Billy grinned. “What’s in it for him?”

“Social mountaineering. He’s made his pile and now he wants upmarket fun and some smart friends. He thinks you have tremendous charisma.”

“Glad someone does,” said Billy gloomily. “He won’t much longer if The Bull goes on knocking down fences.”

“I think you should talk to him,” said Rupert. “Fifty grand a year’s not to be sniffed at. Your mother’s not likely to croak for at least twenty years. And I thought you wanted to marry that girl?”

“After today, I don’t think she’ll have me.”

Billy was sure that Janey wouldn’t turn up the following night. Even his horoscope was ambiguous: it warned Pisces subjects to watch out for fireworks, and make travel plans in the evening.

It had been the Germans’ Wembley. Hot-foot from the Olympics and their double gold, they had jackbooted their way through the week, winning every big class except the Sunday Times Cup, which had gone to Rupert. On the last night the crowd was really hungry for a British victory. The big class was the Victor Ludorum, a two-round competition in which riders with double clears jumped off against the clock for £6,000. Rupert jumped clear in the first round and so did Billy, although he was very lucky. The Bull rapped every fence and had the upright swinging back and forth like a metronome on lente, but he didn’t bring it down and the crowd went wild.

They had given him and The Bull a colossal welcome whenever he’d come into the ring that week. But each time Dudley Diplock had announced them as “that great Olympic combination — Billy Lloyd-Foxe riding The Bull” the little horse had raised two hoofs at the commentary box and knocked up a cricket score. He was tired after a long season. Tonight, however, he felt more bouncy. “You’ve got to win,” Billy urged him, “to impress Janey, if she comes.”

Now Billy sat in the riders’ stand, biting his nails, watching Rupert jump his second round. Revenge was also a bit tired. He flattened twice and had eight faults at the combination and a brick out of the wall. As he came out of the ring, Rupert patted Revenge consolingly, determined to refute any charges of cruelty, knowing the television cameras were still on him.

Billy met him in the collecting ring.

“Just wait till I get this bugger back to his stable,” said Rupert. “I’m going to beat the hell out of him.”

“He’s had a long year,” protested Billy. “Think how well he did in the Sunday Times Cup.” He did hope the honeymoon between Rupert and Revenge wasn’t over.

As he mounted The Bull to warm him up over a couple of practice fences, he could hear Dudley Diplock waxing lyrical over “Ludwig’s second clear.”

“That’s that Dudley Moore,” said a fat woman who was leaning over the rail to her friend. “He’s done the commentary here for years.”

Billy felt desperately low; Janey was obviously not coming. His mind was a complete blank. He couldn’t remember the course, or how many strides there were between any of the fences. The Bull clouted the practice fence.

“For God’s sake, pick your bloody feet up,” snapped Billy with unusual irritation. The Bull looked martyred and limped a few paces. As Billy turned him to jump it again, he heard a voice calling: “Hello, William.”

And there she was. Her lovely hair all tortoiseshell and lionlike as it had been at Penscombe. She was wearing a black and gray striped silk rugger shirt with a white collar and very tight black trousers.

Billy found it impossible to wipe the silly grin off his face as he trotted across the collecting ring towards her. “You made it! God, that’s wonderful! And you look bloody marvelous. Was the MP furious you ditched him?”

“Livid.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“I heard Rupert’s out already,” she said. “I’ve just passed a stand absolutely hung with whips, spurs, boots, and strange leather devices, exactly like a tart’s store cupboard. I don’t know what you get up to in show jumping, really I don’t.”

Billy laughed.

Janey patted The Bull. “I’m sorry I was a bit offish yesterday, I’m always awful when I’m working.”

“Did you finish the piece?”

“Yes.” She shot him a sly look. “It wasn’t nearly as complimentary as the one about you.”

“Number Forty-three,” shouted the collecting ring steward. “Where’s Number Forty-three?”

“Billee, they’re calling you!” shouted Hans Schmidt.

“For the last time, Number Forty-three.”

“I think they’re calling you,” said Janey.

Billy came down to earth. “Oh my God, so they are. Don’t move, I won’t be long.”

“I want to watch you.”

“Stop coffeehousing,” said Rupert, “and get into the ring.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Rupe, this is Janey. Will you get her a drink and look after her till I get back?”

