brandished it at him.
The collecting ring steward rushed up to Jake. “I theenk, Meester Lovell, you better go and collect your horse.”
At that moment Macaulay reared up, striking at Rupert, missing him only by inches, knocking the pole from his hands.
Rupert backed away; he had no protection now.
Jake walked into the ring, a small figure, totally insignificant without a horse.
“Watch this,” said Fen to Dino.
As Macaulay turned to go in for the kill, Jake put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Macaulay stopped in his tracks, looking wistfully at Rupert for a second, then, turning, trotted back across the arena, whickering with pleasure, nudging Jake in the stomach, licking his face. The crowd, having been frozen with terror, suddenly burst into a huge collective roar of laughter.
“Well done,” said Jake softly and, not even bothering to take hold of Macaulay’s bridle, he walked out of the ring. Macaulay trotted after him, giving him great sly digs in the ribs as if to say, “Didn’t I do well?”
Malise turned to Colonel Roxborough. “Even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.”
“I’ve just lost a hundred and we’ve lost the championship. I don’t know why you’re looking so bloody cheerful.”
“Tarry a little,” said Malise.
Rupert came out of the ring, his face like marble. Helen rushed forward. “Darling, are you all right?”
“No, I am bloody not,” spat Rupert, pushing her out of the way. “I’m going to object. That was deliberate sabotage on Jake’s part.”
The reporters surged forward, clamoring for a quote.
“What are you going to do, Rupe?”
“Lodge an objection. That horse should be put down instantly. It’s a total delinquent. Jake put it in deliberately to fuck me up.”
He was so angry he could hardly get the words out. The collecting ring was in an uproar.
Malise elbowed his way to his side.
“I’m going to object,” said Rupert.
Malise shook his head. “Can’t make it stand up. Macaulay’s no more difficult a horse than Snakepit. He was all right with all the other riders. He’s like a lamb with the Lovell children.”
“Well, Jake trained him to do it, then. You saw how he called the bugger off when he wanted. He tried to kill me the other night, and he tried to kill me now.”
The reporters were avidly writing down every word.
“The competition isn’t over, Rupert,” said Malise, lowering his voice. “Jake’s got to ride Clara.”
“To hell with him,” snarled Rupert. “If the jury won’t accept an objection, I’ll have the law on him for attempted murder.” And he stalked off in the direction of his lorry.
Jake rode Clara into the ring, holding his hands up high, sitting very straight in the saddle, trying to copy Ludwig’s style of riding.
“It seems a shame to ask you to beat your master,” he said.
“Oh, Clara, please do a cleara,” said Fen.
The crowd had witnessed near tragedy and then high comedy. The commentator had to put everyone back on course. Ludwig had sixteen faults after four rounds, Dino had thirty-five; Rupert Campbell-Black had been eliminated. Jake, after three rounds, was half a fault lower than Ludwig. He could not afford a single fence down if he was to win. He kicked Clara into a canter. Over the first fence she sailed, over the second, over the third. She gave the parallel a clout but the bar didn’t budge. Ludwig, smoking frantically, stood with his back to the arena, the rest of the German team giving him a running commentary.
Fen, eyes tight shut, was slightly moving her lips.
“What are you doing?” asked Dino.
“Asking God to help Jake,” said Fen, not opening her eyes.
“Rather unfair to Jake,” said Dino. “I guess he can do it by himself.”
Malise suddenly turned to Driffield. “For Christ’s sake, stop selling that horse and come and watch this.”
Alone in the ring, it was as though Jake was in another world. He was conscious only of the joy of riding this beautiful, beautiful horse, thinking he could clear the stands, even the Eiffel Tower, on her. He turned for the water.
“Come on lieberlen, or dummkopf, I forget which it is.”
Clara took a great leap, happy to have an expert on her back. Jake was aware of the blue water going on forever and the anxious, upturned faces of the photographers. But he found the perfect stride and was safely over. The crowd couldn’t forbear a cheer, then shushed themselves. The three elements of the combination, then the huge triple and he was home. Overcome with nerves, he made Clara take off too early at the first element. She only just cleared it, so he turned her to the left at the next element, giving her room for an extra stride and placing her perfectly at the last element.
He was over.
“Magic riding,” raved Malise. “Oh, come on, Jake.”
Unable to restrain itself the crowd broke into a huge roar. The triple seemed to rush towards him. He lifted the mare up and up. The poles flew beneath him.
That’ll do, he thought in ecstasy. I’m World Champion.
All around the thunderously cheering arena, Union Jacks were waving as he rode out of the ring, patting the gallant mare over and over again.
“He won,” screamed Fen, hugging Tory and then flinging her arms round Dino and kissing him.
Dino, taking advantage, kissed her back. “That’s almost worth only coming third,” he said.
All the British team, except Rupert, were going mad with excitement. Malise and Colonel Roxborough were throwing their hats in the air. Jake came out of the ring and slid off Clara into Tory’s arms. For a second they clung to each other, not speaking. He could feel her hot tears on his cheek and the thunder of congratulatory hands raining down on his back.
A magnum of champagne was thrust into his hands. He opened it and soaked everyone around, then they all had a swig.
There was no sign of Malise or Rupert. They were closeted with a member of the international jury, Rupert shouting in only too fluent French and Malise trying to pacify him. But there was no case, said the Frenchman. There was nothing in the rules about not putting in a difficult horse. Macaulay plainly hadn’t liked Rupert, but he’d behaved with all the other riders, and Snakepit certainly hadn’t been an easy ride for anyone, except Jake. Jake was undeniably the winner and they’d better get on with the presentation. Muttering that he was going to report Jake to the BSJA, Rupert stormed out of the tent.
“Where are you going?” said Malise.
“Not back into the ring to get the booby prize,” snarled Rupert.
“My dear boy,” said Malise gently, drawing him aside, “I’m sorry. It was bad luck. You’ve had a great disappointment and probably a very frightening experience.”
“Balls,” said Rupert. “I’ve been robbed.”
“You must have beaten Macaulay severely for him to go for you like that.”
“He was my horse. What fucking business is that of anyone’s?”
“The RSPCA for a start, and the FEI, not to mention the BSJA. It won’t do your image any good, nor will a lot of emotive stuff about selling Macaulay to the Middle East, and him starving and ending up in the stone quarries.”
“If you believe that story.”
“I do,” said Malise, “and it could ruin you. The press are longing to get you, and you know what the English are like about cruelty to animals. It’ll take a lot of guts, but go back into the ring and keep your trap shut. Bet you’ll get a lot of marks.”
Back came the bands, but this time the four horses were too tired to be disturbed by the drums and the cymbals. Ludwig shook Jake by the hand. “Well done, my friend, well done.”
“Clara was the best-trained horse. You should have won it,” said Jake.
