* * *


The World Championships start with a Nations’ Cup. The twenty riders in this event who have the least faults go through to the next leg, which consists of three grueling individual competitions. The four riders who average out the least faults in these go through to the final. A compulsory rest day follows. Then the final takes place in which each of the four riders jump their own horse, and then in turn the horses of the other three riders.

Great Britain had patchy fortunes in the Nations’ Cup. Rupert produced two dazzling clears on Snakepit. Humpty, trying to impress a new sponsor, jumped disastrously with over twenty faults in both rounds. Driffield went clear, then went to pieces in the second round. Jake had eight faults in the first round, then went clear.

The Americans jumped brilliantly; so did the Germans, putting them first and second, with the British a poor third. This meant four American riders, four Germans, Rupert, Jake, Wishbone, Piero Fratinelli, the Italian Number One, a couple of Mexicans and, to the ecstasy of the French crowd, Guy de la Tour, went through to the semifinal.

By the third and final competition of the semifinal, Ludwig and Rupert were so far ahead on points that they virtually only had to stand up to get into the last four. The class consisted of ten enormous fences, with a jump-off against the clock. Rupert got eight faults, Ludwig twelve, which ensured them a place in the final. Dino went clear. Only Jake and Count Guy were left to jump.

“It’ll be you, me, Ludwig, and Guy,” Rupert said to Dino as he came out of the ring. “One from each country. Very suitable.”

Jake was so incensed by Rupert’s contemptuous assumption that there was no likelihood he would make the final, that he was prepared to carry Macaulay over the fences if necessary.

“You must win this class, even to qualify,” said Malise, giving Macaulay a pat as Jake rode off into the ring.

Macaulay was obviously determined to give all his supporters a heart attack. Fooling around, pretending to shy at the crowd, bucking and getting up to all sorts of antics between fences, he nevertheless went clear, kicking up his heels in a sort of equine V-sign.

Everyone got out their calculators, trying to work out whether he was in or not. In came Guy, who was ahead of both Dino and Jake on points. Laughing, handsome, he was turned on by a big crowd, particularly of his own people. He could feel the waves of love and admiration wafting over like a hot blow dryer.

Coming up to the penultimate fence, a huge upright which had unsettled everyone except Macaulay, Guy’s spectacular black gelding, Charlemagne, gave it a mighty clout. Everyone held their breath, but the pole stayed put. Alas, Guy made the mistake of looking round, like Orpheus, and the Eurydice he lost was his place in the championship. His concentration snapped and he put Charlemagne wrong at the combination. The horse hadn’t enough impulsion to get far enough over the first element and demolished the second and the third. The crowd groaned. All round the course, riders and their retinues were frantically tapping their calculators.

“It’s worse than A-level math,” grumbled Fen.

Next moment, Malise came up to Jake, with a barely suppressed expression of delight on his face.

“You’re in,” he said.

Americans were crowding around Dino, punching him on the arm.

“We’re in, we’re in.”

No one dared show any elation in the face of such bitter French despair. Financially and, from the point of view of national morale, it was essential that the host nation had at least one rider in the final. The crowd were too stunned to clap. The commentator was too stunned even to translate into English his announcement that Rupert, Dino, Ludwig, and Jake would go through.

Dino and Jake decided not to jump off. They wanted to rest their horses for the final. They rode into the ring together. Twenty thousand francs would be divided between them, but not the huge vase that went to the winner. It looked just like an urn.

“Oh, my God, we can’t exactly break it in half,” said Dino. “You better keep it, Jake. I’m sure it’s to put your ashes in.”

Hell, thought Rupert, I’m going to have to ride that black bugger after all.


34


It was one thing to get through to the final but quite another to have to think about it for the next two days. Ludwig was lucky. The German team liked each other, ate, drank, sightsaw, sunbathed, and worked their horses together. All were firmly rooting for Ludwig. A German victory was all that mattered. Dino received the same support from the American team.

Malise sighed and wished he could unite the British in the same way. But Rupert, Humpty, and Driffield were all individuals motivated by self-interest and ambition and frantic jealousy. Nor could you expect any solidarity from Jake Lovell, a loner who liked to keep to himself at shows. At earlier shows, Billy had kept everyone sweet, particularly Rupert. Now he was absent, tempers and hatreds flared up. Driffield’s persistent grumbling was getting on everyone’s nerves. Humpty was in despair, knowing his newly acquired sponsors would be far from happy he hadn’t made the final. Rupert and Jake made no secret of their mutual animosity. It was ironic, thought Malise, that each would get more of a kick from finishing in front of the other than winning the championship.

