A Corpse in Shining Armour (2 page)

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.’

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.

‘Take him inside and get that face sponged off.’

He watched as they walked him into the building, then hauled Stephen to his feet.

‘You all right then, sir? Best get out of that armour so they can take the dints out of it.’

Like a man in a daze, Stephen clanked off with another group of friends. The rest of the crowd gradually melted away, though
some of them still looked shaken. I rode over to Amos, who’d started collecting up lances as if nothing had happened.

‘Has Stephen Brinkburn gone mad?’ I said.

‘Well, he’s not very pleased at the moment, is he?’

‘Really mad, I mean.’

‘Not that I’ve heard. His dad is though, so they say.’

‘He seemed calm enough before the Railway Knight started. Did something about that annoy him?’

The wooden horse and rider stood alone at the end of the list, abandoned by the servants who’d run to watch the fight like
everybody else. I rode over to it, Amos walking beside me.

‘Fair dinted the shield, he has,’ Amos said.

I looked at it.

‘Oh God, that’s why.’

Amos looked puzzled.

‘Just a copy of his own shield, isn’t it?’

A black tower on a white ground. Stephen Brinkburn would have seen his own device speeding towards him, but something else
as well. A black diagonal bar that had not been on Stephen Brinkburn’s shield cut across the one carried by the Railway Knight
from left to right.

‘It’s the baton sinister,’ I said.

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

Amos’s many abilities did not include heraldry. I was not much better myself, but knew enough to recognise that black bar.
It was the heralds’ sign for a man of illegitimate birth. I explained to Amos and he gave a whistle.

‘And he thinks his brother did that?’

‘Yes, and he’s probably right. Did you see the grin on Miles Brinkburn’s face? I suppose he’d bribed one of the servants to
substitute the shield.’

‘So he’s telling the world their mother was no better than she should be,’ Amos said. ‘Not surprising he got upset.’

I didn’t answer, thinking of that metal fist so nearly smashing into Miles Brinkburn’s unprotected face. It looked as if what
I’d been told was true, and I didn’t like it.

‘I’ll ride back with you, if you’re going,’ Amos said.

As usual, he’d picked up my mood and sensed that I wanted to get away from there. I said I should like that, please, and he
went to fetch the roan.

It took him time because one of his other jousting pupils wanted to speak to him, so it was about twenty minutes later when
we rode towards the gate on to the Wellington Road. Miles Brinkburn was waiting by the gate on his chestnut hunter, in normal
dress of dark jacket and tall hat. The blood had been sponged from his face, but the left side of it was raw from his slide
down the steps and his left arm hung awkwardly. He smiled when he saw us, but with the shame-faced air of somebody who knew
he’d lost control of himself. He wasn’t exactly blocking our exit, but had positioned himself so that we couldn’t pass without
noticing him. I thought he might want to apologise or justify himself for the fight, but he spoke to me with an attempt at
a jaunty air, as if nothing had happened.