,” said Billy. “Look at the way he tucks up his feet.”

The crowd, bored by Spain’s poor performance, suddenly diverted by this extraordinary horse, laughed at first then started to clap and cheer.

“He’s going to get time faults if he’s not careful,” said Mrs. Greenslade, as Jake checked Sailor before the combination, but, pop, pop, pop, over he went.

“Christ,” said Humpty. “That horse must have some good blood in him.”

“Who is zees horse, Malise?” said Ludwig. “It is not permitted, I think, to jump mules. I shall lodge an objection.”

Sailor was over the water. Now there was just the double left.

As he turned sharply to make up time, the sun shone straight into Jake’s eyes, dazzling and blinding him. He had to leave it all to Sailor. The British team held its breath as the horse came trundling down, carefully positioned himself, and cleared both parts beautifully. As he shambled out of the ring to deafening cheers, some people in the riders’ stand could have sworn he winked his walleye. Jake, his face blank, leaned forward, pulling Sailor’s ears, running his hand repeatedly up and down the horse’s curly mane.

“Beginner’s luck,” said Rupert.

“That horse isn’t a beginner,” said Billy. “He looks like an oldage pensioner.”

“He’s got half a time fault,” said Helen, putting C for Clear by Jake’s name. “That puts us in the lead.”

In the collecting ring, Sailor philosophically accepted the ecstatic embraces of Bridie and Tracey, but was more interested in getting his three Polos reward from Jake, who in his turn was trying to hide his elation. Having automatically checked Sailor’s legs for any swelling or tenderness, he loosened his girths and put on his fly sheet.

“Well done,” said Malise. “It’s hard to believe that horse hadn’t walked the course himself.”

And as Humpty, Billy, Lavinia, and both her parents surged round Jake to offer their congratulations, Malise added, “Delighted he’s come good. Completely justified your faith in him. Get Tracey to walk him round in the shade and keep him quiet, and come and have a Coke or something.”

But Jake couldn’t bear to leave Sailor. Using a bucket of water brought by Tracey, he sponged the horse’s head, throat, and neck and between his back legs to cool him down. Putting a hand over Sailor’s eyes, he sprayed his head and ears with fly spray and as it wasn’t wise for the horse to take in quantities of water, he washed his mouth with a sponge to refresh him.

“Belgravia’d have your hand off if you did that,” said Marion, who was walking a sweating Macaulay round the paddock. “He jumped well,” she added, nodding at Sailor.

Was this the first round in peace talks? thought Jake, Marion, one of the Iron Curtain satellites, temporarily making diplomatic overtures towards the West.

“Thanks,” he said.

The second half of the competition was much tougher. The delays had got to the horses and frayed the riders’ nerves. The heat was stifling, the flies even worse. Sipping an ice cold Pepsi in the competitors’ stand, Jake tried to keep calm.

“It’s the first time for ages the Germans haven’t been in the lead after the first half,” said Mrs. Greenslade. “But they’re tremendously good at coming from behind.”