Determined to create some sense of union, however, Malise insisted the entire team and their wives, including Fen, went out to dinner that night to celebrate having two British riders in the final. Tomorrow was a compulsory rest day, so it didn’t matter if they suffered a few hangovers.

Jake promptly refused, on the grounds they couldn’t get a babysitter. Alas, they got back to their hotel to find the patron’s wife, who had given them frightful rooms overlooking a noisy main road, had suddenly discovered from the evening paper that she had as a guest a potential World Champion. Nothing, she insisted, was too much for Monsieur Lovell. She and her husband would immediately move out of their quiet bedroom overlooking the courtyard, so Jake and Tory could have the double bed and ensure two good nights’ sleep before the great ordeal.

All this was overheard by Malise, who was staying at the same hotel. Perhaps, he asked, Madame would be prepared to babysit that evening.

To Jake’s fury, Madame was only too ’appy. Darklis and Isa would have dinner in the kitchen and watch The Sound of Music on television. It is arguable whether Monsieur or Jake felt more like strangling Madame at that moment.

By the time their rooms had been sorted out, Fen, Jake, and Tory were the last to arrive for dinner. The restaurant at the end of the town took up the entire ground floor of an eighteenth-century château on the edge of an estuary. Gleaming Virginia creeper jacketed the walls and threatened to close the shutters. Pale crimson geraniums cascaded into the khaki water.

“Smell that wine and garlic,” sighed Fen ecstatically. “Oh, cheer up, Jake. At least it’ll be a change from hamburgers and Mars bars.”

Malise, suntanned and elegant in a cream linen suit and dark blue spotted tie, and Colonel Roxborough, sweating in gray flannel, rose to welcome them. But not before Rupert had turned to Humpty, saying, “Here comes Prince Charmless and the two ugly sisters.”

“Rupert,” implored Helen, blushing scarlet. “Hi, Jake. Congratulations. I was so excited when I heard you were in.”

“As the actress said to the bishop,” said Rupert, “you’re privileged, Jake. You must be the only person who’s excited my dear wife in years. I certainly don’t.”

Helen had arrived at Les Rivaux after a long, long detour to visit some cathedral, so she had missed seeing Rupert go through to the final. They’d had a row because she refused to sleep with him, insisting she must wash her hair before dinner.

“That’s not true. I’m over the moon about you making the final. It’s just marvelous to have two British riders there.”

“Must be difficult for you, Helen. Do you support us or the Yanks?” asked Humpty.

“Particularly when you see Dino Ferranti,” said Humpty’s wife, Doreen. “He’s out of this world.”

“Come on, sit down,” said Malise. “You go next to Doreen, Jake, and Fen can go between me and Rupert, and Tory on Rupert’s other side.”

“Tory’s going to need a long spoon,” said Fen, glaring at Rupert.

“Touché,” he said, and laughed.

“What’s everyone going to have to drink?” said Colonel Roxborough. “Still on the wagon, Rupert?”

“Only till Saturday. Then I’m going to get legless. Christ, I’m starving.”

He looked across at a side table where a waiter was slicing up a long French loaf with a bread knife. “Just imagine that that was one’s cock,” he said with a shudder.

Thinking she must make some attempt at conversation, but feeling eighteen and a fat deb again, Tory asked Rupert how Tabitha was.

“Fine,” said Rupert, and proceeded to ignore her totally, talking across to Colonel Roxborough about Count Guy’s débâcle and staring at a luscious brunette at a table nearby.

Jake longed to rescue Tory but he was trapped by Doreen Hamilton. Insulated by successive waves of exultation and apprehension at making the final, he looked at the slice of lemon in his gin and Schweppes, counting the pips: I will win, I won’t, I will. Must have the best of three. There were two pips in Mrs. Hamilton’s lemon: I will, I won’t. Despondency struck. Then he looked across at Colonel Roxborough’s glass, two slices, two pips on the top: he bent his head; three on the bottom, which added up to an uneven number. Relief overwhelmed him; he would win.