Caro Peacock - A Corpse in Shining Armour

‘A shrewd blow. Well done, Legge. Where is the man? And where’s Marmion?’

He was still pinned to the ground by the weight of his armour, his friends kneeling in the sawdust round him fumbling to unbuckle it piece by piece. In spite of that, he managed an amused drawl. The other man had managed to get the chestnut down on all four feet by now. He came up leading it, so that the horizontal man could see that it was unhurt.

‘He’s well enough, sir. How about you?’

Amos Legge’s Herefordshire accent was as strong as when I’d first met him, in spite of two years as the most popular groom in Hyde Park.

‘Well enough too, I believe,’ said the knight. ‘Thank you, all. I might just manage to stand up now.’

This to his friends, who had succeeded in unbuckling breastplate and greaves. They helped him cautiously to his feet. He took off his gauntlet and shook Amos Legge by the hand.

‘I believe by the rules of tournament my horse and armour would be forfeit to you, Legge, only I’d be devilish glad if you don’t claim them.’

Amos laughed.

‘We’ll get him schooled to it all right. He’s a bit green, that’s all.’

‘Green as my green tree. I suppose you’ll tell me I am, too. What did I do wrong this time?’

Since as far as I could see the answer to that was ‘everything’ I was impressed by Amos Legge’s moderation in replying.

‘You need to sit deeper in the saddle, like I was telling you. Get your seat right and it doesn’t matter how hard somebody clouts you, you’ll stay put.’

‘Give me ten minutes to get myself in order, then we’ll take another run at it, if you’re agreeable.’

Amos seemed willing, but the man in the top hat shook his head.

‘Your time’s up. The Knight of the Black Tower’s booked in next.’

The face of the young man changed. He was still smiling, but the smile had become hard and mocking.

‘So he is. I suppose I should leave the field to him then.’

The faces of his friends had changed too. Until that moment, they’d been laughing and relieved to find him unhurt. Now they seemed embarrassed. One of them actually took him by the arm and seemed to be urging him to come away. He shook the hand off.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a scene. Same time tomorrow then, Legge. Brown will take Marmion back.’

Moving stiffly, still wearing his arm and shoulder armour, he strolled with his friends into the Eyre Arms Tavern by the jousting ground.

While Amos Legge was handing over the chestnut to the man’s groom, I sat there on my own horse, Rancie, wondering why a crowd of rich young men, in this summer of 1839, should develop this craze for jousting–a sport that had died out around four hundred years ago. As far as they’d bothered to give a reason, it had to do with Queen Victoria’s coronation the year before. Some of the upper classes and a few newspaper editors had whipped themselves up into a state of annoyance because the ceremony of the Queen’s Champion had been neglected. From time immemorial, so they said, a knight in full armour had ridden into Westminster Hall at the coronation banquet and thrown down his gauntlet in challenge to anybody who denied the new sovereign’s right to the throne. Little Vicky had contrived to get herself crowned without this. A good thing too, I thought. The coronation had cost enough as it was, and besides it’s not fair to a horse to ride it into a building full of the over-excited upper classes. But some of the young bloods fancied themselves as Queen’s Champions. With their heads full of Walter Scott and antique ballads they’d decided to hold a tournament in the old style.

The tournament was fixed for the end of August, two months away, at the Earl of Eglington’s castle in Scotland. But this was June, the height of the London season, and the would-be champions needed somewhere to practise without leaving the pleasures of the capital. The ideal place turned out to be the extensive gardens of the Eyre Arms Tavern, just north of Regent’s Park and conveniently close to the leafy lanes of St John’s Wood, where men of fashion kept their mistresses. There was even a terrace on the roof of the tavern where spectators could enjoy the fun. Fashionable London found it a great diversion from the usual round of afternoon calls or drives in the park. It was my first visit. I’d collected Rancie from the livery stables on the Bayswater Road, where Amos Legge worked, and ridden the short distance out there on my own.

Amos Legge strolled across to me, now freed from his breastplate.

‘I’d no idea you were such a knight at arms,’ I said.

He grinned and patted Rancie’s shoulder.

‘Back home, we’d go at each other on cart horses with kitchen mops, riding bareback too. Wasn’t a lad between Ledbury and Leominster could have me off.’

I guessed that his barnyard experience was earning him a lot of extra guineas. The young bloods might have been born in the saddle, but they couldn’t compete with Amos in terms of horsemanship.

‘Your Knight of the Green Tree seems a good-humoured fellow,’ I said. ‘Who is he?’

He glanced up at me.

‘Miles Brinkburn.’

Amos Legge missed nothing and must have seen the change in my face.

‘You’ve heard of him?’

In fact, Miles Brinkburn–whom I’d never met–was one of the two reasons for riding out there that afternoon. I wasn’t quite ready yet to admit that, even to Amos.

‘He has an elder brother,’ I said.

‘That’s right. Stephen Brinkburn.’

‘Is he here?’

‘Should be. He’s the one who’s supposed to be going next, only he’s late.’

‘Stephen Brinkburn is the Knight of the Black Tower?’

‘That’s right.’

Which explained the change in Miles Brinkburn’s expression.

‘Is the brother a pupil of yours too?’ I said.

‘Not a pupil, no. He rides better than his brother. But he wants me to look out for some new horses for him. He’s just going to take a run or two against the Railway Knight.’

‘Railway Knight?’

It was true that people who cared about money were talking up railways as the next thing to make everyone’s fortune, but as a title it was hardly medieval.

Amos laughed and pointed towards the back of the tavern. Two servants were trundling out something that looked like an enormous version of a child’s toy. It was a life-size wooden horse with a wooden knight in the saddle, the whole thing mounted on a wheeled platform.

‘They give it a push and it runs on rails down the list,’ Amos explained. ‘Comes in useful if a gentleman wants a bit of extra practice.’

The Knight of the Black Tower still hadn’t arrived, so most of the spectators were watching three riders in normal costume but carrying lances, taking it in turns to charge at a figure like a scarecrow with a shield on its chest, set up at some distance from the lists.

‘What’s that?’

‘They call it a quintain,’ Amos said. ‘You have to hit it square in the middle of the shield. If you hit left or right it swings round and clouts you with its arm, like that.’

One of the riders galloped at the scarecrow figure and just caught it with his lance on the outside of the shield. It swung out a jointed arm with a flail on the end, hit him in the chest and almost had him out of the saddle. The spectators on the roof laughed and jeered. It sounded as if some of the men had been drinking already. The second rider tried and missed the target entirely. The third dropped his lance.

‘Want a try?’

At first, I didn’t realise that Amos was talking to me. He must have seen something in my face that I hadn’t intended to show.

‘Well, why not? I don’t suppose we could do any worse.’