“How d’you do?” said Janey. “I hear you had two legs out of the combination. It sounds awfully rude.”

“Oh, please,” Billy prayed as he rode into the ring, “don’t let her fall for him.”

He must concentrate. But joy seemed to surge along the reins and The Bull bounced round the course rapping nothing and the crowd went berserk as Billy pulled off the only British double clear.

“Well done,” said Janey, who was sitting in the riders’ stand with Rupert, clutching a large vodka and tonic. “You were marvelous, and you got a bigger ovation than the Rolling Stones.” She giggled. “I asked Rupert who that fat man in the ring with a tape measure was. He said he’s the course builder. I said, how did he know he was coarse. You do have the most extraordinary terminology in show jumping. What on earth’s a rustic pole?” She’d obviously made a hit with Rupert, who generally didn’t like people taking the piss out of the sport.

There were six riders in the jump-off. Three Germans, Wishbone, Count Guy, and finally Billy. Ludwig went first and jumped a very fast clear. From then onwards, there were no clears until Hans Schmidt came in.

“They’re so controlled, those German horses, you’d never think they could motor,” said Janey.

“Look at his stride — twice as long as The Bull’s,” said Rupert.

Hans, incredibly, knocked two seconds off Ludwig’s time, cutting every corner.

“Billy won’t make it?” asked Janey.

“I don’t think so. The Bull simply isn’t fast enough.”

Hans came out, a broad grin on his round face. “Beat zat,” he said, as Billy rode into the ring.

“And here comes Billy Lloyd-Foxe on The Bull, our Olympic silver medalist riding for Great Britain,” said Dudley, trying to be heard over the cheers.

“Must be hell having to jump while you’re having a shit,” said Janey.

The cheers continued as The Bull circled, his fluffy noseband like a blob of shaving cream, cantering along on his strong little legs, bottom lip flapping, ears waggling, taking in the applause. Billy gave him a pat. He was a medieval knight jousting for Janey’s hand.

If he wins, everything’ll be all right and he’ll ask me to marry him, said Janey, crossing both fingers. As the bell rang the cheering started; as he rose to the first fence it increased, and it increased in a steady crescendo as he cleared each fence, riding for his life. As he turned for the last two fences, the double and then the huge wall, Billy glanced at the clock, realizing he was in with a chance. The cheer rose to a mighty roar and the whole crowd rose to its feet as one to bellow him home. The Bull was over the double and hurtled over the wall, nearly crashing into the side of the arena, before Billy could pull him up.

The ten thousand crowd turned to the clock. Billy turned around, putting his hands over his eyes. As he took them away a mighty roar took the roof off. He had won by a tenth of a second. The scenes that followed were worthy of a cup final. People were leaping over the stands into the arena, rushing forward to cheer and pat The Bull. Spectators were throwing hats, cushions, handbags into the arena.

Rupert looked at Janey and saw all her mascara had run.

“Wasn’t he wonderful?” she said.

“You do love him, don’t you?”

She nodded, getting out a paper handkerchief.

“Well, mind you look after him.”

Billy and The Bull got another deafening round of applause as they came into the ring to collect their rosette. Then the band played “Little White Bull,” and The Bull, very smug after all the attention, bucketed round the ring twice, deliberately keeping within the circle of the spotlight. Afterwards, Billy came up to see Janey. “You were so wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never been so proud in my life. What an absolutely sweet horse he is.”

From all sides, people were congratulating Billy, but he had eyes only for Janey. “Look, I’ve got to go back into the ring for the personality parade. Will you be all right? How did you get on with Rupert?”

“Great, but he’s not nearly as attractive as you.”

Billy blushed. “He must have been pulling his punches.”

The cavalcade that brings the Horse of the Year show to an end must be the most moving event in the equestrian calendar. Among the celebrities were little Stroller and two of the police horses who’d displayed exceptional bravery in an IRA incident, followed by ponies, hacks, and hunters, the heavy horses and, finally, the Olympic team. Then Malise, not without a tremor of emotion in his voice, read out Ronald Duncan’s beautiful poem: “To the Horse,” and Janey found herself in floods of tears again. What a wonderful, dashing, romantic, colorful world she was moving into, she thought, after three large vodka and tonics on an empty stomach.

As Billy came out to the collecting ring, a man came up to him whom he instantly recognized from Rupert’s description as Kevin Coley.