looked more adorable. Kitty only noticed how the weight Lysander had lost showed off his beautiful bone structure, his huge eyes and his long, brown curly eyelashes, and how his hips had gone to nothing but his shoulders were still wide.
Stunned by the intensity of their passion, neither of them could speak.
Tab, meanwhile, was gazing at Isa Lovell, who was as dark and slender as a Tuscany cypress in the moonlight, and who was about to mount a plunging Prince of Darkness. Swinging round, Rannaldini was temporarily distracted by her disdainful beauty. The little Campbell-Black child would be an amusing conquest.
He was about to introduce her to Isa Lovell, which would be an even more amusing one, when suddenly he caught sight of Lysander and heard him mutter: ‘Me and Arthur are trying to win this race for you, Kitty.’
‘That’s very unlikely,’ interrupted Rannaldini. ‘With your track record you’ll be lucky to get off at the start. And this must be Arthur. I didn’t know Rupert was reduced to training carthorses.’
Lysander would have ridden Arthur into him, if Rupert hadn’t called him back.
‘Good luck, Lysander. Come ’ome safe and Arfur, too,’ cried Kitty defiantly.
Arthur gazed back at her most reproachfully for not producing any bread-and-butter pudding.
Lysander looked so thin and pale on the great white horse that, for a second, David Hawkley was reminded of the skeleton Death in Durer’s etching of ‘The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’.
‘Good luck, God bless you,’ he called, as his son clattered past, but the wind and rain swept his words away.
Tabitha gave Arthur a last hug as she released him on to the course. ‘Please come back safely,’ she said shakily, then smiling exactly like her father, ‘and in front. I’m off to put all my turn-out money on Arthur.’
Leaving the paddock, Rupert nearly collided with Isa Lovell. Pale and expressionless and now astride the fearsome, leaping Prince of Darkness, he could have been the Jake Rupert had first battled with on the show- jumping circuit twenty years ago.
‘Hallo, Isa,’ he drawled. ‘I owe your father actually.’ Then, turning to Taggie, stunning in her slim blue suit, ‘Don’t you think I got the better bargain? I gather Jake’s still lumbered with the same clapped-out model.’
‘Rupert!’ said Taggie in horror.
Isa would have had no scruples about riding The Prince into Rupert, but he had a race to win. Instead, hissing a gypsy curse, he spat neatly at Rupert’s feet, before thundering after the others.
The Press were going berserk.
The jockeys, as was traditional, showed their horses the first fence. A rampantly impatient Penscombe Pride nearly jumped it. As it was a long time since breakfast, Arthur started to eat it. A prat-in-a-hat then brayed through the downpour for the jockeys to line up. The Prince of Darkness, lashing his tail like an angry cat, flattened his ears and tried to take a chunk out of Arthur.
‘I wouldn’t.’ Lysander lifted his whip.
‘You shouldn’t take up so much room,’ mocked Isa Lovell in his flat Birmingham accent.
A summer meadowful of butterflies was fluttering in Lysander’s belly. His black, brown and white colours were drenched with rain and sweat. The reins slipped through his stiff, trembling fingers. The rain drummed impatient fingers on his helmet. What the hell had Rupert said about the first fence? Gigantic gelding of little account, white elephant, no-hoper, carthorse, he thought furiously. We’ll show them, Arthur.
No-one could see anything beyond the second fence. Several over-eager runners, including Pridie and The Prince of Darkness, were pushing their noses over the tape.
‘Turn round, jockeys, get back,’ brayed the prat-in-a-hat. ‘I can’t get it up.’
‘That’s nothing new, you asshole,’ muttered Bluey as they all swung round and realigned.
Starting to giggle, Lysander was petrified he wouldn’t be able to stop. They were all bunched together. Snap went the tape and the 1991 Rutminster Cup was under way.
62
Lysander never dreamt it would be so fast. The Light Brigade hurtling into the Valley of Death didn’t have to stop and jump huge fences. His face and colours were instantly caked with mud kicked back from horses in front, but, heeding Rupert’s words, he managed to keep up with the hurtling, barging leaders over the first fence, and then, as they fanned out and rattled over the Rutminster — Cheltenham Road, he and Arthur settled into an easy stride, bowling along in the middle of the field.
Meanwhile little Penscombe Pride, who loathed being overtaken, had set off at a cracking pace, but as he took the lead over the first fence, Fraulein Mahler, The Prince’s stable-mate, who never lasted more than a mile and a half, revved up beside him, forcing Pridie to go even faster, unsettling and muddling him, so he hit the second fence hard.
‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Rupert.
He stood apart from the others in the box, tense as a waiting leopard, cigar between his long first and second fingers, binoculars flattening his dark blond eyelashes. Taggie knew better than to talk until the race was over.
Penscombe Pride was still out in front, but having seen off Fraulein Mahler who had dropped back, the gutsy little bay was now being challenged by The Prince of Darkness, which denied him a breather as he climbed the hill, forcing him to gallop on. Isa Lovell sat absolutely still and let his horse have its head, just the same technique as his father, thought Rupert savagely. The Prince was going really well. Rupert chewed on his cigar. All this would rattle Pridie and wear him out. He winced as that most careful of jumpers hit The Ambush hard; that would shake his confidence even more, and now The Prince was dropping back for a rest, and Fraulein was storming down with the last of her strength to challenge and rattle again. Shit, thought Rupert in outrage, these were just the sort of spoiling tactics with which he’d won races himself.
Lysander hoped Arthur wasn’t going too fast. He seemed to be enjoying himself. It was like a jigsaw. You saw a gap and slotted in when you could. Now the big ditch was racing towards him. He searched his brains. What had Rupert said? Take off about eight feet away. He steadied Arthur, who flew over like a huge white swan. Beside him Blarney Stone only realized there was a ditch when he was on top of the fence, dropping his legs in it and knocking the stuffing out of himself. Rupert was right. Arthur had nearly reached the next fence by the time Blarney Stone had recovered.
‘You’re doing brilliantly, Arthur,’ said Lysander.
Arthur flapped his ears, relishing the cheers of the drenched crowds at each fence.
Coming up to The Ambush, five solid feet of birch and gorse, with a drop on the other side, which had caught out Yummy Yuppy last year and so shaken Pridie first time round, Lysander stood back again, but Camomile Lawn, half a length behind, was encouraged to take off at the same time, hit the fence smack on the way down and slipped on landing, rolling over and over.
‘Bad luck. You OK?’ shouted Lysander.
He was able to give Arthur a breather, as instructed, as they climbed the now hopelessly churned-up hill, so he was able to gallop down like a three year old. They must be lying about fifteenth now, over the road and into the second circuit. But alas, the fog, reluctant to miss such an exciting race, had come down. Lysander couldn’t see more than a fence in front.
‘Better put your fog lamps on, Arthur.’
‘No sign of Lysander,’ said Hermione with her horrid laugh.
She was bored by racing. For seven minutes all the attention was focused on someone else.
Peering through the fog at the riders’ colours bobbing along the rail like a long-tailed Chinese New Year dragon, Kitty strained her eyes to identify Lysander and strained her ears, which were full of water from washing her hair, to hear the commentary. Every so often she glanced fearfully back at the monitor, which was now showing Penscombe Pride and The Prince of Darkness slogging it out about ten fences from home.
‘Oh, Guy, I know he’s fallen,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, look!’ She froze with terror as a loose horse appeared out of the mist and, circumnavigating helicopters and ambulances, hurtled across the centre of the course.
