LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      ‘I say, that was a most capital blow at the quintain. I only wish I could do half so well.’ Then, to Amos: ‘Would you be kind enough to introduce me, Legge?’

      Amos did it correctly enough, though I sensed he wasn’t pleased.

      ‘Miss Lane, this is Mr Miles Brinkburn. Mr Brinkburn, Miss Liberty Lane.’

      Miles Brinkburn’s shapely eyebrows flicked up and down. He might have been surprised by my first name–a cradle gift from my two radically minded parents–or perhaps he was registering my unmarried state. Under my gloves, he couldn’t have seen whether I was wearing a ring. Either way, there was a hint of speculation in those eyebrows that made me annoyed enough to speak my mind.

      ‘That was a downright unchivalrous trick you played.’

      He bowed in the saddle.

      ‘Then I am rebuked. Should I have challenged him to single combat?’

      ‘If you do, you’d better stipulate that it’s on foot,’ I said.

      He winced. It had been ungenerous to remind him that his brother was the better rider, but I wanted to see how he reacted.

      ‘Beauty has a right to severity, Miss Lane. I hope I may be permitted to alter your poor opinion of me.’

      I gave him a cold bow and moved my hand on the rein, indicating that we wanted to ride past him. He stood his ground.

      ‘You obviously have an interest in knightly pursuits, Miss Lane.’ (I hadn’t particularly, but didn’t interrupt.) ‘I wonder whether you might be interested to see my ancestral armour.’

      I’d heard some unlikely lines of invitation from gentlemen to ladies, but this was the most blatant yet. I decided he was mocking me and replied accordingly.

      ‘I believe I’ve seen it already, Mr Brinkburn. Brought low in the sawdust.’

      He kept his good temper.

      ‘That was only hired stuff. I’m having my own ancestor’s armour sent from home. It’s arriving at Pratt’s in Bond Street tomorrow. There’s any amount of interesting armour and things at Pratt’s. Perhaps we’ll even find another lance for you to break.’

      From his smile, he seemed to think that he was irresistible. It suited me to let

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