Reportage: Sunday at the Royal Court

She was – literally – all white rabbit armour and – he hoped – no chain-mail knickers. This wish was as close as he got to dropping the claim of saintliness he made on the back of his black and gold jacket.

‘More wine,’ she said, from under her blonde helmet. ‘I demand all the wine that you’ll drink in harvesting the confidence to ask me to bed.’

He looked the long lances she flicked our from under the table, clad in sheer black filo pastry. ‘A joust,’ he thought, ‘has never promised so much.’