“Porky Boy might easily slip,” said Humpty.

“It’s a sod of a course,” agreed Billy.

But the judges were adamant: the Olympic committee wanted them to jump again. This time Porky Boy had three fences down, Rupert and Driffield two and Jake and Billy one each.

“Can’t ask us to go again,” said Billy, grinning at Jake. “At least that’s a grand in each of our pockets.”

“Sailor’s finished,” said Jake. “Couldn’t even jump over a pole on the ground.”

Billy nodded. “Don’t worry, they’re not that crazy.”

But once again the Olympic committee, or rather Colonel Roxborough, who had once won a bronze medal, wanted a duel to the death.

“Seems a bit extreme when Jake’s horse is carrying so much lead,” protested Malise. “They really are ghastly conditions.”

“Could be just as ghastly in Colombia,” said the colonel. “Are we conducting an Olympic trial, or are we not? You couldn’t divide a gold medal.”

Malise had to go down and tell Billy and Jake they had to jump again, knowing he must not transmit the grave doubts he felt.

“I’m retiring Sailor,” said Jake.

“Then you’ll scupper your Olympic chances,” said Malise. “Just take it very slowly.”

Sailor was too exhausted even to look appalled as Jake rode him through the driving rain back into the collecting ring. Jake couldn’t bear to watch Billy, but he heard the subdued cheers as he rode out with twelve faults.

Rain was dripping in a steady stream from Malise’s hat as he walked up to Jake.

“Now, I mean it, take it really slowly.”

“He’s got no bloody choice after what you’ve put him through,” snapped Fen.

Malise knew he should have slapped her down, but she was speaking the truth.

Jake hated having to ask Sailor to do it. He felt like a murderer as he cantered slowly into the ring. Tory must be watching at home and worried too. If only that bloody missel-thrush had shut up. Rain at fifty degrees was making visibility almost impossible.

“I’m sorry, boy, I’m sorry.” He ran a reassuring hand down Sailor’s dripping gray plaits.

There were only seven fences. Sailor managed the first and second, but the ground was so churned up that he slipped on take-off at the third, the wall, and sent all the bricks and nearly himself flying. It was like riding on a kitchen floor after you’ve spilt hot fat. Frightened now, Sailor knocked down the oxer and rapped the upright, which trembled, but as in the first round, didn’t fall. Perhaps they were in luck after all. Somehow he nursed Sailor over the rustic poles; now he was coming down to the combination. By some miracle, despite a nasty skid, he cleared the three elements. Now it was only the parallel. Ears flattened against the rain, tail swishing in irritation, Sailor looked for a second as though he was going to stop.

“Go on, baby, go on,” muttered Jake.

Sailor made a mighty effort, girding his loins, then with an extra wiggle, threw himself with a groan over the fence.

Only eight faults. They had won. Despite the deluge, the crowd gave him a tremendous cheer as Jake pulled Sailor to a walk, patting him over and over again. Then just in front of the selectors’ box, like some terrible nightmare, Sailor seemed to stop, make an effort to go on, then physically shrink beneath Jake and collapse in the mud. Jake, whose good leg was trapped beneath him, took a few seconds to wriggle free. Scrambling up, covered in mud, he limped over to Sailor’s head, cradling it in his arms. Sailor just lay there. Then he opened his walleye, tried to raise his head, gave a half-choked knucker, and his head fell back.

“Sailor!” whispered Jake. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’ll be okay in a minute. Where’s the vet?” he howled, looking around frantically at the horrified blur of the crowd.

The next minute the vet ran onto the course through the torrent of rain, carrying his bag.

“Quickly; it must be his heart; do something,” pleaded Jake.

The vet opened Sailor’s eye and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. He’s dead.”

“He can’t be,” said Jake through pale trembling lips, “he can’t be, not Sailor,” and suddenly, his face crumpled and tears were mingling with the raindrops.

“Sailor,” he sobbed, kneeling down, putting his arms round Sailor’s neck, “don’t die, please, you can’t, don’t die.”

In an instant the immaculate Crittleden organization swung into gear. The tractor and trailer were chugging through the mud from the collecting ring and the arena party ran on, putting eight-foot screens round Jake and the horse, and the loudspeaker started booming out music from South Pacific.

The crowd stood stunned, not moving. Colonel Roxborough descended from the stands, Malise ran in from the collecting ring, but Fen got there first, flinging her arms round Jake and Sailor, cuddling them both, sobbing her heart out too.

