A Corpse in Shining Armour Read Free

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,