Caro Peacock - A Corpse in Shining Armour

I was half-appalled to hear myself saying it, but it had been in my mind that Rancie and I could do better, even though I did have the disadvantage of riding sidesaddle. He gave me one of his mischief-making grins, walked over to a pile of lances stacked against a tree and came back holding one.

‘Like this, see. Point it across her withers and ride straight at it.’

If it were to be done, it must be done without thinking about it. I tightened my right knee round the pommel of the saddle, pressed my left heel lightly against Rancie’s side. It only needed a touch. As usual, she read my thoughts and cantered straight as a swallow towards the quintain. I kept my eyes on the centre of the shield and concentrated on keeping the lance steady. It was lighter than I expected and when the point of it hit the shield square in the centre, the top of the lance broke like a barley straw. Amos’s whoop of delight told me that we’d got it right first time.

I don’t think the spectators on the roof had realised I was going for the quintain until I struck it, but now laughter and cheering broke out. I knew my face was going red. I hadn’t intended to make a spectacle of myself. I’d felt as if Amos and I were two children in a barnyard together, daring each other, and for a moment had forgotten everything else. I glanced up at the terrace and blushed even more hotly when I saw that the loudest cheers were coming from the young man who’d ridden as the Knight of the Green Tree. Miles Brinkburn was actually on his feet, applauding. Since the thing had to be carried off somehow, I bowed from the saddle to acknowledge the applause and, carrying my splintered lance, walked Rancie back to where Amos was standing.

Luckily, a new arrival distracted attention from me. Another knight had appeared at the far end of the lists on a useful-looking dark bay, a group of friends with him on foot. He was in armour and carried a shield with the device of a black tower. Stephen Brinkburn. He had not yet put on his helmet, so I had the chance for a long look at his face. He was less striking than his younger brother, though by no means bad looking. His hair was light brown and worn quite long, his nose an aristocratic beak. Above all, he looked serious, as if this craze for jousting were no game. More than that, he looked like the kind of man for whom nothing was a game. I thought that when they’d played cricket at their public school, the younger brother would have sent balls flying in all the wrong directions while the elder one frowned over the rule book. One of the friends handed up his helmet. He settled it carefully on his head, not moving until he was satisfied that the eye slit was at exactly the right level, then took his lance from another friend.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the lists, the servants were manoeuvring the Railway Knight on to his set of rails. When they were ready the marshal looked inquiringly towards the Knight of the Black Tower. The silver helmet gave one heavy nod and he levelled his lance.

‘The shield!’ somebody yelled at the servants. ‘Take it off.’

The shield of the Railway Knight had been loosely covered with a piece of sacking, presumably to protect it. It was dangerous because if it had flown off when the wooden knight gathered speed it might have caused his opponent’s real horse to shy. The servants were just giving the Railway Knight a good shove to set him off on his career down the lists, but at the last moment one of them managed to twitch off the piece of sacking.

The metallic bellow that sounded when the shield was revealed was louder than the galloping hooves of the dark bay and the hiss of wheels on rails. It sounded like some furious and gigantic elephant in a cave. It took us all a moment to realise that the bellow was coming from inside the helmet of the Knight of the Black Tower. As he bellowed, he drove his horse towards the Railway Knight at a speed that looked suicidal. When his lance struck the Railway Knight’s shield square on, the force splintered the lance like kindling and rocked the wooden rider. The artificial horse trundled on to the end of its track. The rider reined in the bay at the end of the list with a force that brought his forelegs off the ground, then spun him round like a circus trick-rider. He rode across the grass, over a flowerbed and straight at the back of the tavern as if he intended to propel himself and his horse inside. The spectators on the roof had been too stunned by his bellow to applaud what had, after all, been a very accurate hit. Now some started shouting at the rider to stop and others screamed. Only one of them seemed unalarmed. Miles Brinkburn sat there with a smile on his face like a child at a pantomime.

Stephen Brinkburn drew his horse up by the steps that led to the spectators’ platform, dropped the reins and began taking off his helmet. It revealed a face white with fury, jaw set. He dropped the helmet, flung himself out of the saddle and– still in armour–started clanking up the steps to the platform. By then, some of his friends had caught up with him.

‘Leave it, Stephen, he’s not worth it.’

‘For God’s sake, Stephen, you’ll get into the newspapers.’

He took no notice of them. Miles Brinkburn had left his seat now and was standing at the top of the steps, the smile still on his face. From several steps down, Stephen launched himself at his brother. For a man encumbered with metal plates, it was an astounding feat of athleticism or fury. Miles hadn’t expected it and was knocked off his feet. The two of them slithered all the way back down the steps, Stephen clanking and Miles yelling something about taking a joke. They hit the ground with Miles underneath. Stephen aimed a punch at him with a gauntleted hand that would have knocked him senseless if it had connected, but one of Stephen’s friends managed to push it aside at the last moment so that it clanged against the bottom step, knocking splinters out of it. One of the splinters pierced Miles’s face, just below the eye socket, drawing blood. He yelled, managed to pull himself out from under his brother’s weight, struggled upright and delivered a kick to Stephen’s jaw. Stephen saw it coming and rolled aside so that the kick struck the back of his neck and was partly deflected by armour plating. As Miles drew his foot back for another try, Stephen grabbed his ankle so Miles hit the ground again.

They lay there for a moment, panting and exhausted, their faces only inches apart. Blood was pouring down Miles’s face and on to his teeth, his lips drawn back in a snarl. No pretence about jokes now. Stephen’s expression was intent, almost blank. It seemed a battle out of space and time, like a tiger fighting some plated monster from a prehistoric era. The sheer oddity of it must have paralysed the friends surrounding them, because after that one attempt to intervene they’d stood gaping, mouths open. At first they might have regarded it as part of the afternoon’s diversion, but now raw hatred was in the air, like the smell of blood. Miles rolled over, grabbed two handfuls of Stephen’s hair and started thumping his head against the ground. Stephen’s hands clawed for Miles’s throat. One of the friends let out a shrill yell.

‘Stop them, somebody. They’ll kill each other.’

Up to that point, Amos Legge had been watching with the air of a man who’d seen worse. In his book, if the gentry wanted to fight among themselves, that was up to them. Now, moving in his usual unhurried way, he pushed through the crowd of friends and stood over the two writhing bodies.

‘That’s enough. Just calm yourselves down now.’

I’d heard him use exactly the same tone in parting a couple of fighting terriers in a stable yard. The sheer solidity and calmness of him froze the two men. He bent down, untwined Miles’s fingers from his brother’s hair, set him on his feet like a nursemaid dealing with a fractious child and delivered him into the hands of a group of friends.