“Any hope?” asked Malise.

The vet shook his head. “Heart attack, I’m afraid.”

Fen turned round. “It’s your fault,” she screamed at Malise and Colonel Roxborough, “your bloody bloody fault. Jake didn’t want to jump him. Now what have you proved?”

Malise went up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Awfully sorry, very bad luck, might have happened at any time.”

“Don’t touch me,” hissed Fen, shaking him off. “You’re all murderers.”

Malise went over to Jake, who was still cradling Sailor’s head in his arms, crying great strangled sobs. “It was the missel-thrush,” he kept saying over and over again. He seemed almost deranged.

“Come on, Jake,” said Malise gently. “Bloody bad luck, but let’s get him out of the ring.”

It took three of the arena party to pull Jake off, and the rest of them to get Sailor into the trailer.

Half the crowd and all the grooms were in tears. The riders were visibly shaken. The organizers were in a tizzy about who’d won.

“It’s in the FEI rules, Jake wasn’t mounted when he left the ring,” said Grania Pringle, who was about to present the prizes.

“Then Billy’s got to get it,” said Colonel Roxborough. “Let’s get on with it, get people’s minds onto something more cheerful. Bloody good thing it happened today. Just think if he’d collapsed in Colombia. That’s what Olympic trials are for.”

Grania Pringle turned on him, her beautiful makeup streaked with tears. “Bloody well shut up, Roxie. Don’t be so fucking insensitive.”

As the tractor came out with its grisly burden Billy, near to tears himself, rode up to Jake: “Christ, I’m sorry. Of all the ghastly things to happen. We all knew how you felt about him. But I’m not taking first prize, Malise. Jake won it. He must have it.”

“Very kind of you, Billy, but we have to abide by the rules.”

He looked at Jake. It was hard to tell now which was downpour or tears. The rain had washed all the mud from the white shrunken face.

“Bastard,” Jake spat at Malise, and turned in the direction of his lorry. Suddenly he turned back. “Where are you taking Sailor?” he demanded.

“Don’t worry your head about that,” said Malise. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

“You’re not taking his body away for cat food.”

“He won’t go for cat food,” said Malise reasonably. “They’ll take him to the Hunt kennels.”

Jake shot him a look of pure hatred. “As if that were any better. Take him to my lorry.”

Fen dried Revenge off and fed him, while Jake loaded the two novices into the box. She couldn’t bear to watch them loading Sailor, so she went and rang Tory to tell her they were coming home. As she came out of the telephone box, Malise was waiting for her. She was about to walk past him when he said, “Look, I know how you both feel.”

“I should doubt it,” said Fen coldly. “And don’t try telling Jake it’s only a horse. He loved Sailor more than any human.” She added suddenly, with a wisdom beyond her years, “He felt they were both ugly, both laughed at, both despised and rejected. Together they were going to show the world.”

Malise looked at her thoughtfully. “He’s very lucky to have you. Can’t you stop him driving in this condition? It’s simply not safe.”

“You didn’t worry too much about Sailor’s safety, did you?” snapped Fen. “So I don’t think you’re a very good judge. And in this condition, which you put him into, all he needs is Tory.”

Jake didn’t speak a word on the way home. Fen found it unbearable the way Revenge kept nudging Sailor’s body, waiting for his wise old friend to scramble, grumbling, to his feet and tell him not to worry. They reached the Mill House at midnight. Jake drove the box straight around to the orchard. The rain had stopped, leaving a brilliant clear night. Moonlight flooded the dripping apple trees and the grave, which had already been dug for them by the next-door farmer. He stayed to help them unload Sailor, which was a good thing, as he was stiff and cold now, and terribly heavy. It was so bright you could see the flecks on his flea-bitten coat, his mane still neatly plaited. Jake wrapped him in his white and maroon rug and patted him good-bye. Jake’s face was set and expressionless as he covered the body with earth, pressing it down neatly. Later, when he’d unloaded and settled the other horses, he made a cross and put it on the grave.

By a supreme effort, Tory managed not to cry in front of him, and when they finally fell into bed around four o’clock he just groaned, laid his head on her warm, friendly breasts, and fell asleep.

Next day he spent a long time digging up wildflowers to plant around Sailor’s grave. Outwardly he appeared calm, but Tory knew he was bleeding inside. In the afternoon Malise rang up. Jake refused to talk to him.

“How is he?” asked Malise.